A monkey could do this faster….
Posted by: Kymber on: October 5, 2010
Really, there should be a global law that after 40, one’s age, experiences, and accumulated wisdom should qualify one for a higher degree in one’s area of expertise. In that case, I would have finished all of the classwork associated with my masters degree, and I wouldn’t have had to write this dang-blasted thesis.
Seriously, I am sure that if I locked a monkey in a room with a supply of Coke zero, Haribo cherries, a stack of papers on cognition, persuasion, novelty, and trust, and a monkey-proof laptop, that s/he could randomly peck at the keyboard and type an acceptable thesis before I will get it done.
Well, to make the competition a little fairer, I’ll add the monkey’s two youngest children to the room along with a supply of Dora videos and a yoghurt and finger-print-smeared TV.
No-the monkey will still win.
“Mama, where your willy gone?”
Posted by: Kymber on: October 5, 2010
(Written April 2, 2009 –but only published now)
My son is fascinated with his penis. I suppose I would be, too, if I were 2 3/4 and had this thing down there. When I change his diaper he proudly tells me that “Little J playing with his willy!”
Boys will be boys…
Over the past few days, he has been noticing that Mommy and Little K don’t quite have all the same appendages.
Today, after we had a shower, he asked me: “Mama, where your willy gone?”
I laughed and told him that I didn’t have a willy.
“Yes, you DO. Where it gone?”
Where, indeed??
Mommy’s bath
Posted by: Kymber on: April 3, 2009
- In: Motherhood
- 2 Comments
Mr. J has been away for the past five days on business. While it hasn’t been chaos here, there have been some scenes reminiscent of the War of Roses, and I don’t mean the Michael Douglas movie, either.
So, this morning, after yet another night of limited, broken sleep, and after preparing breakfast for Little J, I decided to have a short bath. Mostly, I wanted to shave my legs and at least be presentable for my returning husband. I don’t get to have a bath very often, and while my leg hair wasn’t long enough to braid, there were some concerns about drain blockage after the shaving.
Anyway.
Here is the story of one bath, meant to be a leg-shaving ten minutes of repose.
Little K had been changed and nursed, and I knew that she would happily sit in her bouncy chair/wipstoel next to the bathtub for a good 30 minutes or so. Little J was watching his daily bit of TV, and since he doesn’t get the mind-numbing quantities that he used to, I figured that would hold his attention for awhile.
I undressed and started running the tap. Luscious hot water flowed into the tub. Little K cooed and grabbed at her toys. I poured in some Molton Brown bath gel and savored the gorgeous scent drifting up on the steam. Heaven. I stepped into the bath and sat down into my little portion of temporary paradise.
Then I heard the footsteps on the stairs.
“Mama, what ya doin’?”
“I’m having a bath. Why don’t you watch your video?”
“Little J wants a bath, too.”
“No, Mommy is having a bath now, and Little J has one at night.”
This seemed to satisfy him, but his little head was busy figuring out what other fun he could have while Mommy was in the bath. I could have tried to get him to leave, but that would have involved shutting and locking the door, and then I couldn’t hear what he was up to. You have to pick your battles, and I decided letting Little J mess around on the fringes of my bath might be the path of least destruction.
So, Little J took off his sweater in preparation for the wet work at hand and gathered his tiger, crocodile and dinosaur. The tiger and crocodile then engaged in a splashing fight on the edge of the bath while I tried to shut it out and enjoy the bubbles, scent, and sound of water pouring from the tap–a sound I find restful.
Here are the Bath Animals feeding--they need their strength for the bath wars ahead
“Here, Mama, hold Tiger.”
“I don’t want to hold Tiger. Please put him here on the bath.”
“Hold Bruni”, referring to the large apatosaurus.
“No, put him on the bath.” A minute or two of animals jostling for the best position on the bath edge ensued. Then, Little J spotted the mound of bubbles in the bath.
“Hey, bubbles! Little J wash Mommy’s nee-nees.”
My son nursed until he was 2 years old, and he knows what breasts are for. He watches his little sister nurse and occasionally wants to pat a “nee-nee” for comfort. Little J gathered up a handful of bubbles and washed the top of the nee-nee. Five times. At that point, I really was clean enough.
“Enough, Little J. They’re clean.”
“Ok. The animals are swimming.” Tiger, Bruni, and crocodile went for a swim. Little K gurgled happily. I put my ears under the bath water to hear the sound of the water and shut out the menagerie playing water polo next to me.
I decided to shave my legs, thinking that time might be running out. I got out the ocean-scented shave gel. But all I could smell was poo.
“Little J, have you done a poo?”
“YEEESSSSS. Little J makes crocodile music.” He sang a little ditty in his cloud of poo smell about the crocodile while I lathered up.
One of my legs was bent while I was shaving, and Little J put the crocodile there. I removed it.
“Little J, here’s the crocodile. I’ve put him on the bath.” Little J put the crocodile back on my leg, still singing the “crocodile music”. I put him back on the bath. Little J put him back on my leg.
“Little J, TAKE THE CROCODILE .”
“But crocodile is tired. He wants to sleep on Mommy’s leg.”
“No. Mommy is shaving. Please put the crocodile back.” A whiff of poo smell drifted by, entirely negating the ocean scent on my legs. Little K started fussing.
So much for my ten minutes of peace, quiet, and nice smells. I got out of the bath, dried off, changed the poo, picked up the crying Little K, got dressed and disappeared back into Mothering-Land.
The eyes have it
Posted by: Kymber on: March 27, 2009
My son has a fascination with eyes at the moment.
“Does it have eyes?” or “Show me the eyes! Where are the eyes?” are the most asked questions in this house (followed closely by questions about poo–see “Interest of the Week” at the right).
I gave him a glue stick, some construction paper, shapes to glue onto the paper, feathers, a bit of “my wool, Mommy”, and some google eyes. I glued the legs on the spider, but the rest is all his creation. Here it is:
The eyes have it
If my son turns out to be an artist, we’ll call this his “Eyes Period”.
The need for eyes extends to three-dimensional creations, too. We made some Play-Dough worms, and they all had to have eyes. I explained to him that worms don’t have eyes and don’t need them. He suggested that we look in a book and that we might find out that worms had eyes, there. Little J does not take no for an answer. Sigh. Oh well, we made some lovely, sighted worms with eyes that were wildly out of proportion with the worm body. Gorgeous, darling!
Making friends with the axis of evil
Posted by: Kymber on: March 25, 2009
A Representative Of The Axis Of Evil (‘ROTAOE’) approached me in the hospital one year ago.
I was at the hospital to have some blood drawn for fertility tests, and we were number 75 or something equally horrific in terms of waiting time. I was trying to watch the number board with one eye while keeping the other fixed on Little J, who was fascinated with the glass doors that kept opening and shutting whenever he walked or ran towards them. Little J had been momentarily lured over to me by the prospect of a baby cookie when a dark-haired child with large brown eyes toddled over to see if he could have one, too. I’m hesitant to give food to other people’s children without their approval, so I looked up to find the parent of the ROTAOE. And I met the father of the little boy. ROTAOE Sr. had no problems with ROTAOE Jr. eating the cookie, so I unwrapped one for him. He scampered off.
Fifteen minutes later, still going google-eyed from looking simultaneously at the number board and the running Little J, Mrs. ROTAOE came over to me. She asked me if I knew where I could find an English-speaking babysitter or creche. I gave her some details. She came back over to ask about another English-language something or other. I gave her details. When she came back a third time, she confessed that she was looking for an English-speaking friend and would I be interested in meeting up?
I said I would be interested, and as we exchanged details, I asked Mrs. ROTAOE where she was from: Iran. Wow! I never thought I would meet someone from Iran. The enmity between our two governments is obvious; especially after ex-President Bush named Iran as one of the three countries in his ‘axis of evil’. But Persian culture is so old and interesting; I’ve always enjoyed looking at Persian artefacts in museums. She asked me where I came from. “The US”, I replied. A look of horror passed over her face for a few seconds, then was replaced by her previous, polite expression.
I know that the US is not well-liked by many other countries. And quite frankly, for good reasons. I remember one telephone call that I had with a middle-aged sales representative in Sarajevo during the war. We were discussing pricing for a customer, and the US was dropping bombs at the time. I was speaking to D and asking him how he was. ‘Not so good’, he answered. My heart sank. ‘My grandmother’s house was hit by an American rocket last night.”‘ Oh my God. Oh my God. My country has just killed his grandmother. D with the bright blue eyes and the old-fashioned manners. ‘However, the rocket went into the basement and didn’t explode. No one was hurt, but there is a big hole in the house.’ Phew. Ok–the great news is that no one was killed. My heart still didn’t stop racing for a few minutes. The bad news is that my country does kill people, sometimes accidentally (like the rocket in the grandmother’s basement). This (understandably) makes people angry and can lead to dislike or hatred for the US. I know this, but I’ve never actually experienced it myself, despite living overseas for 11 years.
Anyway, Mrs. ROTAOE had a name: Mahvash. Her son, Little M, was two months older than Little J. We set up a play date. Mahvash came to my apartment, first, and she brought a present for Little J and a present for me. I went to Mahvash’s apartment for the second playdate and brought her and Little M presents. In the Netherlands, it isn’t customary to bring presents for playdates, so this must be an Iranian custom. On the third playdate, Mahvash came to our apartment and brought more presents. Her generosity is both very genuine and amazing, but I didn’t want to visit the toy store before every playdate. I don’t mind buying presents–it’s the effort of getting there with two small children. We don’t have Toys R Us with wide, stroller-friendly isles. We have boutiques with isles hardly wide enough for one person, let alone three. This restricts the number of playdates possible. But I don’t want to insult Mahvash, and there hasn’t (yet) been a good time to discuss this.
A few months ago, just after the birth of Little K, Mahvash came to visit with her sister, Mahta. Mahta didn’t speak a lot of English, and I speak NO Farsi, so Mahvash translated. It was a pleasant visit, even though Little J didn’t want to share his toys with Little M, and we had to keep breaking up squabbles. As I was setting out the lunch, Mahvash asked me if I had any bacardi. I thought I had misunderstood, so asked her to repeat what she was asking.
‘Bacardi, it comes in bottles with tropical colors. My sister was wondering if you had any.’
I had to think what this bacardi might be. Surely it couldn’t be rum, because Islam forbids the consumption of alcohol (or so I understand). But I couldn’t think of anything else.
‘Bacardi breezers?’ I asked.
‘Yes, that’s the one! Do you have any?’ Well, not since I was 23. I explained that, sadly, there were no bacardi breezers on the premises.
‘But I do have an open bottle of wine. Would Mahta like that?’
The sisters conferred, then Mahvash asked me if the wine ‘ was medicinal and good for coughs’. Ah hah! That’s how alcohol and Islam get along: when alcohol is medicine! Still, Mahta didn’t drink any wine: we all settled for juice.
At the end of the visit, Mahta told me that she would like me to come and see Iran, and that I could stay with her. It was a very genuine and kind offer, and one I would like to take up at some point in the future.
So, I’ve met part of the axis of evil. The youngest member is a charming little boy who squeals with laughter and has the darkest brown eyes and longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen. He is a kind child who shares his toys much more readily than does my son. Mrs. ROTAOE is an interesting young woman with a very kind heart, a blunt tongue, a ready laugh, and a generous spirit. I’m so glad that fortune sent her my way, and that I am making friends with the ‘axis of evil’.
The language these kids use nowadays…
Posted by: Kymber on: March 18, 2009
A few days ago, I took my kids to the zoo by myself. This may not seem like a big thing, but it was. My eldest, Little J, is practicing for a career as an Olympic sprinter. He likes to take off and ‘have a little run’ (as he puts it). His ‘little runs’ get him into all sorts of mischief. I remember having to drop packages and waddle at full speed, my 8 month pregnant belly swinging from side to side, as he headed with determined and mindless glee towards a busy intersection. Mommy was not pleased.
So it was with not a little trepidation that I packed us all up and headed to the zoo. We had glorious spring weather: warm sunshine in cool air and no breeze. Heaven!
I know that some people feel that zoos are terrible things. When I was eleven (or thereabouts), someone asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up. I replied that I wanted to find ways to keep animals in the zoo better entertained: that I thought zoos were sad places for animals. That was my young, idealistic self. Now, I hold an annual zoo membership which (for my convenience) is automatically renewed once a year. So goes it.
We had a great day at the zoo, and the little runner managed to control himself. Instead of running, he climbed. We visited every climbable object in the zoo including stone hippos, rams, turtles, penguins, pelicans, and ostriches.
At the end of the day, we were strolling from the crocodile enclosure into the migrating birds-of-the-Netherlands exhibit (how are these linked???). Everyone is required to stay on the walkway and to not walk on the grass, but my son acknowledges no higher authority (including, mostly, me) so he was having a wonderful time marching on the grass verge. I was using my ‘outdoor voice’ to ask him to get back on the pathway. Limited response.
As I was parking my Quinny stroller (where Little K was sleeping in her cute white and PINK furry bear snowsuit) to corral my errant son, a group of schoolboys walked past. They were probably about 11 or 12 years old and visiting the zoo for school (I deduced this from the quiz papers in their hands). One of the lads had clearly heard me yelling at Little J in English and said in Dutch as he walked past: ‘Quinny. Hmm. There’s another little boy in there, only not as ugly as the one running around.’
Now, maybe my daughter is ugly. I’m her parent, who am I to say? But I suppose that the myriad people stopping me to coo over her and comment on how smiley and cute she is might be better judges. Still, the content of the comment didn’t bother me, it’s that 12 year-old boys thought they could say this to an adult. I was too busy catching my son before he mowed down some sort of water reeds and ended up in the pond, so I didn’t say anything to them.
About five minutes later, the boys passed me again, going back to the crocodiles. Now, the same lad started saying the Dutch equivalent of the “c” word as he walked by me. He wasn’t calling me this name, he was just using it. Clearly, my not being Dutch meant I didn’t exist. I told him: Nice language, boys. I was about to ask him (in Dutch) if he used that same mouth to kiss his mother, but my little runner was off again, so no chance.
Do 12 year-olds really talk like this? I NEVER used that kind of language at that age. In high school, while taking French class, I remember feeling cool because I could say ‘merde’ in front of my parents and not get in trouble. Merde might mean ‘shit’, but it just doesn’t have the same taboo feeling. It’s simply not a curse word. I’ve gotten used to Dutch kids saying ‘shit’ and even the F word in front of me, because I know that they don’t see it as a curse word. They know that it is, but it doesn’t feel wrong. I often shock my in-laws by saying ‘bloody this or that’ because I’m not English and don’t FEEL the wrongness of the word when I say it. I just like the way it sounds in combination with something.
Anyway, I am still surprised by the behavior of these kids. I hope that Little J and Little K don’t feel inclined to behave in the same way in the future. Because nothing –no amount of running away or trampling weeds or anything else– will distract me from correcting THAT.
A floor so clean you could(n’t and shouldn’t EVER) eat off of it
Posted by: Kymber on: March 11, 2009
I mopped the wooden living room floor, today. Woohoo! Go, domestic goddess, go! Do the dance of happiness at newly clean floor around mop bucket and manky mop! ooh lala ooh lala
Why the joy at mopping a floor? I don’t know. Maybe because it’s spring and actually sunny, today. Maybe because mopping the floor really is an ACCOMPLISHMENT. I rarely have periods of time long enough to lift everything off the floor and mop with a Pledge for Parquet solution while not having to worry that Little J will bathe various toy animals in the mop bucket (possibly causing animals to shed fur/paint or become toxic or both) or that Little K will start screaming (rightfully so) to be lifted out of the playpen and given some attention. Since becoming a full time mom and leaving the corporate world behind, accomplishments seem to be few and far between. Yes, I know that raising children is an accomplishment. But the finished products are a few years off, yet, so I have to take what I can get.
Most of what I do on a daily basis is fleeting: laundry folded and put away. Good. Well done. The same number of baby clothes and spit-up cloths back in the basket in 2, 4, 6 or maybe even (on a slow spit-up day) 8 hours later. Hmm. Zero sum game.
Okay, maybe something else. Food! That’s a good one. Healthy breakfast made and Little J fed. Good. Baby nursed. Good. Ooops! Need to change two pooey nappies: breakfast (or some other meal) is back out. Hmm.
Well, you can see the general thread here. I DO get satisfaction knowing that I am doing a pretty good job keeping my family clothed and fed. It is an ordinary job that millions or even billions of people do everyday. But taking a step back…my kids are little enough that they would DIE if I didn’t do these things correctly. My job is keeping my kids alive and growing and developing. Hmm…that actually sounds (and is) fulfilling.
But back to my floor. It’s clean and shiny. My son will now be unlikely to find and eat week-old raisins peeled from the floor under the sofa (how did they get there anyway??) or bits of poffertjes (small, quarter-sized pancakes) that have dried into curlicue shapes and blended in with the area rug under the coffee table. Hurray for cleanliness!
I celebrate my clean floor!
But after Little J is home from creche and wreaked a few hours of the usual havoc, I wouldn’t recommend eating off of it.
Destructo Moments
Posted by: Kymber on: March 10, 2009
Elephant charges through wicker basket
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The bowl with shells used to be a pond with water, but the E and the tiger kept bathing in it.
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The tree has had many of its leaves eaten by the E. Apparently tigers sometimes eat leaves, too.
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The stones have been rearranged to better suit the required sleeping arrangements for E, tiger, and crocodile.
Baby takes her first steps
Posted by: Kymber on: March 10, 2009
Today, the baby is me, and not one of the two little ones now (seemingly) permanently in charge of my life.
This is my first blog. My first baby steps into the blogosphere and the world of on-line communication.
While not a luddite, exactly, I’ve been a bit slow to make use of blogs, social networking, the whole shebang. While visiting with friends on my birthday, Amy turned me on to this world.
So I’m making my first foray into blogging by writing about what happens to me every day as an American married to a Brit, living in The Netherlands, and parenting two gorgeous, demanding young children. I’m not sure how this will work, if I’ll actually make it a living thing, if I will have time for it, if I can bear to read any comments (assuming I get any!).
Baby steps, and no less scary for not having a real risk of falling.
