Little Gymnast

One day a few weeks ago Liam took a running start across our basement and launched himself into a head stand of sorts on our couch. It was genuinely cool, and I told him so, which turned out to be a big mistake because later that night I was informed that he pushed the Little Tykes table up to the side of the couch and attempted a back flip. This did not end well.

I signed him up for gymnastics class the next day.

Last summer he tried swimming and soccer. Swimming was okay, but he was far more interested in playing than learning, and he made sure I knew how much the learning part was not happening. Soccer was a disaster, normally ending in him taking off for the nearby playground in a bevy of tears. He was THAT kid. We didn’t even go to the last three sessions.

So while I was hoping that a gymnastics class might be just what he needed to get his itch to flip and jump and bounce out, I was preparing for the worst.

The class started out with Liam and his 7 classmates (all girls—the teacher learned his name right away), skipping, crab crawling & jumping across the gym floor. All the while I could hear Liam laughing and exclaiming “this is fun!” and I knew we were at least off to a good start. Later in the class the teacher pulled out a wedge and was demonstrating how to do a backward roll by “squishing the cookies.” And Liam, my shy child who will recoil into a mess of anxiety whenever confronted by a gaggle of kids or a new task to try was volunteering to go first. Loudly. Excitedly. I didn’t even recognize him for a moment.

By the end of the class he was completing a circuit that involved backward rolls, forward rolls, donkey kicks and balance beam feats, and each time he’d complete a task he’d laugh and clap his hands. He couldn’t have been having more fun.

When we got home he assembled the couch pillows in perfect formation to show his Daddy how he can squish the cookies. He also showed impeccable form in demonstrating how he held his arms out perfect and straight while navigating the balance beam. He couldn’t stop talking about it and hasn’t stopped asking me when his next class might be.

I’m not sure where this will lead, if anywhere. But I’m daring to think we may have found a hit. Which is good, because if we had to endure another class wherein he ran away in tears I might be the one recoiling into a mess anxiety should “recreational activity” and “Liam” be mentioned in the same sentence.

Of course, if I can avoid having that reaction when handed the bills that come from “real” gymnastics classes, I’ll be in good shape. Also, I'm not sure my couches will ever forgive me. But, in the mean time, I’m just going to enjoy my budding gymnast.

A conversation in the car

Quin: Leg off.

Me: What?!

Quin: Leeeg off-uh.

Me: You mean shoe?

Quin: LEG OFFFF!

Me: Quin? You can't take your leg off sweetie.

Liam: Quin. You're not a lego man.

Me: Right. What Liam said.

Chocolate Face

Here's looking at you, babe.

No better way to start the day. Yum.

Epic Mothering Fail

If ever I begin saying things like, “Oh. My kids NEVER get sick,” and “Oh. I don’t know what to even DO with sick kids,” like I did in this post. Please just slap me. Hard.

You remember that post? It was last week? My nephew—who is with the boys everyday—was sick last week, and I’m all whatever, my kids never catch these things. And in fairness, they may not have swapped germs at all, but what I do know is such assumptions make and ASS out of, well, just me. Should be Assme--there's no 'u' in this story.

Heh.

Liam started complaining that his tummy hurt and he didn’t feel good on Monday, and today he’s running a fever of 102.5 and complaining that the light is too bright and the noise is too loud, and (here’s where I know he’s REALLY sick) he’s been falling asleep ON THE COUCH. Whoa.

My poor baby.

Remember when I said I don’t know what to do with sick kids? It’s still true. I stayed home with him yesterday, so Daddy is taking a turn today, and meanwhile I’m at work about three seconds from bolting for the door because MAH BABEEE is sick. Also, even though I called the doctor and was told to wait it out a couple more days, I’m a nervous wreck and am convinced that they don’t know what they’re talking about. He needs to go in NOW. Right? He has a FEVER. I’m not quite sure he’s ever had a fever in his life. Clearly, something is terribly wrong.

Anyway. Point being. It’s all my fault for claiming such things as I did last week, and even though I said I’d be knocking on wood while I wrote it, I didn’t because I’m not superstitious, and therein lies the fact that I’m officially the worst mother ever.

Fail.

My childless friends are so jealous of me right now.

I was going to sit down today and write about how, when I got Quin out of his crib this morning he was trying to tell me he was stinky, except it came out as “neeky” and I thought he was saying “naked” and was explaining to him that we should probably leave our clothes on today. I realized my error when I pulled down his pull-up so he could go potty and got poop all over my hands. Also, no matter the fact that I’ve washed my hands about 500 times since, I still have two fingers with the lingering smell of poop on them.

But I’m tired today. So I think I’ll give you a rain check.

Minnesotans Are Screwballs

When I was growing up, my mother went back to school to complete an undergraduate degree in English. This resulted in her constant need to correct the English of my sister and me, which in turn resulted in a constant need from a nine-year-old me to correct the English of everyone else.

I didn’t realize until I was much older that such an activity might be deemed annoying. So while I am constantly correcting your English in my head, I’ve learned to mostly keep it to myself.

But English is a funny thing in that it can be completely different depending on where you live. I grew up in Colorado, where of course the dialect is Correct and Right. I now live in Minnesota, where the dialect is All Wrong. (Recognize facetiousness, people.)

Like I did when I was younger, I used to constantly point out to native Minnesotans the err of their ways, until I recognized (and I was quicker on the up-keep this time) that such an activity was again deemed annoying. Ahem.

But right now, I want to stand on my high horse and point out for you what is All Wrong about the upper Midwest dialect.

• Pop: This is not something that you drink. “Pop” is a sound, like, when I’m having way too much fun with bubble wrap making all those popping noises. If it’s a fizzy beverage I am after, I’ll be looking for a Soda.

• Words ending in ‘AG’: Let me make this clear, “Bag” is not spelled “Bey-g” and therefore should not be pronounced as such. The letter A is only pronounced “ey” in a circumstance like “I have a ball.” Or maybe in the word Bay. I’m sure there are some others. But otherwise, if you have a word with ‘ag’ in it, it is pronounced AH! Ah. Ah. Ah.

• Karaoke: This word is pronounced (at least in 49 of 50 U.S. States) as Care-E-Okey. In Minnesota, it comes out like Ker-O-Kee, which is just plain weird. Sounds like croak or something, which is a really odd visual to have when you’re talking about singing badly. The first time my husband (a native Minnesotan) said Ker-O-Kee to me, I literally had no idea what he was talking about.

• I’m not even getting into the elongated O’s. Mostly because I find myself using them. SHUT UP.

• You Betcha: This is a common misconception. Minnesota thinks it has the market cornered on “You Betcha,” but I actually disagree. I’m pretty sure the rest of the country uses this term just as much, and honestly, I don’t hear it all that often. Dontcha know.

• Borrow You: As in, “I’m going to borrow you my CD collection.” I hear this all the time, and it drives. me. crazy. The term you are looking for, Minnesota, is LOAN. You will LOAN me your CD collection, and I will BORROW it from you.

• Hotdish: Do you know how long I went wondering what on earth a hot dish is? A dish that just came out of the oven? No. Oh! It’s a casserole! (Also, last time I checked, casserole rarely comes with tater tots, but if I’m being honest, it’s somewhat delicious.)

• Uff-ta: I said uff-ta before I moved to Minnesota. It doesn’t count. Color me crazy.

• Duck, Duck…Grey Duck: What on earth is that? Seriously, Minnesota. It’s duck, duck, GOOSE. Why would you say grey duck anyway? Isn’t a grey duck just another duck? How about next time I play “white duck, brown duck, grey duck” and see how confused you get?

And Minnesota? Don’t take offense. You know I love you.

Stupid Bee

When I was five years old, I was outside playing with the neighbor boy, doing five-year-old kind of things, when that neighbor boy exclaimed, “You have a bee in your ear!” Naturally, my reaction was to immediately clasp my hand over my ear. Because you know, that seemed like the right way to handle a BEE in my EAR.

I think it goes without saying that I got stung.

I remember everything about that moment. The kind of day it was, exactly where I’d been standing on the sidewalk outside my house, running inside to get comfort from my Mom. And while I’ve been irrationally afraid of any bee buzzing anywhere near me ever since, what I’d forgotten about was how much it must’ve hurt. Because on Sunday, my baby boy got stung by a bee.

Let me say that as much experience as I’ve gleaned as a Mom, there are two areas that I have absolutely no experience with and therefore I am rendered hopelessly incompetent: injuries and illness.

The illness issue is a bit of a mystery to me, and truthfully I should be knocking on 25 tons of wood before I say this out loud. But. My kids have never been sick. When Liam was a baby we had a couple bouts with ear infections and both kids get the occasional cold. But really and truly sick? It’s never happened. Vomit? Liam has only done so once, and I’m pretty sure it was because he had too much candy that day. And I’m telling you, I still don’t get it. Not that I’m complaining, I’m not. I just don’t get it. They’ve even been exposed to swine flu, and this stomach bug that got to everyone (Nate and I, their cousin & his parents, the grandparents, everyone) but my boys remained healthy through all of it. It’s bizarre.

The lack of experience with injury stems entirely from my own neurotic need to watch them at every second of every day lest they get into something dangerous. Oh no. I’ve seen too many reports of kids getting hurt on the most innocuous things, so I opt to just watch them like a hawk. What? Don’t tell me I can’t sustain that vigilance. I can. And I will.

But a bee that sneaks into the house. That I didn’t see coming. And so it was on Sunday morning, when my poor, unsuspecting 21-month-old baby was told to go pick up his trains, and he so dutifully complied, and there was a bee hanging out on those trains who wasn’t all that happy to be manhandled by a baby, and WHAMO.

And oh my god, it’s ALL OUR FAULT for telling him to pick up his trains in the first place. That’s it. My kids officially get a pass from cleaning up toys.

It got him on the back of the hand, and at first I thought he was crying because he wanted help with his trains or something, but then Nate starts with his Oh My God shriek and Quin just got STUNG by a BEE, and I go into panic mode. What if he’s allergic? What am I supposed to do? I don’t know how to handle injured children!

To my credit, while I was cuddling my baby boy (who in-between sobs kept repeating “hand” and “buuuggg” to tell us just what happened in case we missed it) I did ask Nate to go get the ice pack from the freezer and some Tylenol. And you guys, I discovered afterward that’s exactly what the internet told me to do. Hurah. I watched for signs of allergic reaction. But aside from a swollen middle finger (seems fitting, doesn’t it?) there were just a lot of sobs.

(Also, there was a pause from the sobbing to say "Yummy" in reference to the Tylenol, which I’m now convinced is a very bad sign. Maybe someday I’ll tell you the story I’ve been told about how I ate a bottle of Tylenol when I was little. Yeah. I did that.)

My sweet eldest child showed just what a good brother he can be, when the stealing of toys are not involved. He found every toy he could think of to make Quin feel better. I’m pretty sure that between assuring Quin that it’d be OK, and finding a combination of Zhu Zhu Pets and Buzz & Woody from Toy Story, Liam did a better job of making Quin feel better than I did.

Eventually, My Poor Baby got down to play again. He’d fiddle with some Lego’s or blocks and then pause to cry some more. This is the part I’d forgotten, how much it lingered.  But after an hour or so, he was over it.

Me on the other hand; I’ll remember every moment of that bee sting. Just like I did when I was five.