Dad,
Today I want to thank you for the kind of father you were throughout my childhood - loving, affectionate, generous with time and praise.
Today I want to thank you for the kind of father you were throughout my teenage years - patient, strict, respectful of my ideas and opinions.
Today I want to thank you for the kind of father you've been throughout my adult years - supportive, always honest, always ready to listen.
I am proud to call you my Dad, and I appreciate the things you do, and the man you are more than you'll ever know.
I Love You,
Jen
Friday, February 6, 2009
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Being Healthy Part 1 - Exercise
I don't exercise. The desire to exercise comes and goes like the ebb and flow of waves crashing against a rock, and even though the rock sometimes moves a bit this way, and then a bit more the other way, it remains stuck in the sand. I could make excuses. "I just don't have the time", is a favorite of many. But, I've known people who set their alarms an hour earlier to make time to exercise. Me, I like sleep - A LOT.
There are people who make a commitment to exercise at night, instead of watching TV. More power to them. Me, I like TV - A LOT.
There are people who run in the rain, snow, cold, and wind. Like my old college buddy, Lee, used to say, "The only reason for me to run is if someone is chasing me".
So, it all boils down to this - lack of "stick-to-it" tiveness. Hey, I tried. I bought those Tae Bo tapes. I punched and kicked the air with vim and vigor - for a few months.
I bounced around in the water with those feisty old ladies in my Water Aerobics class - for a few months.
I bought some sort of apparatus to do crunches and I crunched myself silly - for a few months.
These days, I'm working on embracing my inner lazy self. At least for a few months.
There are people who make a commitment to exercise at night, instead of watching TV. More power to them. Me, I like TV - A LOT.
There are people who run in the rain, snow, cold, and wind. Like my old college buddy, Lee, used to say, "The only reason for me to run is if someone is chasing me".
So, it all boils down to this - lack of "stick-to-it" tiveness. Hey, I tried. I bought those Tae Bo tapes. I punched and kicked the air with vim and vigor - for a few months.
I bounced around in the water with those feisty old ladies in my Water Aerobics class - for a few months.
I bought some sort of apparatus to do crunches and I crunched myself silly - for a few months.
These days, I'm working on embracing my inner lazy self. At least for a few months.
Monday, February 2, 2009
These Are The Days
These are the days of little spoons,
sippy cups, and cries for "juice".
These are the days of crazy sprints
after a toddler on the loose.
These are the days of gates on the stairs,
and in the kitchen - safety locks.
These are the days of puzzles and trains,
Little People and Lego blocks.
These are the days of holding hands,
and reading to you in my lap.
These are the days of shrieks and squeals,
hops, and skips, and claps.
These are the days of ABC's,
and counting to "ten- teen".
These are the days of dimpled hands,
and the cutest cheeks I've ever seen.
These are the days of "I wuv you"'s,
and wanting your Mommy and Daddy near.
These are the days of giggles, hiccups,
and great, big crocodile tears.
These are the days of Pookie bear,
and Puppy, your number one.
These are the days of "Toys R Bus",
play dates, and having fun.
These are the days of potty songs,
and books strewn across the floor.
These are the days of white raisins,
blueberries, and always "just one more".
These are the days of endless discoveries,
and time that moves too fast.
These are the days I'll forever cherish,
and the memories that will last.
sippy cups, and cries for "juice".
These are the days of crazy sprints
after a toddler on the loose.
These are the days of gates on the stairs,
and in the kitchen - safety locks.
These are the days of puzzles and trains,
Little People and Lego blocks.
These are the days of holding hands,
and reading to you in my lap.
These are the days of shrieks and squeals,
hops, and skips, and claps.
These are the days of ABC's,
and counting to "ten- teen".
These are the days of dimpled hands,
and the cutest cheeks I've ever seen.
These are the days of "I wuv you"'s,
and wanting your Mommy and Daddy near.
These are the days of giggles, hiccups,
and great, big crocodile tears.
These are the days of Pookie bear,
and Puppy, your number one.
These are the days of "Toys R Bus",
play dates, and having fun.
These are the days of potty songs,
and books strewn across the floor.
These are the days of white raisins,
blueberries, and always "just one more".
These are the days of endless discoveries,
and time that moves too fast.
These are the days I'll forever cherish,
and the memories that will last.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Guest Posting at Boondock Ramblings
The always entertaining, Jonny's Mommy, over at Boondock Ramblings, asked me to be a guest poster. She is one of my favorite bloggers, so how could I refuse? I like her because even though she is refreshingly honest about the exhausting job that is raising a "very active" 2 year old boy, she obviously adores her son, loves being a mom, and keeps a sense of humor throughout it all. She gets my sarcastic sense of humor, and I love that. She is also one of the most loyal bloggers I know. Her son, Jonathan, is only about 2 weeks older than Dylan, and is totally adorable.
Click here to read my post, Toddlers Talk, and while you are over there, you really should read some of hers.
Click here to read my post, Toddlers Talk, and while you are over there, you really should read some of hers.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
A Control Freak Perfectionist?
As soon as a woman finds out she is pregnant, she starts to imagine what her child will be like. She wonders, "Will he/she have my eyes? My husband's nose? My thick, dark hair? My husband's smile? My long, slender fingers?" She hopes that the child will inherit their good traits, and worries that they will inherit the bad.
I like to think that Dylan got some of his wonderful qualities from Jim and I. But, lately, there are a few traits that I'm noticing he has inherited that just make me feel bad for the poor kid.
My husband is a perfectionist. At work, as a graphic designer, and at home as a man who loves his tools, it often takes Jim a long time to complete a project. He is extremely concerned with the details, and he wants things to look perfect. It means that his finished products are amazing, but it also means he might drive himself (and someone else) crazy getting to that point.
I am obsessed with organization. I like everything to have a place. I have files for everything, I love labels, and I love to get rid of things I'm not using. I'm also a bit of a control freak. When I was a teenager, I told my mom I wanted to do my own laundry because she was "doing it wrong". (It is a testament to her remarkable amount of patience that she didn't slap me).
Poor Dylan was doomed. He is a mixture of the two of us, and it is both amusing, and scary. A few weeks ago, we took Dylan to Target, and we were walking past the area where everything is one dollar, when he stopped dead in his tracks. He ran over to the bins, obviously annoyed by something. The items were NOT in the right places. There were puzzles in with stickers, and stickers in with folders, and it HAD to be fixed before we could go any further.
Also, there are very specific ways that things should be done according to King Dylan. If we play with Mr. Potato Head, we must first separate the eyes, noses, mouths, etc., before we are permitted to proceed. When eating, if I try to give him a broken cracker - well, that is just insulting and will not fly.
Yesterday, as my mom was leaving, Dylan was dragging the bin with large blocks toward me, and my mom remarked on her way out, "Oh, you want to make a house, like you did with Mi-Mi?" Okay, I was pretty sure I could make a respectable house out of those blocks, but Dylan had his doubts. I messed up the very first block, apparently, because he was rolling on the floor screaming, "NO!!" "What?! That's not how you want it?" "No!! Like dis!", the King explained. After ten minutes of that, I was stressed out!
My kid is an enigma. He throws himself into things with passion and enthusiasm, but completely sweats the small stuff. Maybe the three of us can take a class on "Not sweating the small stuff"? I'll get my planner, Jim will make a checklist, Dylan will line up our shoes by the door, and we'll be ready to go.
I like to think that Dylan got some of his wonderful qualities from Jim and I. But, lately, there are a few traits that I'm noticing he has inherited that just make me feel bad for the poor kid.
My husband is a perfectionist. At work, as a graphic designer, and at home as a man who loves his tools, it often takes Jim a long time to complete a project. He is extremely concerned with the details, and he wants things to look perfect. It means that his finished products are amazing, but it also means he might drive himself (and someone else) crazy getting to that point.
I am obsessed with organization. I like everything to have a place. I have files for everything, I love labels, and I love to get rid of things I'm not using. I'm also a bit of a control freak. When I was a teenager, I told my mom I wanted to do my own laundry because she was "doing it wrong". (It is a testament to her remarkable amount of patience that she didn't slap me).
Poor Dylan was doomed. He is a mixture of the two of us, and it is both amusing, and scary. A few weeks ago, we took Dylan to Target, and we were walking past the area where everything is one dollar, when he stopped dead in his tracks. He ran over to the bins, obviously annoyed by something. The items were NOT in the right places. There were puzzles in with stickers, and stickers in with folders, and it HAD to be fixed before we could go any further.
Also, there are very specific ways that things should be done according to King Dylan. If we play with Mr. Potato Head, we must first separate the eyes, noses, mouths, etc., before we are permitted to proceed. When eating, if I try to give him a broken cracker - well, that is just insulting and will not fly.
Yesterday, as my mom was leaving, Dylan was dragging the bin with large blocks toward me, and my mom remarked on her way out, "Oh, you want to make a house, like you did with Mi-Mi?" Okay, I was pretty sure I could make a respectable house out of those blocks, but Dylan had his doubts. I messed up the very first block, apparently, because he was rolling on the floor screaming, "NO!!" "What?! That's not how you want it?" "No!! Like dis!", the King explained. After ten minutes of that, I was stressed out!
My kid is an enigma. He throws himself into things with passion and enthusiasm, but completely sweats the small stuff. Maybe the three of us can take a class on "Not sweating the small stuff"? I'll get my planner, Jim will make a checklist, Dylan will line up our shoes by the door, and we'll be ready to go.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Can I Get The First Poop?
Well, we have embarked on that "wonderful" adventure that is potty training. As a mommy blogger, it is a requirement that I write a potty post, isn't it? Well, here you go...
A few months ago, I started reading "Potty Training For Dummies". Oh, I had no idea. What is it about potty training that makes a well educated, intelligent person feel like a complete and total doofus? I read the book. I did the research. I was ready. Or so I thought.
A few weeks before Christmas, I took Dylan to Babies R Us, and let him peruse the potty aisle's assortment of tricks. He showed special interest in the Elmo chair, which the child can high five, and which plays a variety of encouraging statements in both English and Spanish. Personally, it made me want to scream. Elmo's voice is at a range that I almost can't even hear, but I can hear, and that makes me want to rip my hair out. But, because I had my eyes on the prize, and my head in the clouds, I bought that one. (Later, when Dylan wasn't with me, because it was a special present from Santa)
On Christmas day, it was presented, wrapped in colorful paper, and accompanied by much "oohing" and "aahing". Dylan decorated it with stickers that he chose, and he even used stickers to spell out his name on it. He sat on it fully clothed several times that day. Everything was going according to plan.
My parents even bought him a CD with "potty music". Yes, that's right. Potty music. If you want to know the truth, the music isn't for the kids. It's for the grownups. Keeping a sense of humor throughout potty training without it, would be just about impossible. With it? Well, here's a sample...
(Jim said "these people need to get better agents". I said "they probably make more money than we do".)
I am going to get a lot of use out of these songs. Like this one, which I'm thinking of getting Jim to rig the guest toilet to play when the seat is lifted...
Or this one, which I think I'll play some day in the future, when Dylan brings his fiance and the future in-laws over for dinner. That way I can find out from the start if they have a good sense of humor, right? I'm thinking of putting it on during dinner, after appetizers, and before the main course. (I figure I'll cook then, heh).
(Catchy, aren't they? Now you'll be singing them all day. You're welcome.)
Dylan was interested in the songs, often requesting the CD, and getting a very serious expression on his face while following along with the book. He acclimated to the chair, sitting on it in the living room, family room, dining room and kitchen, before it finally found its way into the bathroom. We watched the potty video several times, before getting out the sticker chart, and going over the process. Then, he sat on it without clothes. Um, A LOT. He's been sitting on it for weeks, each time with his very patient Mommy sitting on the very uncomfortable toilet seat, reading him book after book after book. Each time, with no results.
Last week, after reading more of the Dummy book, I decided to try the hourly potty sit idea. Maybe I just wasn't getting the timing right? For an entire day, we sat there in the bathroom reading books every hour. The day went very fast, and very slow. Very fast because every time the timer went off, I just couldn't believe an hour had passed already and I had to trudge my annoyed butt into the bathroom, and muster up some fake enthusiasm once again! Very slow, because while waiting for your kid to "produce results" time seems to stand still. My back ached, my butt was sore from the uncomfortable seat, and hope was dwindling with each potty sit. We would finish the books, and I would happily ask, "Are you done?" "Yea", he would reply, and then stand up. Each time, I would glance desperately into the bowl - nothing. "@#$!", (I would say in my head). Out loud I would say, "That's okay, Dylan! You tried! Good job, buddy!" "!@$$%%%%^#@@, WTH am I doing wrong here?" (in my head). By the end of the day, when I heard the timer go off...
"Dylan, time to go potty, honey!" "!@##$@#$$, if I have to go in there one more time I might shoot myself" (in my head)
At that point, I sent out an S.O.S. in the form of a "help me" email to the 50 or so members of the mom's club. Many of them had gone through this agony, and had successfully made it to the other side, and I needed their advice. Within hours, I had a ton of emails, all offering different ideas! But, not one of them hit on it.
Why do I say that? Because last weekend, we went to Dylan's cousin's birthday party. At the party, Dylan watched two of his girl cousins pee on the potty. There was much enthusiasm, talk of "big kids", and prancing around in flower underwear. The next day was Sunday and we were too busy to even attempt the potty thing. But, Monday, when I got home from work, there were my parents greeting me at the door, with the news that Dylan peed on the potty twice! "DYLAN!!! YOU PEED ON THE POTTY?!? THAT IS GREAT!!! I'M SO PROUD OF YOU!!! Kiss, Kiss". "!@#$##@@#$$# Are you kidding me? I do all the hard work, and they get to be first?! !@#$!" (in my head) So apparently, what works for my kid? Peer pressure. I guess I need to set up a lot of play dates in the coming weeks, because holy crap (pun intended), I want to at least get the first poop.
(I'm kidding, Mom. I'm not bitter. Hmmpphh) I am still able to laugh about it. My sense of humor is still intact. Or it will be, once I play that darn CD again. Excuse me.
A few months ago, I started reading "Potty Training For Dummies". Oh, I had no idea. What is it about potty training that makes a well educated, intelligent person feel like a complete and total doofus? I read the book. I did the research. I was ready. Or so I thought.
A few weeks before Christmas, I took Dylan to Babies R Us, and let him peruse the potty aisle's assortment of tricks. He showed special interest in the Elmo chair, which the child can high five, and which plays a variety of encouraging statements in both English and Spanish. Personally, it made me want to scream. Elmo's voice is at a range that I almost can't even hear, but I can hear, and that makes me want to rip my hair out. But, because I had my eyes on the prize, and my head in the clouds, I bought that one. (Later, when Dylan wasn't with me, because it was a special present from Santa)
On Christmas day, it was presented, wrapped in colorful paper, and accompanied by much "oohing" and "aahing". Dylan decorated it with stickers that he chose, and he even used stickers to spell out his name on it. He sat on it fully clothed several times that day. Everything was going according to plan.
My parents even bought him a CD with "potty music". Yes, that's right. Potty music. If you want to know the truth, the music isn't for the kids. It's for the grownups. Keeping a sense of humor throughout potty training without it, would be just about impossible. With it? Well, here's a sample...
(Jim said "these people need to get better agents". I said "they probably make more money than we do".)
I am going to get a lot of use out of these songs. Like this one, which I'm thinking of getting Jim to rig the guest toilet to play when the seat is lifted...
Or this one, which I think I'll play some day in the future, when Dylan brings his fiance and the future in-laws over for dinner. That way I can find out from the start if they have a good sense of humor, right? I'm thinking of putting it on during dinner, after appetizers, and before the main course. (I figure I'll cook then, heh).
(Catchy, aren't they? Now you'll be singing them all day. You're welcome.)
Dylan was interested in the songs, often requesting the CD, and getting a very serious expression on his face while following along with the book. He acclimated to the chair, sitting on it in the living room, family room, dining room and kitchen, before it finally found its way into the bathroom. We watched the potty video several times, before getting out the sticker chart, and going over the process. Then, he sat on it without clothes. Um, A LOT. He's been sitting on it for weeks, each time with his very patient Mommy sitting on the very uncomfortable toilet seat, reading him book after book after book. Each time, with no results.
Last week, after reading more of the Dummy book, I decided to try the hourly potty sit idea. Maybe I just wasn't getting the timing right? For an entire day, we sat there in the bathroom reading books every hour. The day went very fast, and very slow. Very fast because every time the timer went off, I just couldn't believe an hour had passed already and I had to trudge my annoyed butt into the bathroom, and muster up some fake enthusiasm once again! Very slow, because while waiting for your kid to "produce results" time seems to stand still. My back ached, my butt was sore from the uncomfortable seat, and hope was dwindling with each potty sit. We would finish the books, and I would happily ask, "Are you done?" "Yea", he would reply, and then stand up. Each time, I would glance desperately into the bowl - nothing. "@#$!", (I would say in my head). Out loud I would say, "That's okay, Dylan! You tried! Good job, buddy!" "!@$$%%%%^#@@, WTH am I doing wrong here?" (in my head). By the end of the day, when I heard the timer go off...
"Dylan, time to go potty, honey!" "!@##$@#$$, if I have to go in there one more time I might shoot myself" (in my head)
At that point, I sent out an S.O.S. in the form of a "help me" email to the 50 or so members of the mom's club. Many of them had gone through this agony, and had successfully made it to the other side, and I needed their advice. Within hours, I had a ton of emails, all offering different ideas! But, not one of them hit on it.
Why do I say that? Because last weekend, we went to Dylan's cousin's birthday party. At the party, Dylan watched two of his girl cousins pee on the potty. There was much enthusiasm, talk of "big kids", and prancing around in flower underwear. The next day was Sunday and we were too busy to even attempt the potty thing. But, Monday, when I got home from work, there were my parents greeting me at the door, with the news that Dylan peed on the potty twice! "DYLAN!!! YOU PEED ON THE POTTY?!? THAT IS GREAT!!! I'M SO PROUD OF YOU!!! Kiss, Kiss". "!@#$##@@#$$# Are you kidding me? I do all the hard work, and they get to be first?! !@#$!" (in my head) So apparently, what works for my kid? Peer pressure. I guess I need to set up a lot of play dates in the coming weeks, because holy crap (pun intended), I want to at least get the first poop.
(I'm kidding, Mom. I'm not bitter. Hmmpphh) I am still able to laugh about it. My sense of humor is still intact. Or it will be, once I play that darn CD again. Excuse me.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
What Do You Want To Be?
I wrote a post, and I had a poem I wrote a few years ago that I wanted to include with it, but I have searched the whole house, and it has disappeared. Those of you who have moved recently - how long did it take for you to feel organized again? I'm going to hold off on that other post. While looking, I found something I wrote 15 years ago, when I was 21 years old. Turns out, I'm not SO different at 36 than I was at 21.
When You Grow Up
When you're a little kid, grownups ask you, "So, what are you going to be when you grow up?" The possibilities are endless. You can say anything, because at that moment you can be anything you want - a movie star, a ballerina, a fireman, a baseball player, president. No one holds you to that - to your dream of being whatever you say you'll be when you grow up. But, when you're an innocent, wide-eyed child, full of hope, everyone wants to know what you hope to be.
Suddenly, one day when you're much older, someone asks you, "So, what do you do?" You automatically answer that you're a mailman, or whatever, but it wouldn't be that. You would say "I'm in communications" to build it up because that's what you "are". Suddenly, people aren't asking you what you want to "be" anymore. They want to know what you "are". You've made your choice. Your destiny is chosen.
But, there are so many things to "be", how can you pick just one? Me, I want to "be" kind. I want to "be" loving. I want to "be" a good friend. I want to "be" a good wife. I want to "be" a good mother. I want to "be" successful. I want to "be" deliriously happy and content. I want to "be" an 82 year old grandma who skydives and drives a Harley to visit her grandkids.
I want to see it all. I want to experience it all. I want to "be" it all. I don't want to grow up.
When You Grow Up
When you're a little kid, grownups ask you, "So, what are you going to be when you grow up?" The possibilities are endless. You can say anything, because at that moment you can be anything you want - a movie star, a ballerina, a fireman, a baseball player, president. No one holds you to that - to your dream of being whatever you say you'll be when you grow up. But, when you're an innocent, wide-eyed child, full of hope, everyone wants to know what you hope to be.
Suddenly, one day when you're much older, someone asks you, "So, what do you do?" You automatically answer that you're a mailman, or whatever, but it wouldn't be that. You would say "I'm in communications" to build it up because that's what you "are". Suddenly, people aren't asking you what you want to "be" anymore. They want to know what you "are". You've made your choice. Your destiny is chosen.
But, there are so many things to "be", how can you pick just one? Me, I want to "be" kind. I want to "be" loving. I want to "be" a good friend. I want to "be" a good wife. I want to "be" a good mother. I want to "be" successful. I want to "be" deliriously happy and content. I want to "be" an 82 year old grandma who skydives and drives a Harley to visit her grandkids.
I want to see it all. I want to experience it all. I want to "be" it all. I don't want to grow up.
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