Our new favorite game involves Mommy playing the role of "Giant" as I grab Micaiah, sling her over my shoulder and gobble on her belly. At that point she yells, between fits of giggles, "Save me, Daddy, save me!"
After Daddy successfully dashes after us around the house and succeeds in gaining custody of my prisoner, I go after the littler one. The tactic for his rescue involves Micaiah being the diversion, via chasing or tickling, while Daddy pulls the little guy from my arms and they all run laughing to safety.
Tonight, after the usual fare, Micaiah mixed it up a bit by deciding to be the giant for awhile, which called for Daddy to whisk Mommy away after being chased for awhile.
Daddy is always a good rescuer to whoever is in peril.
14 April 2011
13 April 2011
Of Talking to Ourselves
I love to talk to my babies. Being that Emmett hasn't quite made the linguistic advancements that his sister has (being 21 months behind her seems to make a difference), my conversations with him, when not resting on his ever-intriguing mono-syllabic babbling, rely heavily on my telepathic abilities to fill in the gaps for his side of the dialogue (and, then, of course, my vocalizing both ends of the conversation so everyone feels involved).
Below is an actual transcript of this morning's "getting dressed" discussion:
Mommy: [Holds up a shirt covered in a print of tiny jungle animals] "How's this? Is this man enough for you? Considering it's a onesie, probably not so much, huh?"
Emmett: "Mommy, it makes me look like a little boy!"
Mommy: "Well, that's good, considering you are little boy. And let's face it, the time is limited when you can pull off the tiny animal print, so you might as well take the opportunity while it's still ok to button your shirt between your legs."
And that's real life, my friends. Speaking truth to my son since 2010.
Below is an actual transcript of this morning's "getting dressed" discussion:
Mommy: [Holds up a shirt covered in a print of tiny jungle animals] "How's this? Is this man enough for you? Considering it's a onesie, probably not so much, huh?"
Emmett: "Mommy, it makes me look like a little boy!"
Mommy: "Well, that's good, considering you are little boy. And let's face it, the time is limited when you can pull off the tiny animal print, so you might as well take the opportunity while it's still ok to button your shirt between your legs."
And that's real life, my friends. Speaking truth to my son since 2010.
12 April 2011
Of Stages
I've heard it said, and I've repeated it here before, that when it comes to kids, every stage is your favorite. I suppose those veteran parents really do know what they're talking about. Because just when you think it couldn't get any better than this, they go and grow up just a little bit more.
Lately I've really begun to appreciate Micaiah's vocal prowess. Her ability to communicate in full sentences and actually hold a toddler-sized conversation is so much more entertaining, even, than the two-bit words and pieces of thoughts which used to flutter from her lips. Now begins the "Kids Say the Darnedest Things" stage.
It's not even the big knee-slappers, but just the way a little communicator packs all her thoughts into an expanding vocabulary astounds and amuses us every time.
Tonight, after Philip and I enjoyed a night on the town (for serious, we actually went all the way to the City - I wore my fancy dress and all) while a dear couple from church enjoyed our babies, we packed the kids back into the car and headed home. We asked Micaiah what she did and, excitedly, she told us all she could remember. It went something like this.
"I see the dog and it get me and I, 'Aaaah!' and he go 'way. I slide and I swing and I ride the horsey [which I'm assuming refers to the saddle-shaped swing I noticed as I don't recall seeing any animals other than the aforementioned canine] and 'Hee-Haw!!!' and I 'Wheeee!'"
Such was the night in the eyes of a toddler. Again, not earth-shattering, but if you could just hear her say it, it's one of the cutest things.
In addition, we recently acquired The Beginning Reader's Bible (which we give two thumbs up, in case you were curious). My favorite part of reading selections to her every night are the little boxes labeled, "Pray the Word of God" and include verses from Psalms. Every evening, I ask her to repeat the verses after me. Hearing that tiny voice form the words of Scripture never fails to melt my heart.
Are they sure the next stage is even better than this?
Lately I've really begun to appreciate Micaiah's vocal prowess. Her ability to communicate in full sentences and actually hold a toddler-sized conversation is so much more entertaining, even, than the two-bit words and pieces of thoughts which used to flutter from her lips. Now begins the "Kids Say the Darnedest Things" stage.
It's not even the big knee-slappers, but just the way a little communicator packs all her thoughts into an expanding vocabulary astounds and amuses us every time.
Tonight, after Philip and I enjoyed a night on the town (for serious, we actually went all the way to the City - I wore my fancy dress and all) while a dear couple from church enjoyed our babies, we packed the kids back into the car and headed home. We asked Micaiah what she did and, excitedly, she told us all she could remember. It went something like this.
"I see the dog and it get me and I, 'Aaaah!' and he go 'way. I slide and I swing and I ride the horsey [which I'm assuming refers to the saddle-shaped swing I noticed as I don't recall seeing any animals other than the aforementioned canine] and 'Hee-Haw!!!' and I 'Wheeee!'"
Such was the night in the eyes of a toddler. Again, not earth-shattering, but if you could just hear her say it, it's one of the cutest things.
In addition, we recently acquired The Beginning Reader's Bible (which we give two thumbs up, in case you were curious). My favorite part of reading selections to her every night are the little boxes labeled, "Pray the Word of God" and include verses from Psalms. Every evening, I ask her to repeat the verses after me. Hearing that tiny voice form the words of Scripture never fails to melt my heart.
Are they sure the next stage is even better than this?
11 April 2011
Of Green Beans
If you're looking for something meaningful, you may want to try back tomorrow. I'm not making any promises for the future, mind you, I'm just saying don't look any deeper into the following tale than is necessary, and, trust me, to dig into this one, you'll be fine with a toothpick.
Philip's grandparents are farmers. This is actually true on both sides for him (May I interrupt this otherwise meaningless meandering to briefly mention that I always dreamed of having grandparents who lived on a farm. Many of my favorite books growing up included a farm, and I was always jealous. So, believe me when I say, inheriting two sets of farming grandparents was a minor highlight to putting that ring on my finger. Now back to our regularly scheduled programming), but, while Nenaw and Papaw raise cattle, Grandpa and Grandma throw in a working of the land to produce fruits and vegetables, as well.
Literally since our wedding day, we have been showered with the fruits of Grandma's garden. Corn, plucked, shucked, de-cobbed and frozen for future use; jellies made in the kitchen of the very home in which Grandpa was born (though the food itself doesn't date back that far, don't worry); and green beans, harvested and canned by Grandma's loving hands. All these have graced our table, but the green beans have darn near been a staple. Until I ran out of the most recent batch.
Now all that remain in my pantry are empty glass jars waiting to be re-filled. Meanwhile, I've come to realize that my family must find another means of ingesting vegetables until the time when we see these wonderful loved ones once again (loved, mind you, for being who they are, not merely for the bounty which they so graciously share). This evening, therefore, after steaming frozen store-brand green beans in the microwave to be blended for Emmett's consumption, I set aside a few for those of us who enjoy solid foods to have alongside our own meal.
I issued Philip (a known hater of all things green, anyway, but a lover of Grandma's beans, naturally) a warning, "These are not Grandma's green beans . . . and they taste horrible." He sighed. We both knew that the day we became parents, or, rather, the day our daughter began sharing our food, was the day we needed to grow up and eat what was good for us, whether we liked it or not, for the sake of a good example.
The two of us dug in, silently detesting the squeaky chewiness of the "vegetables" on our plates. We encouraged Micaiah to do the same. Unprepared for the horror to come, she popped one bean happily in her mouth and it promptly came shooting back out. To make a long story short, we made the best of a bad situation all around and even little girl did pretty well for awhile, but by the end of the meal, I spent a solid half hour convincing my daughter to swallow the last five green beans on her plate.
My son, a lover of all things food, was the next to try these atrocities and he came to agree with the rest of us. The little man threw a fit and finally refused the last four bites before we, weary chewy-green-bean-haters ourselves, threw in the towel and let him move on with his life.
Philip's final word on the matter, "I'd like to sue that company for mental distress."
All that to say, we miss your green beans, Grandma (and, well, you and Grandpa are missed, as well).
Philip's grandparents are farmers. This is actually true on both sides for him (May I interrupt this otherwise meaningless meandering to briefly mention that I always dreamed of having grandparents who lived on a farm. Many of my favorite books growing up included a farm, and I was always jealous. So, believe me when I say, inheriting two sets of farming grandparents was a minor highlight to putting that ring on my finger. Now back to our regularly scheduled programming), but, while Nenaw and Papaw raise cattle, Grandpa and Grandma throw in a working of the land to produce fruits and vegetables, as well.
Literally since our wedding day, we have been showered with the fruits of Grandma's garden. Corn, plucked, shucked, de-cobbed and frozen for future use; jellies made in the kitchen of the very home in which Grandpa was born (though the food itself doesn't date back that far, don't worry); and green beans, harvested and canned by Grandma's loving hands. All these have graced our table, but the green beans have darn near been a staple. Until I ran out of the most recent batch.
Now all that remain in my pantry are empty glass jars waiting to be re-filled. Meanwhile, I've come to realize that my family must find another means of ingesting vegetables until the time when we see these wonderful loved ones once again (loved, mind you, for being who they are, not merely for the bounty which they so graciously share). This evening, therefore, after steaming frozen store-brand green beans in the microwave to be blended for Emmett's consumption, I set aside a few for those of us who enjoy solid foods to have alongside our own meal.
I issued Philip (a known hater of all things green, anyway, but a lover of Grandma's beans, naturally) a warning, "These are not Grandma's green beans . . . and they taste horrible." He sighed. We both knew that the day we became parents, or, rather, the day our daughter began sharing our food, was the day we needed to grow up and eat what was good for us, whether we liked it or not, for the sake of a good example.
The two of us dug in, silently detesting the squeaky chewiness of the "vegetables" on our plates. We encouraged Micaiah to do the same. Unprepared for the horror to come, she popped one bean happily in her mouth and it promptly came shooting back out. To make a long story short, we made the best of a bad situation all around and even little girl did pretty well for awhile, but by the end of the meal, I spent a solid half hour convincing my daughter to swallow the last five green beans on her plate.
My son, a lover of all things food, was the next to try these atrocities and he came to agree with the rest of us. The little man threw a fit and finally refused the last four bites before we, weary chewy-green-bean-haters ourselves, threw in the towel and let him move on with his life.
Philip's final word on the matter, "I'd like to sue that company for mental distress."
All that to say, we miss your green beans, Grandma (and, well, you and Grandpa are missed, as well).
10 April 2011
Of Personalities
It took my son learning to crawl for us to see his adventurous spirit. It would appear, now he knows how to get from here to there, the same blocks and wooden trains with which we have encouraged him to interact for the past 9.5 months(ish) don't really seem to cut it anymore.
The non-crawling leash has been cut and this boy is a mover.
My being non-imposed toward movement due to a virus that continues its refusal to move on, keeping up with this little man, teaching him where he is and, more importantly, is not, encouraged to incline his tiny knees, is getting more and more difficult.
We're working on it, though. And the friction between a mommy who is having difficulty chasing a crawler and a daddy who is doing his best to keep an entire household running (which, by the way, he is doing excellently), can sometimes boil up a little higher than necessary.
Little girl, meanwhile, seems to have noticed the issue and has done her best, in these rare moments, to tread lightly and act as peacemaker. During a particularly tense moment, I heard my daughter say, "Mommy, no yell! Talk to me. (whispers) Look at me. (Mommy gazes into her eyes.) Talk to me."
Wise beyond her years, I tell you, wise beyond her years.
And, as you may guess, nothing diffuses a tense moment like a soft-spoken toddler. We're doing better to mind our words and she is now reminding us not to yell at her, either. She's going to be trouble, that one.
The non-crawling leash has been cut and this boy is a mover.
My being non-imposed toward movement due to a virus that continues its refusal to move on, keeping up with this little man, teaching him where he is and, more importantly, is not, encouraged to incline his tiny knees, is getting more and more difficult.
We're working on it, though. And the friction between a mommy who is having difficulty chasing a crawler and a daddy who is doing his best to keep an entire household running (which, by the way, he is doing excellently), can sometimes boil up a little higher than necessary.
Little girl, meanwhile, seems to have noticed the issue and has done her best, in these rare moments, to tread lightly and act as peacemaker. During a particularly tense moment, I heard my daughter say, "Mommy, no yell! Talk to me. (whispers) Look at me. (Mommy gazes into her eyes.) Talk to me."
Wise beyond her years, I tell you, wise beyond her years.
And, as you may guess, nothing diffuses a tense moment like a soft-spoken toddler. We're doing better to mind our words and she is now reminding us not to yell at her, either. She's going to be trouble, that one.
09 April 2011
Of Praising Through This Mist
It would appear that my body didn't remember what it was like back in February and I, once again, have contracted Strep Throat. I wish it would have asked me, I would have let my body know it was a bad idea, but since when does this old thing listen to me?
Thereby, my absence yesterday (and, might I add, I believe my husband did a stellar job of filling in, but I could be biased) was followed by an early morning (and by that I mean 9:30 - which is early when your rebellious body wants nothing more than to continue to lay in bed while it beats drums in your head and your throat screams at you with every swallow) visit to the AM+PM clinic to endure a throat swab which confirmed what I already knew and get myself a Z-Pack ASAP.
Life isn't peachy yet. In fact, it kind of feels like a playback of yesterday, but I press on - kind of. Meanwhile, Emmett-man was a crankier version of himself today and I feared the worst. Because I would take this bear of a virus any day before one of my kids had to deal with it, knowing I could do little to alleviate this extreme level of discomfort.
So far, so good, though. Diaper rash, it would seem, causes crankiness, too, so we're still praying this is all we have to worry about. And considering others are dealing with much bigger trials in their lives than a sore throat and an unhappy bottom, I'm giving praises for our blessings.
Thereby, my absence yesterday (and, might I add, I believe my husband did a stellar job of filling in, but I could be biased) was followed by an early morning (and by that I mean 9:30 - which is early when your rebellious body wants nothing more than to continue to lay in bed while it beats drums in your head and your throat screams at you with every swallow) visit to the AM+PM clinic to endure a throat swab which confirmed what I already knew and get myself a Z-Pack ASAP.
Life isn't peachy yet. In fact, it kind of feels like a playback of yesterday, but I press on - kind of. Meanwhile, Emmett-man was a crankier version of himself today and I feared the worst. Because I would take this bear of a virus any day before one of my kids had to deal with it, knowing I could do little to alleviate this extreme level of discomfort.
So far, so good, though. Diaper rash, it would seem, causes crankiness, too, so we're still praying this is all we have to worry about. And considering others are dealing with much bigger trials in their lives than a sore throat and an unhappy bottom, I'm giving praises for our blessings.
08 April 2011
Of Being Sick
I should start this post off by saying this: This is not your usual author. Angela is sick this evening, to the point of not feeling up to coming up with a post. As such, she's left it to me to come up with something for her blog. Unfortunately for you, I agreed to do it. I apologize in advance and I promise to encourage her swift return tomorrow, health allowing.
Today I made an attempt at teaching Micaiah one of the many joys of being small and relatively less... old than I am. I showed her how to somersault. Or I tried, at least. The lesson consisted of me telling her to put her hands and head on the floor, and then I lifted her legs over her head. Sounds simple enough, right? Well, she didn't get it after the hands-on tutorial, so I decided to give her an example.
Here's the part where I realized that there's a reason you don't see people beyond the age of 10 doing somersaults (gymnasts and their ilk notwithstanding). After a short trip up and over, my feet met her slightly open dresser drawer and a container of wipes. Not to mention my back and shoulders had an argument with the floor. There was no permanent damage, aside from my pride, but let's face it. I was doing a somersault for my two-year-old, that didn't really come into play much.
At least Emmett crawled over to check on me... or pull on my shirt, I didn't stay on the ground long enough to find out. I hope I'm not stealing Angela's thunder too much here... but the little man is becoming quite mobile. I'll have to be more careful about when I set the bag of dogfood back in the house. I had to wrestle away not one, but two pieces from his tiny fingers. Not only can he get across the house in 45 minutes flat (I'm kidding. He's much faster. He just gets distracted), but he can find every crumb or crumb-like item on the floor and manage to chew it up before you can get to him.
So between a somersault that left me feeling old and chasing an almost 10-month old around and scrambling to get non-edible, yet bite-sized tidbits away from him. I'd say today wasn't all that bad of a day. There is this one negative part about someone being sick, but she'll be okay. Hopefully tomorrow she'll be feeling great again so that I won't have to cover for her and you won't have to endure further ramblings from me.
Today I made an attempt at teaching Micaiah one of the many joys of being small and relatively less... old than I am. I showed her how to somersault. Or I tried, at least. The lesson consisted of me telling her to put her hands and head on the floor, and then I lifted her legs over her head. Sounds simple enough, right? Well, she didn't get it after the hands-on tutorial, so I decided to give her an example.
Here's the part where I realized that there's a reason you don't see people beyond the age of 10 doing somersaults (gymnasts and their ilk notwithstanding). After a short trip up and over, my feet met her slightly open dresser drawer and a container of wipes. Not to mention my back and shoulders had an argument with the floor. There was no permanent damage, aside from my pride, but let's face it. I was doing a somersault for my two-year-old, that didn't really come into play much.
At least Emmett crawled over to check on me... or pull on my shirt, I didn't stay on the ground long enough to find out. I hope I'm not stealing Angela's thunder too much here... but the little man is becoming quite mobile. I'll have to be more careful about when I set the bag of dogfood back in the house. I had to wrestle away not one, but two pieces from his tiny fingers. Not only can he get across the house in 45 minutes flat (I'm kidding. He's much faster. He just gets distracted), but he can find every crumb or crumb-like item on the floor and manage to chew it up before you can get to him.
So between a somersault that left me feeling old and chasing an almost 10-month old around and scrambling to get non-edible, yet bite-sized tidbits away from him. I'd say today wasn't all that bad of a day. There is this one negative part about someone being sick, but she'll be okay. Hopefully tomorrow she'll be feeling great again so that I won't have to cover for her and you won't have to endure further ramblings from me.
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