A few parenting miscalculations

I settled any car seat rebellion by telling my kids that it's the police, and not me, who insist on all the strapping in. It worked, but I fear I may have instilled in them an overblown sense of the police department's sphere of influence.

 

ME: Oliver, don't climb the cupboards.

OLIVER (using the kitchen drawers as steps): Why?

ME: Because they are going to break.

OLIVER: And then the police will have to come and fix them?

ME: No, a carpenter will have to come and fix them.  And carpenters are expensive.

OLIVER (weighing the legality issues): And then the police will be mad?

ME: Yep.  Really mad.

Also, I may have miscalculated trying to sell flossing as "fun."  Passing off weeding and putting toys away as competitions, however, has totally paid off.

A thing I like

via What Would Jane Austen Do? via Decorno

Happy Birthday My Darlings

Dear Magnolia & Oliver,

Today you are three. No longer babies but real, honest-to-God kids. I remember so clearly gazing at your amazing faces when you were these tiny, larval newborns and saying "You're so wonderful.  You're so wonderful."  And you would look back at me and try to focus. And if your eyes managed to rest on mine, I would think you were geniuses. But, believe me, your baby selves can't hold a candle to what you have become.  

You are both so loving and funny and smart and affectionate and curious and brave.   You know the word "celebrating."  You can say "That's a huge spider" in Spanish. When I am having a hard time, you rub my back instinctively.  You dance on your tippy toes and like Motown and eat uncooked spaghetti. There is not a bug you are unwilling to pick up. 

I am just in awe. In my eyes, the air around you veritably sparkles. Happy birthday.  I love you so much. 

xoxox Mom

 

The best chicken names ever

Ginger Rogers would be so proud

And here they are, my little brood, who, incidentally, are going through an awkward adolescent phase.  Note the tiny beginnings of combs above their beaks and the little whisker-like tail feathers coming in.  It's like eighth grade all over again.  But like my mom always told me: it will all get better once high school starts. Or, her back-up: There's a lid for every pot.

Without further ado:

Tilly

Lucille

Coco Van (Coco for short)

Ginger

Thank you everyone for fantastic name ideas and especially to Susan for Coco Van and to my old high school classmate Megan, who was the first, but not the last, to send the name Ginger.  Well played, ladies.

A thing I like

Paper Heart, which looks so charming I sort of wish I could just nap until it comes out.  I heart Michael Cera. And I heart that he falls for this grumpy, glamour-less girl.  A girl who I also heart.  Ah, youth.

Mommy fantasies

This is how I might look if I managed to get my kids back in (only not so hot)

I am not one for gushing. In fact, I often prefer complaining, but this morning I had just stumbled out of bed and was sitting blearily on the pot when Oliver opened the bathroom door and said, "Mommy, I am going to make you happy." Which, based on the rest of the day, was absolutely clairvoyant and spot on. Sometimes I love my kids so much I want to put them back in my body so I can get closer to them. Is that weird? I mean, really, what's weirder, wanting to put my big three-year-old kids back in my body, or wanting to sneak off to the airport, fly to Marrakesh and start my life over as a rich bohemian who can totally pull off the caftan look? Because these are the things I waver between.

A thing I like

Looking at the literary tattoos on Contrariwise (which I found out about on the Green Apple blog) is addictive. I actually think tattoos are kind of juvenile (I have one; wish I didn't) but many of these are moving. The one above, from the Giving Tree is a tribute to the guy's mother who he calls "my giving tree." Corny? Maybe. But I'll take it.

Cluck cluck here—a chick video

They are growing.  I swear.  We've had our chicks for five days and they are BIGGER.  They still poop in their own food and fall asleep like they've been cold-cocked, but they are starting to seem distinctly chicken-like.  There's a beadiness about the eyes and these funny little chicken mannerisms like pecking and scratching and stretching one foot out behind them. Are they cute?  Oh yes they are.

Which, of course means we have to get going on building a coop.  Before we know it, the eight weeks will be up and our little birdies will be pullets and ready for the great outdoors.  I can't wait to start tossing them bugs. 

A thing I like

Mustache napkin rings.  Need I say more?

A leash just seems cruel

Oh sure, she looks all innocent here

When Magnolia was one day old and weighed less than five-and-a-half pounds, one of the NICU nurses handed her to me and said, "This one is ferocious."  At the time I loved the description.  I thought it meant she was a fighter, that despite her small size and her less than ideal birth, she was going to be fine.  And, of course, it did mean that.  She is now a bright, funny 35 pound girl who can do imitations and likes to eat brie. But I am starting to suspect that the description also portended a certain character trait, a willfulness that would eventually just kick my ass.

It's bad enough that she looks right at me like some snotty teenager from The Hills and then runs down the sidewalk, or worse, into the parking lot, just to assert her dominance and test my limits.  But she has also taken to reminding me of me.  I know this happens, that all your worst traits will get mimicked back at you, that as parents the most powerful thing we do is teach by example, with our actions.  But do I really need a not-quite-three-year-old rolling her eyes and dramatically sighing "fine" with the trumped up exhaustion of a put upon bureaucrat?  I do not.  This is just the type of mirror I do not need right now.

What I do need is some advice on what to do to get her to listen to me.  Yelling?  Doesn't work; she laughs.  Time outs? Sort of, but I hate the dynamic they set up. Reasoning?  Sometimes, but only if we talk before the event and plan out the desired behavior.  What I need is something that will stop her from running away from me in dangerous places and from acting as if she has no respect for me at all.  Suggestions?  Techniques?  New cocktails? I'll take 'em all.

A thing I like

This blog which my friend Miranda, who is the source of many good blogs, just sent to me. I especially like this post about the slow loris, which I've never even heard of, who likes to get tickled.  You have to watch the video.  It's strangely mesmerizing.

Help us name our chickens and win a prize

Oh yes we did.  Four little five-day-old black fuzzballs. And now our whole household is just plum chicken crazy.

 As you can see, we're having a little trouble naming them (I feel that the Mister, smart as he is, is particularly handicapped). So far we have one Barred Rock named Tilly, who is proving to be something of a bully, and a Cuckoo Maran named Lucille, after Ms. Ball. 

But otherwise, we're at a loss.  I'm liking Kung Pow and Cashew, for the two remaining chicks, but I'm not sure. 

Send me some suggestions.  If we chose your names, I'll send you an advanced copy of Novella Carpenter's not-yet-released book, Farm City.  Ms. Carpenter is sort of the inspiration behind our new urban farmyard, though, so consider yourself warned. 

A thing I like

My coworker Elizabeth Jardina's blog about the chickens at Sunset. She's a fact checker extraordinaire and my go-to gal for all sorts of chicken-related information.  Also, she warned me against this and I didn't listen.