Mama Writing So I Don't Go Crazy

If I Didn't Know My Own Son, I Wouldn't Believe It.

Right before Christmas, DH picked the kiddo up from daycare. He was met at the door by the teacher who said:

"We had some attitude today. He didn't want to participate in the activity, and was being disruptive to those who were wanting to participate. I told him he could either do the activity without harassing others, or go sit in time out. He looked me straight in the eye and said:

 "No, I choose to have a fit."

He proceeded to throw himself onto the floor, kicking and screaming. This lasted about 15 seconds, when he abruptly turned the attitude off, got up and said:

"Okay, I'm done now."

He went to the table, sat down, and worked on the project."

Alrighty then.

Happy Birthday Bug.

That's right.

I call my son bug.

Remember the episode of Dora where the Mama Bugga Bugga is looking for her Baby Bugga Bugga?

He loved that one.

So I call him bug.

He turned four on Friday.

At school, his dad and I were invited to participate in the Montessori Birth Day celebration.

Bug was sent home with a book we were to fill out with photos of him at birth, 1, 2, 3, and 4, plus miscellaneous information and tidbits of his personality at these different ages.

When we arrived in the classroom, 24 rambunctious 3-4 and 5 year olds were sitting in a circle. The teacher read a copy of On the Day You Were Born by Debra Frasier.

Then he was placed in the middle of the circle where a candle on a wooden sun, and a globe sat. Bug picked up the globe and walked around the circle for the number of years he was celebrating while his classmates sang a song about the Earth moving around the Sun. They then sang Happy Birthday, we read the book that we brought in, and snacks were shared.

Later that night, the three of us went to Hacienda for dinner. The birthday boy had a strawberry smoothie with his dinner, and we surprised him by doing the Hacienda birthday celebration. A line of noisy servers came clapping through the restaurant and stopped at our table with a sombrero and cake for the bug.

Evidently, four is the age of embarrassment. Here is what he did:

(Psst, he's UNDER the table)

We finally coaxed him back out from under there.

Happy Birthday Sweetheart!

Things Only Heard If You Live In My Home...

I haven't posted about the stinker living with us for awhile now.

I've been told by my only sibling that I need to update.

Please, empty your bladder before continuing.

Thank you.

Montessori Training for Stuffed Animals 101:

Overheard the other night in the bathroom:

"You go potty standing in front of the toilet, and you keep the seat dry. Wipe it off with toilet paper if you drip. Then when you're done, you pull up your pants and flush the toilet. Then you go to the sink, turn on the water, rub some soap in your hand (four squirts, cause you're almost four), rinse with water and turn of the faucet. And that's how you do the potty work."

Overheard in the backseat:

"Mommy, I'm still thirsty, what's in your cup?"

"Mommy's crazy juice."
 (Diet Pepsi)

"Can I have a sip, please?"

"Just this once."

Takes a drink.

"Mommy, I need another drink. I'm not crazy enough yet."

"Hey buddy?"

"What Mommy?"

"I love you!"

"Yeah! I love me too!"

Button, Button, Who's Got The Button?

It seems like I have given birth to a child who cannot go a full year without winding up in the ER/hospital.

At 6 months, we took him to the ER because he was puking some blood along with some new baby food we were introducing.

At 16 months, he fractured his left tibia going down a slide.

At 27 months, he fractured his left femur trying to break a balloon by stomping on it. (6 weeks in a full body cast)

And now, at 45 months, he swallows a button.

A button.

This child has never been one to put much into his mouth that isn't edible.

Why now?

I'm at the grocery store, I get a frantic call from hubby.

"He swallowed a button, what should I do?"

Is he breathing?

"Yes."

Is it labored?

"No."

I'm on my way home, call his doctor.

I don't know what the man has about calling our own son's doctor, but he doesn't. (heaven help him if I ever dropped dead, my body would still be in the same spot years later cause he couldn't call the funeral home)

I get home and am met at the front door by two panicked males.

Did you call the doctor?

"No."

I change clothes while Christopher clutches his throat, crying and working himself up to hysterical. I ask him a few questions to figure out what happened.

He got the button from on top of the four drawer filing cabinet in the living room. (He can pull himself up on the drawer handle)

It was blue.

It came from his dress-up doctor lab coat. (anyone else see the irony here?)

And it was somewhere inside his body.

Let me also mention that it was about 2cm in diameter, so I'm not talking a tiny button you might find on your shirt cuff.

Three and 1/2 hours later, we're still in the ER, being told by the docotor that after three x-rays, they don't see a button.

Anywhere.

"Are you sure he swallowed one?"

Excuse me? IS the Pope Catholic? I mean, my son's pretty verbal for his age, and if he says, "Mommy I swallowed the blue button and it's stuck in my body," then yes, I'm quite sure that it's in there. Especially if you factor in all of his behaviors around the time of the incident.

So we take him home and keep an eye on him over night.

Yesterday, I kept him home. He curled up on my lap all morning (unusual for him), fell asleep there (also unusual), couldn't swallow anything thicker than ice cream (became hysterical when he tried swallowing a fruit snack, drooled excessively (something he barely did while teething) and kept rubbing the base of his throat.

You do the math.

So I called the pediatrician.

He took a look at the X-rays and said that they showed nothing.

I explained the symptoms.

He then said he'd call the local ENT for their opinion.

He called back in five minutes and said to come down NOW.

The ENT came in, did a more thorough exam than the ER doctor did, and proceeded to tell me that BUTTONS WILL NOT SHOW UP ON AN X-RAY UNLESS THEY CONTAIN METAL.

I thought it was weird that they didn't require Christopher to drink barium before the x-ray. I mean, they did in "Curious George Goes to The Hospital" when the crazy monkey swallowed a puzzle piece.

But you sort of (maybe?) expect that they would know whether or not to give him barium so that a plastic button might show up on the x-ray. We showed them what the button looked like.

The ENT was convinced it was at the top of the esophagus (between the clavicals) and got us in for surgery within a couple hours of our arrival.

It took two minutes to get the button out.

Robert's Rules Do Not Apply Here

You know how really young kids tend to over generalize?

For example, when they're learning to talk, and they realize that some words are pluralized by putting an"s" on the end. The next thing you know, they're adding "s" to the end of any word.

Mooses

Mouses

Stuffs

You get the idea.

Our little guy has been doing the same thing in his classroom with the Montessori peace curriculum.

With some humorous results.

(okay, so the teacher doesn't always find this stuff funny, but hey...)

So in the classroom we have these little yellow felt circles (love lights). If Johnny is feeling particularly good today, because he learned something new, someone helped him out, or complimented him, he can wear one of these nifty little love lights to show everyone that his inner light is shining brightly.

(ours wears his love light CONSTANTLY)

If someone does something to you , causing your love light to dim, you take them the peace rose and give it to them. Next comes the "I" statement: Gus, when you ripped my paper, I felt really sad."

Evidently one day it seemed like the whole world was against the little man, because he was handing that peace rose out left and right.

Over generalizing.

Evidently, handing out the peace rose doesn't quite cut it when you're handing it to the teacher.

Another aspect of the curriculum involves the red road of peace and the black road of difficulty.

The choices you make determine which path you're walking on.

Seems it's not always evident in the classroom if our little guy is "getting" that concept.

But he is.

How do I know?

It's showing up at home. With some hysterical applications.

Take last week. Hubby is at home alone with the little guy. Time for bed. (translation: time for meltdown)

Little guy grabs some toys and tries to take off running. Hubby, who had learned of the red and black roads, decided to implement, but can't quite remember the correct wording.

So he improvises.

"Looks like you have a choice, are you going to walk the red road of peace, or the black road of bad boys?"

Child rolls eyes and says: "Daddy, it's not the black road of bad boys, it's the black road of DIFFICULTY!"

"Well, which road are you taking?"

"The red road of peace." And he puts down the toys and calmly goes into the bedroom to get jammies on.

Last night, we are driving home from dinner and a trip to get a Halloween costume. Negotiations have begun in the backseat about playing with a new Mr Potato Head, and a dress up costume when we arrive home.

Playing is not an option, since it is getting late, and a bath needs to be taken before bed.

Little guy tries to coerce playtime from Dad, who reiterates that it will be bath and bedtime.

In the backseat, the head droops down and the lower lip comes out.

Mommy is called for backup.

"Mommy, I need your help. Daddy is walking the black road of difficulty, and it's making my love light very dim."

Two adults in the front seats try, without much success, to hold back the giggles.

I wonder what Maria Montessori would say...

School Daze

Today marks the end of our first week of Montessori school.

The little guy likes going to school. He's been doing preschool type programs since he was 18 months old.

But this week.

Oh, the drama.

When I take him into the building, he immediately wants me to pick him up.

We go to his locker, he puts in his backpack, and we turn to the door of his classroom.

And the drama begins.

"Mommydon'tleaveme!MommystaywithmekeepmesafetherearetoomanyfriendshereIhateitIhateitIhateit!!!"

He sobs. He clings. He hangs from my clothing. He holds his breath and turns purple.

And his teacher talks to me as though *I* am the one having issues letting go.

Can you NOT hear me say, "You're fine. You like school. I'll be back at 11:30. Give me a kiss and hug. I love you. See you later." ????

I've walked him into the building this week. We're supposed to drop them off at the door where an assistant gets them out of the car and takes them in.

Next week, we'll do that.

But you must realize, that if you want him going into the building with the aide, not mom or dad, that it MIGHT behoove you to come up to this child of mine, introduce yourself to him, and take him by the hand.

Don't just stand there yakking with your colleagues, leaving me to take him inside and deal with the drama.

Am I right, or am I right?

Family Fun

Ahhh...summer. It's winding down. School starts next month on the 25th. But before that happens, we must make the trek to the south side of town for...

The 4-H fair.

I was involved in the fair as a child. I loved it. Foods, crocheting, ceramics, and a couple of other fleeting projects that I don't quite remember.

So this year, I decided it was time to introduce my own small fry to the fair.

They now have a new category: Cloverbuds. Threes and fours can be introduced to 4-H by doing a little craft project of their own. For three Saturdays over the last few months, we've taken our budding 4-H-er down the street to our township building so that he can be creative and crafty.

Last week, we took the final project out the the fairgrounds to turn in for "judging." They aren't really judged in the traditional sense. They get a ribbon for completing the project.

Little Picasso painted a rock for his final project. Using every color he had at his disposal. He was very proud of his work.

Monday afternoon we went to the fair to check out the projects, animals, and rides. We had fun!

Take Cover in the Bunker

Brown is the new black.

Orange is the new red.

Black is the new green (if you're reading Vitamin Water bottles anyway).

And toddler 3s are the new crazy.

If I didn't already know differently, I'd swear my son is on crack. His mood swings make my menstrual cycles look like I'm eating bon-bons on a chaise.

I get the independence streak. Toddlers learn new skills: opening front doors when Mom's in the bathroom, standing on window ledges to wave goodbye, unrolling an entire roll of toilet paper to shove it into the toilet cause we now wear Spidey drawers, pouring a 1/2 jug of milk on the floor for two drops in a cup.

New skills must be mastered.

Mastery happens with practice.

Practice happens by turning Mom and Dad's hair gray.

But MUST the meltdowns be included in the process?

"IIIIIIIII do iiiiiittttt!"

"Noooooooo, meeeeeee!"

BUT I waaaaannnnnaaaaa..."

The face crumples. The shoulders sag. The lower lip is in danger of falling off the face. And then it starts.

First the whine, followed by hopping up and down and shoulder shrugging. Insert one of the above phrases.

If you are foolish enough to respond with "WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM?" The waterworks begin. Any attempt to elicit a response that doesn't resemble a dog whistle in its intensity will result in a complete meltdown, complete with a screaming heap on the floor.

Just walk away. Make sure there are no sharp objects nearby, because they will be picked up and thrown in your direction. In our house, you might even get a punch from a little fist, or worse, spit on with the intensity and accuracy of a llama.

Sometimes, the following comment (as you are walking away) might stop the meltdown in its tracks:
"Let me know when the attitude is done, k?"

If you're lucky the offender might shut everything off in a split second and reply, "I'm done. *sigh*" Then you'll wonder how many different personalities can possibly reside in one small body.

Does the madness ever end?

Toiylet Trayning Braykethroo

I started the potty training with a vengeance last week.

He's been really good about going on the potty at school (with a pull-up) for some time now. He tells me when he's pooping, but never wanted to sit on the toilet and go there.

With his acceptance into the local public school's new Montessori program in the fall, he has to be potty trained. HAS to.

So, with the start of daycare's summer program last week, I decided to have him take the plunge.

I figured the whole peer pressure thing might work in my favor. See, he's the only child from the fall program NOT potty trained, so he's the only child who didn't move up into the 3 year old, fully potty trained class this summer with all his friends.

So he's now the tallest (by a foot), most verbal (Hey' wanna take a ride in my Toyota?), and oldest (the rest of the kids are recent twos) in his class. Last Monday, he walked into class only recognizing his teacher.

He didn't like that.

I had to explain where all his friends were, and why he wasn't with them.

Then I told him how he could get back with his friends.

Evidently, after I left (and I had him wearing underwear), he had a problem and had to sit in the thinking chair.
During this thinking time, he did everything BUT think about the fact that he had to go to the bathroom. Because he peed all over the thinking chair.

So one of the teachers put him BACK IN DIAPERS for the rest of the day because he didn't tell her he had to pee.

WTF!?!

I decided to wait until Wednesday ( his day off from school) and try again. Up in the morning, underwear on. Reminder every 40 minutes to go sit on the potty. I never asked him if he HAD to go. I just told him to go sit on the potty.
The morning went smoothly. No accidents. Half the time I would tell him to go sit, the other half he went on his own.

The afternoon went even better. We were at a playdate and he went into the bathroom himself. A few minutes later he was calling for me.

He pooped in the potty! By himself! I was elated! (This is what my life has come to lol)

His Busia bought him fish to take care of that night.

He stayed dry at school the next day. About 30 minutes before I came to pick him up, he was out playing on the playground and forgot to go in, so he has a little poop accident. No big deal.

He made up for it at home, by pooping twice in the potty. And he went all by himself.

He stayed dry again on Friday.

It's now Sunday.

Yesterday, Daddy cheated while I was at work and put him in pull-ups while out and about. (He needs to get over his issue with taking our son into a public restroom with a potty seat)

But he's doing great.

And I am happy.

Small Fry Thoughts

Some things overheard from You-Know-Who:

"What do fishes have inside their bodies?"

"Do fishes burp?"

"Why is Daddy having a conniption?"

(While riding a cozy coupe at school)
"I need a new car. This Toyota works like crap."

"I looove my penis. It's a big penis. And it's cute!"

"If I stick my finger in my butt, will the toots come out?"

"Why does your Pepsi make me crazy Mommy?"

"Daddy, why did you call that driver an idiot?"

"Don't look at me right now. I'm not doin' anything bad, okay?"

"Close your eyes and don't pay any attention to me."

"See this Mommy? (turns backside to me and wiggles it) This is the Honeybee Dance!"

" If I touch the stove, will it be hot and burn me?"

"When is that lady and her big girl Grace gonna come back to play with me?"

"What's that hanging under the cow? It's nipples?"

"Is that POOP stickin' outta that chicken's butt?!"

"But I didn't say dammit. I said, "God made ME!"

"You're a Cutie Pattotie Mommy."

"You betcha sister!"

"Quit typing on that computer and look at my eyes!"

"Ooops! I made bubbles in the tub!"

(In response to the question, "Who brought you here today?)
"She did. My old lady." She's my Mom.