And like that...he's gone

I'm referring to the agitated and anxious child I'd been leaving at daycare. Gone. And Little Dog has returned. Thank heavens. It happened overnight more or less. We spoke with the psychologist and within days he was not in tears at drop off. Little Dog, not the psychologist. I don't think he was ever in tears, but I know little of his personal life outside our appointment. Anyhow I started getting notes from his teacher that he'd had a good day. When I'd pick him up, he lallygagged and stalled leaving. And I started breathing normally again. I didn't want to write too much about it at first, just in case it was a good few days that would disappear leaving Little Dog quivering at preschool again. But enough time has passed that I think we're in the clear.
Don't get me wrong, he's not in love with school like his big brother. He still asks every morning "Is this a school day?" and lets out a big wail if it is, but he recovers quickly and that's the last he mentions it for the morning. He's also quit complaining about Donna. I don't know what's up with that, but I'm happy not to be subjected with his tales of how much he dislikes old people, especially around my birthday.
One of the little changes we made, one of the suggestions from the psychologist, was to establish a routine when we dropped him off school. Instead of the usual hug and kiss kind of goodbye, we now do an elaborate, or it maybe more accurate to say an elaborately silly send off. We still do the normal hug and kiss, I say goodbye and I say, "Have a great day!" But now, Little Dog asks, "Do you need a push?" I say I do, I explain that I need a big push to rocket me off to work and stick out my hip in a ridiculously goofy way, ok, I kind of stick out my butt, truth be told. Then the big boy with a big smile on his face, ready for his day at school gives me a monumental shove and I propel off, pretending to flail wildy, ricocheting off any convenient surface and find my way to the door. He settles in, I get in the car and we both are off to the beginning of a good day. Is this key the to our change of tone? Maybe. I may feel a little foolish as I flail my way out the door, but man does it ever feel better than reaching my car with the tears of Little Dog still echoing in my ears.

Super Bowl Highlights

Sunday was the Super Bowl and we shared that experience with some good friends, good food and a few drinks. While the boys mostly played nicely with our friend's son, there were brief periods where Little Dog would need to come downstairs and kick back with the adults while some, um, rough spots were smoothed over. During one of these intermissions, Little Dog witnessed his first Super Bowl ad, and it just happened to be this one:


He watched intently in absolute silence. When the ad ended, he paused then said what we were all thinking. "What the...?"
So perfectly summed up. What the, indeed.

Another nice win with our Super Bowl adventure was the long awaited good comeback for name calling. See Little Dog has some issues with being called a baby at school. He also generally dislikes being teased. Not so unusual, right? We've been trying to work on walking away instead of getting angry, but somehow that hasn't been working so well for my little man. Like his mommy, he loves to have the last word, and like his papa, his instinct is to punch them in the stomach. (For the record, Mr. Dog has that impulse well under control. But as he tells it, he had quite the fists of fury as a child.) Well tonight, when Big Dog and their buddy decided it was hilarious to tell Little Dog he had a diaper on his head he started to get angry. I had to intervene.
"Little Dog, do you have a diaper on your head?" I asked, to point out the ridiculousness of the statement.
"No," he replied, still fairly frustrated.
"Then they're wrong. Ignore it."
"But they keep saying it!" he insisted.
"Yes, but if it isn't true, it isn't you who has the problem. If they keep telling you something that you know isn't true, well, there's a word to describe them. Delusional. In fact, you can just tell them that. Go ahead, tell them, 'You're delusional.'" I urged.
And it took off like wildfire. Soon all of the boys were using their new vocabulary word, and the name calling more or less stopped. Well, apart from the "delusional" name. But that's not obscene or widely offensive, so I consider it a win. See, sometimes I'm pretty good at this mommy gig.

Alternative education

If you don't listen to KEXP, you should. And you don't have to live in Seattle, though it helps if you want to listen to it in the car, like I do. I don't know how you'd do that, if you live in say, St. Louis, Missouri for example. You could still listen on the web, or check out their podcasts. But I digress, I love KEXP. Not only do they offer a wide range of music to suite all kinds of tastes, they're publicly funded, so you don't get the limited range of a corporate radio conglomerate forced down your throat 24/7. But maybe you're into that. Even if you are, which would be a little weird, they have offered educational "teaching moments" for my kids on multiple occasions.
First, I was driving Big Dog to school, and as we drove John in the morning decided it was time to give me a flashback to college. So as he played King Missile's biggish hit. If you know it, you might be cringing in preparation for what came next. Well, it was inevitable. About a minute into the song, Big Dog asks, "Mommy, what is a detachable penis?" Yeah, try and explain that.
And then, a few days ago, with both boys in the car, John in the morning played a nice little Wilie Nelson song. You're probably thinking, "Country? Why are you listening to country on your little hipster, alternative, Seattle-based public radio station?" Well, let me tell you this. This song was not quite what I'd expect from Willie Nelson. It happened to be about latent homosexuality in cowboys. Yep. Apparently, cowboys are frequently secretly fond of each other. So as I'm listening, grinning to myself about the unexpected lyrics, a little voice from the back seat reminds me that I am not alone. "Big Dog!" exclaims Little Dog, "It's a cowboy song! Get our instruments!" And the two little guys in the back seat were happily strumming their air guitars along with Willie. Then, upon further listening Little Dog paused. "Mama, why would he have a lady inside his head?"
See, it's all about the teaching moments.

The art of gifting

Saturday was my birthday. Yes, I've mentioned this several times already, but there is a point to bringing it up again. My fantastic parents drove up from Portland so Mr. Dog and I could go out to dinner, and enjoy more than a few alcoholic beverages with friends while they watched the boys. That was great. Auntie Chihuahua and Thomas joined us for dinner and drinks. Lots of drinks. And since this is a family oriented blog, I won't go into too much detail here, but I will never be able to look at gnomes or tiny combs again without thinking about Thomas. Seriously. I'm scarred. But it was great, really great. And it wasn't even the best part of my birthday!
Earlier in the day, Mr. Dog took the boys out to pick out cards and get presents for mama. While he was getting them dressed, Mr. Dog told them, "Think about what you might want to get mama for her birthday." Big Dog paused, thought about it then announced, "I know what I want to get her," with absolute certainty.
While they shopped, I also shopped. I hit a few stores to get a new outfit for going out to dinner. When I returned home Big Dog nearly attacked me at the door. "Mama, your presents are upstairs. There are more than one, but they're all wrapped together. I knew just what to get you. Come open them!" So I did. And as I tried to think what he might have wanted to get me, I had flashbacks to previous ShamWow discussions and tried not to cringe.
I was happily surprised to find it was not a ShamWow. No, his perfect gift turned out to be a hairbrush. Just like one I have. He was elated. I enthusiastically received the gift and then opened the other pieces of the package. Mr. Dog had included a magazine focused on designing furniture. Little Dog had decided to get me the Sponge Bob Squarepants version of Memory. And together they added a new copy of the original Where the Wild Things Are, since my copy which I owned long before I had children has been trashed by my hard reading boys.
It was kind of an odd assortment, but their excitement about their gifts was overwhelming. Big Dog was especially proud of his hairbrush gift. And it sounds strange, but I understand his excitement. In his mind it was the perfect present. I'd had that same hairbrush. It was the brush we used to comb the boys' hair before school every morning. Recently it has gone missing. His though going into picking a present I would like and use is adorable. Even more adorable was his giddy joy in telling everyone how much I loved the brush. When I went downstairs to get dressed for dinner, Big Dog told grandma, "Mom was so happy! She really liked it! Mama said she loved her new brush! It wasn't about the wrapper, it's all about the present." And later he told Mr. Dog how happy he was that I thought it was the perfect present. In fact, as I'm writing this he's in the guest room telling Mr. Dog how much I liked the presents and how right he was in picking out a hairbrush and that I do indeed love Where the Wild Things Are.
And yes, it probably is the best brush I have ever been given as a gift. Mr. Dog says I might need to tone down my enthusiasm for this kind of thing or I may end up getting a brush every year for my birthday. I'd be ok with that. As for Little Dog's gift, well we've played a great deal of Memory today and I imagine we'll be playing a lot more in the future. So maybe these boys were onto something. These gifts kind of rock.

Know what I want for my birthday?

Well apart from uninterrupted sleep, a shoebox full of twenties and a magical spell to restore my youth. Apart from those, which sadly I do not stand a good chance of getting anytime soon, I'd love some comments. Specifically, I want to meet anyone who has been lurking. I'd like to know who you are and how you found me, because I am sincerely flattered that you keep coming back.
And if you can figure out a way to give me back the boobs I had in my 20s, I'd appreciate that too.

Old

Tomorrow is my 38th birthday. I'm not at all excited about it. Well, I'm excited about the going out to dinner with friends part of it, but not the big 8 next to the 3 that I've long grown used to.
This year I feel old. I feel tired most of the time. I no longer feel cool. I no longer feel youngish. I feel and look like what I'd imagine a PTA mom to feel and look like. And that stereotype, at least in my mind, is not good.

At any rate, I will not be alone in celebrating my birthday on Saturday. Turns out, I share this date with one current co-worker and one past co-worker. I also share it with Dick Cheney. Evil. But on the flip side I also share it with Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Good. Though I doubt he's going to be celebrating, considering he's dead and all.

Primping

When Big Dog was little, he loved lotion. Any chance he'd get he's swipe my lotion and dab it on his face. Then he'd want to slather it on my face, or the face of anyone who happened to be handy. This delighted his Uncle Stan, a long time proponent of ample moisturizing. His dad was less giddy about the fascination. After lotion came lip balm, and my purse was routinely raided for whatever tubes he could find there. He also loved any kind of cream or balm that was packaged in a little tin. I was less than happy to share these with him, since he favored method of applying my beloved Rosebud Salve was to dig his pointy little finger into the bottom of the tin then scoop up a giant chunk of the stuff to glop on his face. In time this fascination has passed. He still enjoys a good spay of bug repellent in the summer, but apart from that, and the occasional overzealous application of anti-tangle spray to his hair, we have outgrown the product phase of his life.

Little Dog, on the other hand, is in the thick of this phase. While he used to be very interested in my make up, or my "colors" as he called them, he has moved on. No longer does he plead with me to have his toe nails painted the same color as mine. (Pleas to which I gladly complied, I must add, no matter how much it annoyed his father.) He's moved on. Now he's onto the man stuff. Mr. Dog's deodorant to be specific. He's kind of obsessed. On more than one occasion, I've walked into the bathroom and found him applying it to every uncovered surface of his body, and let's not forget the top of his head. We've told him it is not his and that he should not be using his Papa's stuff without asking, but apparently the allure of the sport stick is too compelling. I never know what day I'll lean down to pick up my sweet-faced imp and catch a whiff of the Old Spice man.