Every day is Birthday
Mood:  crushed out
Topic: Tobey

Tonight Hunter is sleeping over at the neighbors' house in honor of one of their boys' birthday.  This prompted a discussion at our house about birthday sleepovers.  Tobey informed us that he wants a sleepover for his birthday.  Who will you invite? we asked.  Luke?  Amelia?  Carter?  We listed all his possible friends.  All of which Tobey denied with an uninterested Nah.  Who would you invite then, Tobey?  And he said, Hunter and Audrey.

Who am I to deny the simplicity?

Chipmunk Kicker
Mood:  d'oh
Topic: Tobey

After over a week on vacation - which included the van breaking down, Audrey getting the stomach flu, and our favorite kid attractions being closed for bad weather (snow and wind) - the thing I feel most compelled to blog is the Chipmunk Incident.

We were in Rocky Mountain National Park on one of the lake hikes.  We came up on a recently-vacated picnic table, the crumbs of which were still being devoured by ground squirrels and chipmunks.  Now I knew the rules about feeding wildlife, and I also knew the frequency in which we were seeing park rangers, so I *tried* to herd my brood quickly past the begging chipmunks.  What does my mother do?  She opens a bag of Cheetohs.  "Here kids, feed 'em these."  Nothing says "natural habitat" like a chipmunk carrying a big orange cheese-powdered stick. 

Not surprisingly, the chipmunks were interested.  To the point of swarming us.  Suddenly, we were in a crowd of chipmunks desperate to ruin their natural diets.  There was no keeping up with the buggers.  One found its way onto Mom's shoe in a show for attention.  Not one to recognize her own consequences, she huffed and scooted it off her shoe. 

My three-year-old was watching.  And I know full well what he does to our cat when she is clearly NOT begging for Cheetohs, or in fact is not doing much of anything but napping on a blanket.  Tobey is a sweet, charming kid - the kind under the surface of which bubbles a cruel tormentor.   He simply thrills in making animals, you know, ticked.

But it happened so fast that day at the lake trail.  One minute, he was going "Here little baby chipmunk" and extending the Cheetoh in much the same kindly fashion as before he witnessed Grandma de-chipmunking her shoe.  Before I could get to him, I saw the chipmunk trustingly approach.  I saw Tobey's leg chamber back.  And then I saw a whirl of brown fur cartwheeling backward, as Tobey's foot made contact with the chipmunk's jaw. 

Let it be known that Tobey may have a career as a field goal kicker for the Green Bay Packers.  This was no casual chipmunk flicking.  The furry rodent was punted like a football.  In another situation it would have been fairly impressive.

But.  We were in a national park, and Tobey was abusing Mother Nature.  All I could think was, "Great.  We're THAT family."  You know, the ones who bring their loudmouth destructive brats into the peaceful woods, thereby ruining everyone else's sense of calm beauty.  That was us: Parents of the Chipmunk Kicker.  We left in a hurry.

At the next hike, Tobey climbed on a field of boulders, dropped his pants and peed publicly while I attempted to run on loose rocks to stop him. 

So now I have a new catch phrase (and it must be spoken while smacking Orbitz gum and bobbing my head): You Chipmunk Kicker. 

Never let your guard down
Mood:  accident prone
Topic: Tobey

On Tuesday I went to a hair cut and did something I would not normally do: brought along Tobey.  With child care options slim, I hauled Tobey to the salon with visions of him tormenting the place while I was stuck in the chair.  It turns out he was a little gentleman and in fact enjoyed the small toy box of old Happy Meal toys.  Before leaving, my hair dresser gave Tobey some gel and styled him up a little mohawk. 

Whew, I thought.  That went well!  I couldn't believe the good fortune!  And then, at home, as I was coming out of the bathroom I caught Tobey putting away scissors and saying, "I got a hair cut too Mom."

Life with a 3-year-old:  Never assume you may put your guard down.

What Tobey's getting for Christmas
Mood:  crushed out
Now Playing: O Tannenbaum
Topic: Tobey

It is probably a classic sign of this being my third go-round in the parenting game, for my uptight approach to Hunter's Christmas experience is even yet distinguishable from my oh-well-that's-life tendencies toward Tobey's.  I'd like to think Tobey is not getting gypped out of a Christmas tradition but rather is being redeemed of his mother's stress.  That's got to be a good trade.

If Hunter was on the verge of not believing last year, it is pretty miraculous that the wool remains over his eyes this year.  Oh sure, you might think, he's faking it for the presents.  But I think not.  Hunter is a pretty genuine kid.  There's a more likely chance that Audrey's in the know and faking it for the presents.  Hunter really seems to believe.  And yet, he is coming to awares that his age is going to betray him soon on the whole Santa scene.  This year's letter to Santa mentioned "this is my last" at least twice. 

It's easy to recognize that I get a little uptight about Hunter's relationship to Santa Claus.  I'm a lousy liar; telling elaborate fabrications about flying reindeer and jolly elves to Hunter almost kills me.  It's like lying to myself.  But, even more importantly it is his disappointment I've come to fear over the years.  I want him steeped in holiday magic for the sake of his own joy on Christmas morning, finding goodies left by an utter stranger who noticed what a good boy he is.  And, I suppose, I'm a little worried about him finding out how long I've been leading him on about this Santa thing.  Knowing Hunter, he will forgive me at once.  But that doesn't mean I'm ready to confront what his growing logic is about to blow.  So I've been careful.  Stashing the toys in hidden nooks of the house, places the kids would never dream of looking (in other words, in the dishwasher and next to the dryer - ha ha).  I've shredded receipts.  Tell-tale packaging gets delivered to the dumpster at Jason's clinic. 

But that's just Santa's loot.  We've also gone to great lengths to ensure they don't peek in the wrapped gifts under the tree.  In fact, most years the presents - wrapped and stashed in mid-November - don't even show up under the tree until just a few days before Christmas.  Damn it, I want surprised kids on Christmas morning.  I want happy, eager, thrilled little smiles on their faces.  So if I have to slam the van into park at the end of the snowy driveway while suddenly ordering Hunter to "go get the mail" while I run to disguise the large UPS package by our door, the one with the enlarged picture of the exact electric guitar on Hunter's wish list, and leave the other two wondering "what on earth..?" while I run downstairs, hide the present, then mop up the tracks my wet shoes left?  Then I will.  In fact, I did.

For Audrey I carry the same motives, but fueling the Santa frenzy in her is so easy that there is no need for intensity on my part.  She is at that wonderful age, the ripest part of childhood, in which even walking downstairs on Christmas Eve to frantic parents with hammer and screwdriver in hand wouldn't sway her belief in Santa.  Her Christmas list may be ridiculously long (it involved a lot of scotch-taped addendums), but her letter to Santa himself read exactly: "I love you.  You are so nice to deliver all those toys.  Love, Audrey."  (There's a slight chance she knows not to push it, considering she's not always making the Nice List.)

Then we have Tobey.  That Tobey is a three-year-old simultaneously relieves the pressure, and adds to it.  There is less pressure because he's basically clueless.  There's more pressure, though, because the kid is always with me.  I don't think I've made a Christmas shopping errand in 2007 in which Tobey wasn't a part.  It came in really handy that day he slept through our entire trip to Target, but excepting that one grand opportunity I've had to relax my policy of secrecy with Tobey.  He has pretty much already seen everything that's going in all the stockings.  He was there when the cashier rang it up. 

Tobey has taken up a sudden, intense interest in basketball.  (WTF?  I thought I was raising musicians, not athletes?  Worlds are colliding!)  But anyway, Jason and I noticed that we needed one more gift for Tobey to make it even.  So a little kid's basketball hoop sounded perfect.  I spent a few shopping trips parking the cart (with Tobey in it) at the end of the toy aisle while I quickly but casually eyeballed the kids' basketball sets.  Nerf, over-the-door, Little Tikes.  Ok, $19.99 or $9.99 or $39.99.  Will make note.  Ok, Tobey, let's go get those gift certificates.  I waited for the opportunity to present itself.

It did.  It presented itself and served itself on a silver platter.  And, because I'm a third-time mom, I took it for what it was.   Pretense out the window.

Yesterday Tobey and I went to Scheel's to get a gift card for someone on our list.  After three cups of coffee my eyes were turning yellow, so we headed to the bathroom.  On the way back from the bathroom we passed a row of basketball stuff.  Tobey walked up to an over-the-door kids' hoop set, complete with a ball, and said, "I want dis."  I tried to ignore him.  "Mommy, wook.  I wand DIS."  And so I looked at it.  $5.99.  I turned to Tobey.  "Here's the deal, kid.  I buy this for you today.  We take it home and put wrapping paper on it.  You help me put it under the tree, and you can have it on Christmas.  Deal?"  And Tobey said "sure."  And that's exactly what we did.  He even picked out which wrapping paper and then scribbled his name on the tag.  He put it under the tree himself.  Later that evening Jason asked how our shopping trip went.  Tobey looked at him and said, "I getting a backetball for Cwitmas." 

It could be that on Christmas morning the secret of Santa will be blown for our fourth grader...thanks to his three-year-old brother.  I'm thinking leaving Tobey in the know and skipping all the skeptical questioning and panicky stashes and wasting stamps on letters to the North Pole?  Works for me.  Funny how when you get to your third child, it all sort of settles into perspective.

Tobey's first poem
Mood:  crushed out
Topic: Tobey
He doesn't know he was speaking poetically, of course, so the form is mine.  But the words are his.  And how sweet they are.  From the perspective of a little boy riding home on a fall day:

The Sun is cute.
The Trees are naughty.
The Pumpkins are naughty.
But the Corn loves me.

Three
Mood:  crushed out
Topic: Tobey

What's small, says "No" a lot, and just had a birthday?  That would be Tobey, all three years of him.  It wasn't that long ago that our youngest Blond Kid was an 8-lb., 6-oz. bundle of blue blanket and gas.  Now he's a walking (running), talking (yelling) little man full of personality.  And, you know, gas.  ("What was that?" he likes to tease after a particularly "lofty" flatulation.)

Our day of celebrating Tobey was filled with the likes of the Children's Museum, the park, and a frog-studded birthday cake made by his one and only - Mommy, of course.  But the part that I liked best came after the hyper stuff was over and the rest of the family retreated to other, non-birthday business:  Tobey and I went for a walk. 

There is a state park close to our house, one noted for its breathtaking tree-studded hills.  The route that Tobey and I frequent, however, is the lesser noted path that starts at the overflow parking lot and winds along a set of three ponds, the last of which Tobey has monikered The Turtle Pond.  You guessed it:  On warm spring and summer days, we have counted numerous turtles diving, swimming, and sunning in its waters.  Nevermind that yesterday the park was brimming with leaf watchers (I'd venture we hit peak color on Saturday); we had our marshy trail nearly to ourselves.

That Tobey is our youngest probably lends to the way he charms me, but to walk in nature in autumn with my little boy on his BIRTHDAY was nothing if not magical.  Adhering to our typical routine, we picked up sticks and threw them in the ponds.  We watched birds fly.  We marveled at bugs.  We ignored time, rejected fact, kept oblivious to virtue; we just were.  It's what three-year-olds do best.

After the obligatory 20-something stick pitches, we were on our way around the third pond - Turtle Pond - when I found in my camera case a small, forgotten sea shell.  From where it came I don't remember; this thing was the epitomy of insignificance, and I offered it to Tobey to throw into the water.  But Tobey closed his fist lovingly around it and vowed to take it home (which he did), and magically the shell transformed from insignificant to Wonder Of The Universe.  Because, heck.  It was.  Have you looked at a sea shell?  They're quite fetching.

As we passed the last pond on the way back to the van, a bird chimed a lonely, repetitive tune that grew in intensity.  At each interval, Tobey stopped in his tracks and listened with all his attention.  "Dat a bird, Mom?"  Yep, a bird.  "Id it a BABY bird?"  I don't know, Tobey, but it sure sounds sad.  "No, dat a happy bird!  Id a happy baby bird."  And, thus, with every song-stop-listen cycle he called back "Hey!  Happy baby bird!"  (Why does it take a three-year-old, Dear Readers, to point out the obvious?)

We got back to the van.  Tobey pointed out all the dead bugs stuck to the grill with an eeeww yuck! and away we went, driving not just home but back into the world.  Lucky, really.  That Tobey joined me, here in this world.

God?  Thanks.

Stumbling toward Big Boy-hood
Mood:  happy
Topic: Tobey

It has been a crazy week for this household, which means it was an absolutely INSANE time to throw in potty training.  But, waiting for a perfect time would mean keeping Tobey in diapers through, say, college, so away we went.  And he went!  Let me introduce you all to our Blond Kid #3:  Tobey the underwearing big boy.  We aren't all the way there - we have accidents.  But it feels so good to be this far. 

And, this must be said:  The baby is out of diapers.  Can we say major milestone?  Goodbye, sweet powdery Pampers smell.  Hello, next stage of life.

Please tell me
Mood:  d'oh
Topic: Tobey
Please tell me I'm not the only mother who has ever had to clean mud out of a brand new firetruck toothbrush.

If you can't beat 'em
Mood:  crushed out
Topic: Tobey

Tobey was running around the island in our kitchen, begging me to chase him.  After many circles and a few gotcha!'s he was getting tired, but didn't want to quit the game.  Finally he stopped, lifted his arms in a request to be held, and once in arms pointed in the direction of our chase and said, "Get me!"  What was there to do but run circles with Tobey bouncing merrily against me, the two of us chasing nothing at all together?

Milky Bye-bye
Mood:  blue
Topic: Tobey

Be careful what you wish for, the saying goes.  The long-awaited moment came:  It would seem that Tobey has weaned.

About time, says you.

About sad, says me.  Baby growing up.  Last nursling.  Sweet bonding time no more.  All that Wistful Mom Stuff.

Well, kid.  It was a lovely two years.  Here's to lots of milk-free cuddles and hugs.  But I won't lie:  In spite of all the desperate, whiny posts I've made here, I will miss it.  As with so many other maternal moments, the grass is greener.  As the saying goes.