As promised, more photos from our Christmas celebrations!
Hayden and his gift from Santa: a bike!
Baby’s first Christmas (with Aunt Jess):
Hayden the reindeer:
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Category: Kids/Parenting
Tips, tricks and adventures in parenting two kids.
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Santa Baby!
Yes, we did celebrate Christmas—but with all the traveling and then the recovery, I haven’t had a chance to get around to posting any pictures from a very fun Christmas with my in-laws. But that’s changing today!
These are from our ward Christmas party:
Hayden saw that Santa was giving other children small bags of candy. So while we were in line, I asked Hayden what he was going to ask Santa for and he wisely chose “Nanee!”
Rebecca wasn’t too impressed with Santa.
But she’s Santa Baby!
When I was in college, I worked one summer as a custodian. For part of the summer, this entailed spending 20 to 40 hours a week tending a residence hall—vacuuming, dusting, mopping, sweeping, cleaning, etc.
One day I was cleaning the windows on the top floor when I noticed there was something on the balcony, something that I wouldn’t be sweeping off—a dead bird.
“Oh man,” I thought. “Somebody’s gonna have to take care of that. Who do I call?”
It took me about three seconds to realize—crap. I was the one they were supposed to call.
I feel this way a lot of the time as a mother. “Dang, this is the fourth time a child has cried between the hours of 2 and 3 AM. Somebody had better—oh yeah.”
When you’re the mom, the buck stops here—you have the ultimate responsibility in the households. Now, the exact division of labor varies, but a lot of the time, this means that if the baby is crying, the dinner is waiting or the cat is puking, somebody is calling “MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!” because it’s your job to fix it. (I totally pass the buck on the cat vomit though.)
And a lot of the time, all I want to do is call “MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!” because I don’t want to do any of those things! (I guess my mom probably doesn’t either, LOL.)
But the buck stops here. I’m the one they call; I’m the one who takes care of the tears, the food, the cleaning and the dead bird. (Garbage bag turned inside out and gloves, in case you’re wondering.)
What chores or crises would you pass the buck on, if you could?
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Another identity crisis?
Lately, Hayden has started constantly asking “What’s your name?” This includes repeatedly querying people he’s known his entire life, like his Aunt Jaime and, oh, I don’t know, Ryan and me (AKA “Dad” and “Mom,” respectively).
Today, after he called me “Dordeeback” (JordeeBec) and asked what my name was a few times, we asked him what his name was.
His first answer, oddly enough, was not “Hayden.” I believe he gets this from my side of the family, and specifically from my Aunt Jennifer, who routinely told people her name was “Peter Pan Pinocchio.” Oh and his Aunt Jasmine, who also had a creative name once upon a time, but I think she would be displeased if I wrote it here. (Want to weigh in there, Jaz?)
And what did he give as his name?
“Pokie Parket.”
Nice choice, Pokie.
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The Zen of Play-Doh
I love new things. Pristine things. Perfect things. More than once as a child, I never used a wonderful, much-loved gift—because I didn’t want to ruin it or use it up. (I really did like it, I promise!)
At almost three, Hayden has not developed this preference. He has a few Play-Doh toys (including this fun duffel bag), and I have to open the canisters for him, so he still has several that have never been opened. But with his newest Play-Doh play set (this particularly awesome one), he’s requested nearly all of the cans of Play-Doh to be opened.
photo by dbrekke
Not wanting to inflict my neurosis on him, I’ve obliged and opened each requested canister. The first time the white, purple or brown clay plops onto the table, still in its near-perfect cylindrical shape, Hayden promptly requests me to “Roww [roll] it, Mama!” I pick up the rolling pin and, with great sadness, proceed to ruin the perfect little Play-Doh shape.
The pliable Play-Doh will never again be pristine. Try as I might, it will never have that same shape. It will pick up bits of dried Play-Doh, salt and rice from the table. It will attract every other color of Play-Doh imaginable and mingle to a dull, muted version of its neon glory.
But y’know what? It’s still fun to squish through your fingers, to cut with dull plastic tools, to squeeze into oddly-shaped ropes and decorative molds. And you can’t enjoy it when it’s just in the can.
Sometimes looking back, it’s like my life before kids was an untouched cylinder of Play-Doh. It was nice. It was neat. (Hindsight is not always 20/20, as I’m sure my life was really none of these things.)
My life and Hayden’s Play-Doh are never going back to the way they were before. But y’know what? It’s still fun to watch as they discover everything from their fingers to their alphabet, to show them the wonderful things of this world, to try to teach them all the things they’ll need to know and then some.
And I think I wouldn’t enjoy life as much without them.
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Got toes?
I’ve been making soup a lot lately: salsa soup, white bean soup, and coming up this weekend, turkey noodle soup, of course.
Hayden has also been making soup: mostly alphabet.
Yeah, that’s a deep fryer.
In other activities, Hayden has begun singing various and sundry songs, with a little help from us:
He’ll be ready for Don’t Forget the Lyrics any day now.
Not to be forgotten, Rebecca has made her own strides this week. On Monday, she discovered her toes!
Got toes?