forget raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens. . these are a few of our favorite things. . .

I find that now, especially with two little ones running my world, I forget baby stages and how tiny their fingers and toes are. . .much faster.

Their likes and dislikes and most favorite things change daily.  So mostly for my own benefit, and so I can refer to this post when I inevitably forget. . .here is a snapshot of our most faves right now in the Paradis household. . .

Cole's faves:

• trains.  But only Thomas.  Apparently we are already a brand-name snob.
• rocks. 
• mud.
• watermelon.
• the girl next door. . . its starts so early.
• ice pops.
• tickling Tilley's toes.
• throwing toilet paper in the potty.  Lots of paper.
• drinking bath water.

Till's faves:

• Cole.
• having her toes kissed. . . but not always tickled.
• being tickled right under her arms where she's chubby.
• bubble baths.
• her hand-me-down dinosaur mobile.

She has less faves than Cole. . .but she's newer. 

My faves:

• when Till sleeps through the night.
• that Cole said "love you too" this week. 
• being able to go shopping without a meltdown from either child.
• when naptimes coincide.
• when bedtimes coincide.
• when both children occupy themselves long enough so Bill and I can have a semi-civilized dinner together.
• when Cole actually chews and swallows his food instead of chewing it to a fine pulp and giving it back to me.

I remember a time when one of my top faves was spending a summer afternoon at an outside bar, with a Sam Summer and my honey. . .discussing the world as we saw it.  I also remember a time during Cole's early days when my top fave was just being able to shower that day. . .or within three.  I think we're at a good middle ground at the moment. 

And really, these days. . .watching them enjoy their faves is my top fave.

domestic goddess has a nice ring to it

"I call myself a domestic goddess." - Roseanne Barr

A friend of mine came to visit yesterday.

I was psyched.  This rarely happens. She was in the neighborhood and stopped by for a few minutes.

She was in my house for 30 seconds until the waves of panic started to hit.  I started looking around, taking a quick inventory of what it must look like to one stepping in from the outside.  One without kids, for that matter. . .

I could tell you that we were stuck inside on a dreary, cold, rainy day and that's why it was a mess.  Or that it was laundry day (which day isn't?) and that's why clothes were all over the living room.  Or that I was just too tired to wash the dishes before bed last night.  The kids are cranky. . .we have head colds. . .I have to work tonight. . .excuse. . . excuse. . .

I'm pretty sure I managed to slip all of those excuses into our first 45 seconds of pleasantries.  Just to make sure.  We don't really live like this. . .like everyday.  Just on the days I'm home alone, with two kids.  Once she left though, I really started to look around . . .

Admittedly, Cole made quite a mess.  Yesterday was "dump-everything-out-of-its-container" day.  She was able to sit on the couch once she stepped over about 400 matchbox cars and Thomas trains.  That is, until she moved a few burp cloths and receiving blankets off the seats.  Even then, I saw her shift from one side to the other, certain she'd sat in something Cole had been eating.  And honestly?  I'll admit that I changed the kids from their night-time pajamas into clean pajamas for the day.  I didn't even open the shades. . .it was that kind of day.

Just in the living room there's a pack and play, swing, bouncy chair, bumbo seat, boppy pillow and a 10 gallon Rubbermaid tub full of clothes. . .and that's just for Matilda. 

For Cole, our place is divided into sections:  there's the Little Tikes section, where Cole keeps his buses and airplanes and little people.  There's the stuffed animal section:  where we stack stuffed animals (usually gifts) that Cole doesn't really like but I feel too guilty to get rid of.   There's a Lego section, a play kitchen section, a book section, coloring and art section, a section where we keep toys that Cole likes to push around at warp speed and slam into our ankles and a clothes section;  because going all the way upstairs to get clothing in our gigantic homestead would just be too tough. . .and don't forget the diapering section:  see previous excuse. 

But our home isn't big enough for all of these "sections". . .so what you get are rooms just full of stuff.   I see organized sections, but I can admit that it looks like piles and piles of stuff that belongs somewhere else.

Let's not even discuss the dining room or the kitchen.   I'm pretty certain there's a kitchen table in there somewhere. . .but you'd be hard pressed to find it under the stacks of mail, bibs, more clothing, fingerpaints and another bouncy chair.  As of press time, there's some insurance paperwork in an empty fruit bowl, a 4 pack of brownie mix, my breastpump and a lint roller on the table.   Yesterday, I had hung laundry all over the chairs and the swings to dry.  It must have been insane to look at it all.  Just insane.

And that's what I could have tidied before she came over.  A quick, throw it all in the hallway closet kind of cleaning.  I truly believe having a toddler is like wearing rose-colored glasses when it comes to housework.  Let's take into account I was never a homemaker to begin with. . .and add to that smudgy fingerprints on the windows, sticky spots on the tile, my general lack of organization and you've got one, crazy mess to contend with.  The kind of mess that just might make your child-less friends not come over unannounced again. . .

. . .well, that. . .and the fact that I answered the door wearing an oversized, ripped sweatshirt and Halloween pajama pants at 11:30 a.m.  That might have done it, too.

So for the rest of the afternoon, I cleaned.  Ran around in circles placing out-of-place things into other, out of place areas.  Rearranging the mess.  Finishing the laundry. . .well, finishing what I had started at least.  Did the dishes.  Even put them away.  Mopped the floor.  Dusted.  And made dinner. . .all before leaving for work at 5:00 p.m.  This includes dealing with the children's minute-by-minute demands and passing off two, relatively happy children to their father.

And when Bill got home I told him that my friend had come over to this horrible, indescribable mess (me included!) and he looked at me . . . and said, "uhhh. . . .huh."  Like he knew all along.  Like he's been waiting all this time for me to finally understand what he sees everyday.  Like there could be some part of my day rearranged to include a thorough cleaning of the Paradis homestead.   Every. . .day?

I don't buy it.

After more than two years of staying home, I still haven't figured it out.  Martha Stewart I am not.  I'd much rather spend my afternoons rolling around and playing with the kids than sweeping and mopping and vacuuming.  Although once in awhile I'll relent that it would be a good idea to do those things. . .and I suppose it's just good sense to not answer the door wearing holiday pajamas. . .out of season. 

And don't get me wrong. . .our home isn't dirty. . .it's just lived in.  We will never be the kind of household that has a living room for living and one for company.  Not that I wouldn't love to own a white couch, I'm not sure anyone with a 2 year old should have one.  I don't send the drapes to be dry cleaned and I don't deep clean the carpets (although it's something I should look into). 

And at least I know where the insurance paperwork is. . .that's more than I can say for my mind most days.

preschool. . .here we come!

Well, I did it.

I finally put aside my silly anxieties, made the time, made the appointment (didn't blow it off) and met with a preschool for Cole. 

You can imagine how involved this was for me.  I research the best kind of sippy cup or instant oatmeal for weeks before I settle. . .never mind a place where I will drop off my sweet little baby to be bitten and kicked and scratched by other neighborhood children. . .agh. . .reign it in, Erika. 

It was necessary.  First. . .I got a job.  Well, that's sort of an untruth:  I was offered a job that I really, really wanted but it was for a nonprofit state agency as a breastfeeding coordinator so it paid practically nothing.  I would have had to pay to take this job and put my two darlings in daycare for the part time hours it required.  Story summary:  fantastic job. . .very sad I had to turn it down. 

But it got us thinking.  What if (or dare I say when) I get a full time job again?  How will Cole adjust then?  He's a social little guy that really gets pumped up playing with buddies.  I don't give him many opportunities to play with buddies.   If I can get over that little snobbishness I have about him playing with kids that I find "appropriate" then we schedule playdates.  There's also the anxiety I get when we're playdating (is that a word?) with someone I don't know well and Cole is acting like a normal 2 year old. . .pushing and not sharing well and chewing food and giving it back to me.   It doesn't happen often. . . and he's at the age where Bill and I recognize it's important for his development to be around some buddies. . .without me.  Yes, I'll say it again. . .without me.

So we chose one.  The preschool we chose is in a good town, with good folks and is owned by a family that we know well.  He'll be with 6 little guys for three mornings a week.  He'll have breakfast, play inside, play outside, maybe do a craft and have lunch.  Sounds simple enough.  (Side note:  There are a whole gaggle of anxieties I'm having about what they will feed my baby during meals. . .but I'm taking it one day at a time.)  And I'll have three mornings a week with just Till that I can spend putting her down without worrying about Cole trampling her. ;-)

There is a biter.  And a hair-puller.  And it will be okay.  And eventually, Cole will be comfortable and have fun and make crafts and liter my refrigerator with his masterpieces.  And eventually, I too, will be comfortable with the idea.  Until then, bear with me if I keep talking about it. . .I'm sure this won't be the last time.

Sometimes he looks like such a big boy. . .for just that one second I take the picture. . .and then it's gone.   Here he was last week helping me with the weeding. . .looks like he got more dirt on his face than in the garden.

on Goguenizing. . .

Goguenize: [go-gen-nayze] verb - ized, izing:

1. to make tasks more difficult than they need to be.

2. to apply chaos and hazard to normally mundane daily functions.

3. can be used to describe a state of being.

I am a Goguen. That is, Goguen is my maiden name and inherently in my blood. I've come to terms with that. Because I also have some Paradis influence, I am able to recognize and speak about, what I lovingly call, the art of Goguenizing. I also sometimes fall prey to the Goguen curse, too.

Goguenizing is when it takes 35 minutes to leave the house because everyone in my family thinks they need to drive. Goguenizing is taking everyone's order for a sub run. . .carefully jotting down every cheese preference and condiment topping. . .just for them to decide on pizza. It can be wearing a Nascar hat to church, or putting makeup on to go to the dump. Goguenizing is 10,000 spoons when all you need is a knife. You understand.

It started with my sister-in-law as a small, secretive joke. I'd see it coming. Usually at some holiday or family function. . .and I'd lean to her and whisper, "They are Goguenizing. Sit back, watch and wait." Over time, my brother, sister and I have recognized we Goguenize, and can laugh about it when it's brought to our attention.

Once, I mentioned Goguenizing to my dad. He didn't get it. That's a true Goguen.

But it's there. Always. Lying dormant in my subconscious waiting for those moments where I, too, will Goguenize. Luckily they aren't too often. Bill might disagree. I'm strong enough to admit that I'm deep in a Goguen binge right now that I can't get out of. . .

It's about the kids' clothes. I just can't stop Goguenizing them. They are piling up, everywhere. In the bedrooms. In the laundry room. In the hallway for goodness sake! I have so many little outfits that neither of them fit into anymore, just taking up space. It's gotten to the point where my husband and I sleep in a gigantic closet of the kids' clothes. It's. . . . . so. . . . . .Goguenizied.

I have bins for organizing. They are in the kitchen. This is not helpful. Even if they were where the clothes are, I really wouldn't know where to start. Do I sort by size? By child? By season? By donations or hand-me downs? And what about hand-me-downs that need to go back to their respectful owners? How can I tell one from the other? Oh. . .and there's that sweater I've been looking for. . .

So I close the door. Tell Bill he has to sleep on the couch because I keep Goguenizing. It's not my fault. It's genetic. I need to get a handle on it soon. The two of them will be wearing receiving blankets like togas for the summer if I don't figure it out. Because, by the way, I must have at least 200 receiving blankets that I refuse to get rid of. That's also part of the Goguen condition. . . hoarding. I don't have time to get into that now. . .

Goguenizing isn't all bad. There are some positives to the condition, too. I'm a brilliant multi-tasker. If, by multi-tasking you mean I can be loading the dishwasher, chatting on Facebook, plucking my eyebrows and nursing a baby all at once. And. . .if by saying "at once" you mean, doing portions of these things but not finishing a one. I'm awesome at that. I'm also pretty funny most of the time. That's part of Goguenizing. It's irrelevant if you're laughing with me or at me.

All that being said, this blog entry is one gigantic example of Goguenizing. I should have spent this time sorting those darned clothes. . .

And in kid news. . .Matilda is sleeping much better these days. It's tough to know exactly how long her stretches of sleep are when we co-sleep. . . which we still do. Last night I made it a point to put her back in her bassinet when she woke up. She went to bed at 10:00 p.m., woke up at 4:00 a.m., woke up again at 8:00 a.m. and is still sleeping now, and it's 10:00 a.m. That's probably pretty good for an almost 4 month old.

Cole is "exploring" his potty. By "exploring", I really mean, that he likes to run around pulling the toilet paper off the roll and tries to flush the big toilet over and over and over until I finally get fed up and quarantine him from the bathroom. He still has no visible interest in actually using the potty, but he does like pat his bum once he's pooped and say the word, "potty." That usually makes a fine mess. C'est la vie.

Here's Cole this week eating sand and playing in his sandbox. . .such a boy.