Megan, Justin’s little sister who lives in North Carolina, asked to see a video of Andrew talking.  He’s pretty damn cute (if I do say so myself), but if you are not interested in nine minutes of toddler-speak then this post is probably not for you. 

If you want to hear the little voice that makes me smile so much that my eyes well up with tears, click here.*

*someday I will figure out why I couldn’t embed the video in this post, but it is not this day

Andrew looked up today after I blew my nose and said, “Boogers, mama?”

I think I can safely say that my parenting thus far has been successful.

(I’m also trying to teach him to say, “toot. toot.” when he, or someone around him - well you know - but he isn’t consistent with that one just yet.  I’m hoping that he will be entirely reliable in that regard by the time all those extended family holiday dinners role around.)

Usually weekends at our house are slow and even a little boring, Justin does some project, we see our respective families, Andrew goes to Grandma and Grandpa’s house.

But this weekend, this weekend was different!

On Friday we went to the Children’s Museum with some friends. Andrew and Indi tore the place up while Beth, Raya and I looked on.

Then, on Saturday, Andrew and I went to visit my friend Nichole at her new apartment in Ballard. Since the weather was so great, we decided to take Andrew to the playground near her place. There he discovered the joys of puddle jumping. He was hesitant at first, but once he got the hang of it he did not hold back at all.

Finally, on Sunday, we went to church and went to the pumpkin patch to find the perfect pumpkin. Andrew was excited about looking at the pumpkins but spent most of his time trying to catch up with the tractor that was giving hay rides.

But all of that pales in comparison to what I just saw when I looked out my front window. Three police cars with bright flashlights searching through our juniper bushes. Justin went out and asked them what they were up to and they said that there had been an argument a couple of blocks away and one of the people involved dumped a shotgun in our juniper bushes. (blink.blink.) A SHOTGUN!! What the hell?!

The only upside is that now no one can argue with me when I say that I want to remove juniper bushes. I’m going to stop writing and go have a drink. I think I need one.

On this sunny day, I am thankful for fall blooming flowers. It’s nice that everything doesn’t die off at once.

That is all.

I’m going to pitch this new slogan to the nice advertising executives at Play-Doh:

“Play-Doh, it’s not as scary as finger paint!”

I did it. I went ahead and bought the finger paint. I figured Andrew would love it - it’s different, it’s messy, he engages in the exact same activity every time he gets anywhere near yogurt.

But, alas, it was not to be. You see, Andrew has the tendency to be…well, touchy would be putting in lightly. He does not like new experiences or pretty much anything with which he is unfamiliar in any way. So he was afraid of the finger paint. He stared at the little blobs on the paper for a while and then, when I ran my finger through it, promptly began crying, shouting all done, and waving bye-bye.

Writing this now, when the paint is cleaned up and he is quietly playing in his playpen with his trucks (or, as it were, the following day when I have had more time to think about it), it seems funny and even a little bit cute. But in the heat of the moment (and trust me, they are frequent) something inside me wants to get out and shake some sense in to him. “Why?!” It shouts. “Why, are you afraid of this? What about this situation could possibly be intimidating to you?”

I get so frustrated repeating the same situation over and over again that I barricade myself inside my house, avoiding any opportunity for him to freak out. I cycle through the patterns of withdrawal, loneliness, excursion, disappointment and rage. And then, in case I didn’t see the pattern the first time, I start over. The worst part is that, instead of figuring out ways to help Andrew deal with this, my only priority is keeping myself calm. There is a fine line here; I need to be calm to be an effective parent. Nothing in this situation is going to improve if I completely lose my temper on him, or make a habit of throwing him in to situations and expecting him to deal with them without first giving him the tools he needs to accomplish that daunting task. But here’s the rub, I have irrational fears. I may have developed some coping mechanisms over the years for dealing with (read: hiding) them when I am in public, but they are still very real. And so I talk about teaching him to deal with his fears and anxiety but I have no idea where to start. It’s just that I want him to hide his fears as well as I do.

It all comes down, again, to the issue of my expectations and perceptions. Jen wrote about it the other day, the disappointment that comes with unmet expectations, the pinning of all hope to the fickleness of circumstance. And so it pops up again, the little voice that says, “I will be happy when my child acts like the other children.” The malignancy of comparison spreads throughout my mind. Seeing differences as faults and finding fault in individuality. The thoughts, after the fact, are disgusting to me. I see their wickedness and I rush to hug my son and enjoy him just the way he is, but the thoughts remain. I am still depending on circumstance to make me happy. I am still setting expectations that can never be met.

I want Andrew to see his mom find balance and health and sanity. I want him to have a safe place to make mistakes and work through his fears. I want to show him that my hope and joy lie in Truth not circumstance, to see that despite circumstance there is still hope and joy to be found. I want my children to find their own Crazy, not inherit mine.

It’s 9:30am.  We have already had seven arguments about the advisability of going outside on a wet, rainy, cold day.  We have built towers and knocked them down.  We have driven trucks.  We have read books.  We have played in the playpen. And it’s only 9:30.

I am thinking of going to the store and buying finger paints.  I can’t tell if that is just damn good parenting or the first signs of true insanity.

It’s going to be a long winter.

Sinus pressure.  Cough!

DayQuil. NyQuil. Tea. Ah-Choo!

Andrew shares too well.

Lately Andrew has been more and more infatuated with his toys. This is great as it allows me to have a little more time to myself, although I do have to be careful not to mess up a carefully arranged line of trucks.

The other day, while he was taking a nap, I could not figure out what the little noises were that I was hearing. I looked outside, checked the garage and the basement, peeked in on him and confirmed that he was actually sleeping and made sure all the doors were locked. Then, when Andrew woke up, I went in to his room and pulled a stuffed Lightening McQueen car, a dump truck, a tow truck, a tractor and a monster truck out from their hiding places deep within his blankets.

The kid sleeps in a play and pack! There is not enough room for his 33 inches and a fleet of motor vehicles. We are working on instituting a One Truck At A Time rule. Right now he is in there with three.

It’s an improvement.

Andrew’s bedroom has two windows, one facing north and the other facing east. His north facing window looks across the street to our favorite neighbors. We often watch them get in to the car on their way to school in the morning or peek out midday to see what their cat is up to. The east facing window tells, ahem, a slightly different story. It looks in to the yard of our not-so-favorite neighbors. These are the neighbors that often have tow trucks come to their house at 9 or 10pm and mysteriously remove one of the many cars parked in the driveway. The neighbors that have not one but two neglected, large, barking dogs in their back yard whose favorite pastime is to jump up on the fence and bark at us as we go about our business in our own yard.

I know, everyone has those neighbors. But not everyone can look out their child’s east facing window and be greeted with this most beautiful sight.

Do you see it? Just peeking through the trees? It’s a For Sale sign! Oh happy day!

I tried to be good, but I got bored - terrifying for a teenager, adorable on a toddler.

Look at my new About Me page.  Especially those of you who never look at anything on the sidebar (and I know who you are).

Justin has a favorite Dilbert cartoon that imparts the above wisdom, and sometimes I forget how true it is. So, in case your silliness quotient has not been met today, check this out:

Apparently the garbage man has a sense of humor. I already liked him because he would raise and lower the bucket a few extra times when he saw Andrew looking out the window at him (he also honks the horn, but that makes Andrew cry) and now this!

What a great thing to come home to.

PS - Thanks for the picture code Jen! She swears I have an inner geek just waiting to come out, this may be true.

In keeping with the theme of my last post, check out this essay by Andrew Peterson.  You might need to have a tissue ready, or maybe that was just me.