Cookie Monster

I’ve heard numerous stories about how, when my husband was a kid, he liked to sneak cookies from the cookie jar when his mother wasn’t looking. He spilled the beans as a young adult and she promptly bought him one of those cookie jars shaped like a shark that plays the Jaws theme song every time it’s opened. Just so everyone knows who’s in the cookie jar.

The apple, apparently, doesn’t fall far from the tree.

We made chocolate chip cookies last night. (And before you go thinking I am the mother of the year, coming home from a long day’s work to bake cookies with my children, rest assured I am not that mother. We bought pre-made dough from Papa Murphy’s that was about to expire. But hey! I try.)

I left that cookie sheet full of cookies on the oven. I sent to boys to bed, and I was thinking I should put those cookies away, but, whatever I’ll do it before I go to bed. I headed for the comfy couch in the basement instead.

Cut to 30 minutes later when I hear Liam tip-toeing across the kitchen floor. This has become a routine for him. I send him to bed, I sternly warn him to STAY in bed, I throw out all kinds of consequences for not staying in bed, and 30 minutes after closing his door he is out of bed.

I say his name in the most threatening voice I can muster, and I hear him scrambling back to his room.

I’m not satisfied he’s actually back in bed, so I investigate.

Liam has this little night-stand-like-table-thing by his bed. When I come around the corner into his bedroom, there he is: dangling his legs from his bed, facing the table that is now home to THE ENTIRE COOKIE SHEET, and rapidly, forcefully, intensively shoveling cookies into his mouth.

It took me a moment to take in what was happening, but as soon as I did I was all WHAT ARE YOU DOING? And right then, he dropped the half-cookie in his hand and gave me this look. This look that said OH MY GOD I’m in so much trouble. I’ve never seen him look so alarmed and terrified in my life. He was totally and completely caught red handed.

He jumped down from the bed, exclaimed his sorry’s, and then burst into pathetic crocodile tears because my child does not like to think Mommy is mad at him. (He’s also quite manipulative—I try to be stern—he bursts into tears—I melt in an instant.)

I sent him to wash his hands so that I could run downstairs and tell Nate what his child did. Also, I needed to laugh and I didn’t want him to see. I’m trying to discourage him from stealing a tray full of cookies after all.

I took a quarter from his piggy bank as a consequence. (He could care less if I gave him a timeout or took away a toy, but mess with that boy’s Chuck E. Cheeses’s fund and hoo-boy has a message been sent!) The truth is, I wish I could tell him how hilarious I really thought it was, because really Liam? Really? The whole cookie sheet? This is going to be recorded, and I am going to tell your future girlfriends.

Teetering On Top of the World

We recently took a trip back to my beautiful home state of Colorado. Though Liam's body wasn't quite sure how to handle the altitude, and revolted in the form of multiple bloody noses (especially when he was wearing a WHITE shirt!), there is simply no denying the beauty of the state.

Nate and I always come back to the same conundrum: Minnesota or Colorado? We have about equal pros and cons for each. I doubt we'll ever have an answer to the question. I propose we just move to Hawaii.

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.