Take Back the Sofa

This post is about our sofa, but I really need to start with the two adorable kitties we adopted back in October. They are still kittens, and they also have all of their claws. This is a major departure from our two previous cats who were declawed (and lived to the ripe old age of 18). Other than the veterinary assistant job I had the summer between my sophomore and junior year of high school, I haven't really given claws much of a thought. 

Until now. 

Back in October, we were a bit concerned. Our two cats were born of a feral mother and we were worried that these two timid, jittery felines were not going to acclimate to our family or life. Fortunately, they have acclimated. Completely. So much so, that our sweet, cuddly fur-babies have "adopted" our expensive Pottery Barn sofa in the living room as their home base and scratching post. 

They could choose almost anything else in the house: old nubby carpet, cheap dining room chairs from Living Spaces...I would even be cool with them using a comforter that we could replace. But instead, they chose the one piece of furniture on which Keith and I dropped over $2000 of our hard-earned cash. So today, I decided to take it back. 

I had an idea. What if the little pill shaver I use on my sweaters worked for the couch? 

There's really nothing that would make it worse. So I figured, why not? We had a large crowd coming today--over 100 people for a luncheon for work--and this couch is an embarrassment that we keep covered up under throw blankets. It just ends up looking shabby and slovenly in a room that is very polished and sleek.

And much to my surprise and delight, it worked like a charm. Sure, it's not going to fix the corner that they have completely torn apart, but it did make the rest look really really nice. You saw the "before" picture; now take a look at the during and after shots:

I cut off the longer strings and loops that were hanging all over to make the job of shaving the fabric easier.

Voila! Here is the much better finished product. I really couldn't be happier. )And now I need to get to Petsmart to buy a product that makes the cats less likely to do this again.) 

Fear Zachtor

Zach is what you'd recognize as a typical youngest child. Vivacious, hyper, and a little mischievous, he throws more tantrums than his sister ever did, but cuddles more, too. And he doesn't have that 'careful gene' that seems to flow naturally out of the chute with the firstborn. Whereas Natalie is cautious, he takes life head-on. This is both a figurative and a literal statement, in fact.

You see, the other day, when he was running (much like a bull at Pamplona) out of his sister's room, he misjudged the doorjamb placement and charged himself right into the wall. Hysterics followed and it took every bit of willpower I had not to laugh because that would just be cruel. (Also, I worry that the parent police would rush in and put me in cuffs. What? You say there are no parent police? There should be, but that's a post for another day.)

But back to Z-man. This kid is frightening in his constant state of split-second poor decision-making. People are always shaking their heads in wonder/judgment/incredulity when they discover that he had broken two bones by the time he was four. And just yesterday, our little Evel Knievel was careening down our steep driveway on his plasma car using his sneakers as brakes.

Z is just shy of TWO years old, here. He threw himself out of the bounce house and landed wrong on the grass, fracturing his tibia.

At the tender age of three, he flew over his handlebars on his tricycle at school, breaking his arm in two places. When presented with a plethora of colors at the orthopedic surgeon's office, Z opted for the hot pink cast because he wanted to make his sister jealous. (Mission accomplished.)

So imagine my surprise when recently, Z began to approach bedtime with fear and trepidation. He kept protesting, "I'm scared to be in my room alone, Mama." But then, he'd fall asleep and I'd wonder if all of that pageantry was just a boy learning about the unappreciated, yet effective art of guilt-tripping.

Then tonight, his fear became intense enough that my mama-spidey-sense prickled at the back of my neck. He was balking at going into his (very well-lit) room to pick out a book. This task takes a mere one minute, but rather than go directly to his room upon my instruction (HA!), Z writhed morosely on my bedroom carpet, whining about being scared.

I looked at him shrewdly as I changed the sheets on my bed, trying to gauge the truth of this statement. "Z, I turned on every light in your room. I thought you were afraid of the dark."

"But Mama, I'm afraid of the light, too," he countered immediately. Well this was a new one.

"Okay, I'll go with you as soon as I'm done changing my sheets."

Short bird-walk: It's been a hard couple of weeks. Daddy, who is the principal at a large middle school, has been gone most nights and some mornings at school events and meetings. The kids are feeling his absence and it's making them act out in ways that are undesirable at best. So, in an effort to calm the stormy waters, I invited the kids to help me make air-popped popcorn with a generous helping of real butter and salt. (Don't worry--we had a healthy dinner first.)

Then--smart woman that I am--I had them change into pajamas, climb into my bed, and watch an episode of Peppa Pig. These two needed to wind down and nothing is as effective at this as Peppa. I was trying for an early bedtime with these two. My chances were looking pretty good, too, until I realized remembered that they are the world's messiest eaters. Even my cats--who have NO LIPS--keep food in their mouths with more regularity.

And maybe, just maybe, I could deal with popcorn kernels in my bed, but I draw the line at sleeping on sheets that have just been used as the world's largest (and softest) ad hoc cloth napkin.

Back to the story at hand...

From his post on the floor, Zach looks up at the wall across from us and whimpers, "Mama, I'm afraid of those girls, too."

Here, I repress a shiver that he's going to go all Sixth Sense/The Shining on me and carry on. "What girls?"

He explains, "Those girls in the picture on your jewelry cabinet over there."

He gestures to the double-hinged frame which contains two pictures. One photo is of me (ironically very pregnant with Zach), my sister, and two of our long-time friends at my sister's 40th birthday celebration. We are wearing sunglasses and posing identically to the little girls on the opposite frame. It is a greeting card, and the girls, who pose coquettishly while wearing fancy party dresses and donning sunglasses, reminded our dear friend of the four of us. I explain what the two photos are and how they really are not scary at all. Whimsical, maybe, but not scary.

"I see whimsical people."

He's not convinced. He starts to cry and whine again.

I'm still not done making our impossibly difficult bed, so I try to make him laugh. "What about chocolate? Are you afraid of chocolate?"

"No." His reply is immediate and quizzical. And then he realizes what game I'm playing. "Yes. Yes I am afraid of chocolate."

Now I'm just intrigued. Chocolate is his favorite thing in the world (aside from bodily function jokes). I begin to test him on everything he loves.

"Okay, are you afraid of the cats? You afraid of Romeo? Annabelle?"

"Yes."

"Really?" I ask dubiously. "Are you afraid of your Legos?" At this point, I can see his discomfort. He just got a Lego toy for good behavior and it doesn't leave his side for long.

"Yeah."

I hear the uncertainty in his voice and go for the jugular: his best friend, sister, and confidante, Natalie.

"Why don't you go get a book out of your sister's room to read before bed. She's in there, so you won't be alone. Or are you scared of her, too?"

"No, I'm not scared of Natalie...Oh wait. Yes I am. I am scared of her."

Just wait until she's a teenager, buddy.

It only took Z about three visits (eating disgusting fast food each time) to gain the courage to climb up the play structure. It took years with his sister. She's now much more adventurous. I guess they're trading places?

My face smells like *what*?

"Talk Time" was always a tradition for Keith, his brother, and his dad. If I remember correctly, his dad created the tradition, which prompted the boys to BEG to go to bed each night (no bedtime needed, thank you) because they knew they'd get this wonderful, uninterrupted time with their father. During this simple, yet sacred, time, Keith, Mark, and Howard would talk about any number of topics before bed.

And now this tradition continues.

But allow me to go back in time for a minute to tie this to the present.

For her first two years, I would sing to Natalie before bed each night after our reading time. It was special and beautiful. I love to sing, and though I don't do it very often anymore, she loved my voice and requested specific songs from the moment she could talk. I raised that girl on the hits of Norah Jones, the Eagles, Billy Joel, Elton John, and countless Disney favorites.

And then one evening, she broke a little piece of my heart. She was about two and a half, and she requested that I not sing to her.

Keith had been putting her to bed more frequently, now that Zach was in the picture. Because I was the one with the mammaries, I was putting him to bed each night and Keith was doing the important and often exhausting work of rearing our toddler. He saw his special time with her as an opportunity to bring back a long-standing tradition that was formed in his childhood, and my darling, loquacious girl took to it like a duck to water.

And while I did sing to my (then) baby Zach fairly frequently, I didn't do it with the passion I once had for my cherubic little lady. I was a working mom of two. I was tired. And I realized that it would be futile to get excited about a nightly routine that would soon be moot.

And so it was.

Zach turned two, moved to a big boy bed, and all of a sudden wanted nothing to do with my stirring cover of "Let it Go" from Frozen. Now that he was bigger, he wanted in on this Talk Time business. Singing went the way of the dodo.

And then, something magical happened tonight.

We were doing lots of fun activities to take our minds off of the fact that Keith was away in San Diego for his Gold Ribbon School honor. (So proud, btw!) We had dinner and made and decorated sugar cookies. Before bed, Natalie found a (fake) microphone from a costume I recently wore to an 80s party. (I had dressed as Jem and the costume I bought came with a sparkly mic.)

True Confession: I used the kids' face paint to do my rad eye makeup...which didn't show up in any other picture because the pink is apparently too close to my skin tone to appear in far-away photos. Hence an awkward selfie in the bathroom.

And this is when the magic happened.

I picked up the microphone and began to sing my orders to the kids. "Climb up the staaaaaaiiiiirs...get some pajamaaaaaaas!" 

And when it seems like NOTHING ELSE ON THIS GREEN EARTH WORKS TO MOTIVATE THEM...this did. They smiled at me with stars in their eyes. Not the cliche stars, either. Like--real stars. I swear. I saw them.

And up they went, looking at me as if to say, "Keep singing, Mom! We love this!" And so I did.

My kids are full of attitude. Just look at them. They're throwing major shade. (That's what the kids are saying these days, isn't it?)

To make a long story epic, we continued at this throughout the bathing, tooth brushing, dressing, book picking, and potty-ing portions of our evening, much to my children's (and my) delight. 

But then we read the books and when it was time to sleep, the kids wanted Talk Time. 

Don't fret--I love it. I love talking to my kids. I love that there's no expectation of what I'll say or what they'll say (except on the thousandth occurrence of Zach asking to talk about Disneyland). I love hearing them ask me their burning--and sometimes inane--questions ("Does a pegasus always have a horn, too?"). And they frequently warm my heart with their observations as they view the world through kid-colored glasses. 

Which brings me to what happened tonight...

Romeo (our grey, gorgeous, adorable, sweet, tolerant boy cat) popped up on Zach's bed, as usual, and began to walk up Zach's body, looking for love. I used this as a prompt to start our brief Talk Time--it was late, and I knew the kids needed to sleep.

"Romeo will start us off," I began. "Romeo, what topic would you like to talk about?"

To our chagrin, he just purred. But Natalie understood him.

"ZACH! Romeo wants to talk about all the things he likes about Zach!" she squealed. "I'll start. I love that Zach is precious and adorable."

"I love how cuddly Zach is, how much he loves us and the cats, and how intelligent he is. You're such a smart boy, buddy." I caressed his cheek softly, as he beamed at us, basking in this onslaught of adoration. 

"Now it's Natalie's turn!" Zach shrilled excitedly.

"Okay, bud, what are your two favorite things about Natalie?" I inquired.

"Um...I love how she farts and poops!" At this, he dissolved into little boy giggles.

"Hmm...I think there are so many other things to love," I hedged. "Natalie," I looked into her soulfully-large and beautiful eyes, "I love your passion for life--how much you enjoy it--and I just love your brain. You're so smart. I love to hear the things you say." She grins with her whole being.

"Now it's Mama's turn!" she responds enthusiastically (totally proving my assertion about how much I love her passion for life and every little moment within it). "I love you, Mama. I love that you're my mama. And my best friend. And my sister!"

"Awww...thanks, baby! Hey Zach, what do you love about me?"

And without hesitation, Zach counters:

"I love that your face smells like...like...blueberry diarrhea!"

To which Natalie retorts, after significant inspection: "Yeah, and your nose holes are the right size and shape and have no boogers in them!"

And there you have it. Talk Time with Natalie and Zach. (And also my daily affirmation from here on out.) 

My Own Personal Guilt Trip

Life is busy. SO so busy. Sometimes, the guilt is overwhelming. Guilt for not spending enough time with the kids. Guilt for not spending enough time with work. Guilt for wishing I had some alone time when I am with the kids or at work. Guilt when I do have alone time. Guilt for wanting bedtime to come sooner. Guilt for not calling friends or family as often as I'd like. The list goes on and on and on...

Life is busy and full of guilt. I always give the same advice to new parents (Don't waste time feeling guilty about things--you're doing the best you can, so take comfort in how much you love your kids and how lucky they are to have you.), but I never heed it myself. In fact, I feel guilty that I'm taking the time to write this when I could be picking up the kids from school. It's 3:22 and I'm fairly sure that my son is awake from his nap and, being that my daughter doesn't nap, it's like she's been at school two more hours than her brother has.

I wish there was a medication for guilt. Or a support group.

But then I realize...my kids are lucky. They have love and support coming at them from so many angles it's ridiculous. My husband is lucky. For all of my shortcomings, I'm a pretty great wife and friend to him. My friends and family are busy, too. For all I know, they feel guilty for not calling me enough. And my work is fortunate to have an employee who never considered what she does as a job, but as a higher calling. My service to the students and teachers with whom I work is never second best because that would be unconscionable.

Above all, I know how lucky I am. While I spend many moments in this guilt-spiral, I spend an even larger chunk of time feeling grateful for my many blessings.

So I guess I need to remind myself that spending my time feeling guilty is counter-productive. Guilt is a happiness-thief. I vow to cut myself some slack and give myself some of the love I give to others.

Now I've gotta go because I need to pick up the kids.

Early this week, I picked up the kids a bit early and took them to the park. You'd think I was throwing hundred dollar bills at them they were so happy. These are the moments when I have to realize they won't remember all the hours I worked; they'll remember the fun we had when I picked them up.

Drama Princess?

I am putting Natalie to bed. Things are going a bit rocky, as they usually do after a day at school. She naps there, and while the afternoon nap used to be an essential for preventing scary Natalie, it's now our nemesis. It makes her wired at her usual bedtime. In fact, we've tried to adjust her bedtime later on the days she goes to school, but it never matters. I swear I could put that girl down at midnight on a school day and still get a fight. But I digress...

Anyway, as I said, things are going poorly. Natalie has asked for more time ("Pretty please, with Hello Kitty on top??"). She's refused to take off her Alice in Wonderland costume ("No, Mama! I have to wear it for the show! The show is starting!"). And now, as I lay down the ultimatums, she's starting to cry. But these aren't normal tears. They are not tears of anger, sadness, or pain. They are a different entity altogether. As I move around her, picking up dirty clothes and throwing them in the hamper, I see her crying into the mirror. Crying to herself. At herself. For herself. She's studying every wrinkle and facial contortion in her own Oscar-worthy performance.

Wise to this, I suggest flippantly that we are going to remove the closet door mirrors. And that's when she loses it for real.

I fear for adolescence with this one. Lord give us strength.

Toilet troubles

In matters of health and potty training, I always tell Natalie to listen to her body. This leads to some hilarious conversations. Here's one:

Me: "Natalie, before you have an accident and go pee-pee in your panties, you need to listen to your body. Are you feeling it when you have to go to the bathroom?"

Me: "No. Well, but, it's telling me that I have to go, but I'm not hearing it...because my ears are closed."

Me: "Your ears are closed? Can you open them for me?

Natalie: "Yes, I will open them from now on."

We are on our third pair of panties today. Let's see how this works.

All she's missing is a British accent...

Natalie: "Mommy, want to play Minnie Mouses with me?" (we have two small dress-up Minnie toys)
Me: "Okay. Oh, look. They're like sisters because they look the same."
Natalie: "Yes, they're very similar."
Me: "Should we plan a surprise party for their mom's birthday?"
Natalie: "I suppose we should! That's a great idea!"