Category Archives: toddlers

My Cousin Kid E

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

My kids speak a language that I sometimes do not understand.  I am not talking about the aforementioned Spanish, French, or even Chinese.  I mean they speak some sort of abbreviated half-language hybrid that I, even as a native – and pretty successful if I must say so myself – user of the English language, find it difficult to comprehend.

From what I have observed, it is a language of shortened forms.  “Movie” becomes “move.”  “Sandwich” is “sand.”  “Orange juice” get shortened to “orange jew.”  “Butter” becomes “butt” (you may begin to understand the appeal).  Otherwise, this made up language serves no purpose.  It only serves to confuse and confound me because I DO NOT KNOW WHAT IN THE HELL THESE KIDS ARE SAYING half of the time.

Do you remember the movie “My Cousin Vinny?”  It stars Joe Pesci as Vincent Laguardia Gambini, an inexperienced lawyer who goes down to Alabama to represent his cousin who was mistakenly accused of murder.  Pesci employs an exaggeratedly thick New York accent throughout as he plays the fish-out-of-water role.  One of the funniest lines from the movie stems from his inability to be understood by the members of the Good Ole Southern Boys Club who run the show…

Vinny Gambini: It is possible that the two yutes…
Judge Chamberlain Haller: …Ah, the two what? Uh… uh, what was that word?
Vinny Gambini: Uh… what word?
Judge Chamberlain Haller: Two what?
Vinny Gambini: What?
Judge Chamberlain Haller: Uh… did you say ‘yutes’?
Vinny Gambini: Yeah, two yutes.
Judge Chamberlain Haller: What is a yute?
Vinny Gambini: [beat] Oh, excuse me, your honor…
[exaggerated]
Vinny Gambini: Two YOUTHS.

Oh yeah, you blend.

So this morning Kid E gets up before the sun and he stumbles into my bedroom.  He still sits for his morning pee, so I drag my sleepy self out of bed for the assist.  In the dark I fumble for a light switch.  It is not my first time, so I know not to turn on the bright overhead light because that will assuredly lead to a meltdown of epic proportions.  Kid E can only tolerate gradual exposure to bright lights in the early a.m.  I turn on my closet light, which manages to shed just enough lumens that we may both watch as his stream manages to inevitably miss the bowl, yet not so much that it causes retinal damage before our pupils can adjust.

This light issue has been cause for fights in the past.  It does not matter that Kid E may be telling the truth and he may have actual light sensitivity, I keep telling him that he is a whiner and everything seems to bother him and he should just rub some dirt on it and move on.  He keeps complaining about things and I sigh and mumble under my breath how he is worse than any of my girls.  But then sometimes he overcomes and he mans up.  This was one of those mornings.

Kid E: “Mommy, I’m yoost!”
Me: …Ah, you’re what? Uh… uh, what was that word?
Kid E: Uh… what word?
Me: You’re what?
Kid E: What?
Me: Uh… did you say ‘yoost’?
Kid E: Yeah, I’m yoost.
Me: What is yoost?
Kid E: [beat] Oh, excuse me, Mommy…
[exaggerated]
Kid E: I am USED to the light.  My eyes adjusted.

Of course.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

How Did I Do Last Night?

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Yawn.

Despite the fact that he is now four, we continue to deal with Kid E getting out of bed and wandering into our bedroom in the middle of the night.  He does not do this every night, but probably two or three nights a week he will come into our room when we are in the deepest of R.E.M.s and stand over one of us (usually me) without so much as a word like Snoopy’s vulture character, with only his piercing stares jarring me out of sleep in a fight or flight mode that can only be replicated at point-blank range or by the Blair Witch Project.

Oh, did I wake you?

He will then crawl into bed between us.  And by “between” I mean practically underneath me with his big, fat, hard skull jammed into my lower back.  The position is so awkward that it is actually Cirque du Soleil-worthy.  And it is not exactly conducive to me falling back to sleep, nor is the adrenaline surge caused by being suddenly woken up out of a dead sleep.  But he mumbles in his sweet baby boy voice that he woke up lonely and he wants to cuddle and how can you say no to that?  And then he gently strokes my cheek while simultaneously sucking his thumb and tells that he loves me.  I am such a sucker for the sweet-talking boys, so I let him stay.  When he falls back to sleep I will ever so gently carry him back to his own bed, tuck him in and then start the painstaking toss and turn dance that awaits my stupid forty-year-old body and mind.

Yawn.

But I have had it.  I do not like having my sleep interrupted.  And I have tried everything with this kid.  He says he’s lonely, so I give him stuffed friends to sleep with.  He says he needs something to drink, so I give him a small glass of water.  Inevitably he then says he needs to pee, so I take him to the bathroom.  I threaten, cajole, reason, plead.  I have used positive reinforcement and negative punishment.  I have been unrelenting in carrying him back without a word every single time he comes into my room, even when he does it fifty times in a single night.  I have occasionally let him crawl in without ever waking up.  Sometimes things work and sometimes they don’t.  And the absolute most annoying part is that Kid E claims that he remembers nothing about getting up in the middle of the night.

Maybe there’s something wrong with him.  Maybe he has some sleepwalking zombie disorder.  Maybe he’s just a stubborn little monkey.  I do not know, but he just might be the kid who breaks me.

Every single morning he comes into my room and with sleepy eyes and a gravelly voice, he asks, “How did I do last night?”

Giant yawn.  

I was awake for well over two hours in the middle of the night.

“You are killing me here, kid.  You don’t remember coming into my room at 2:30 in the morning?”

“Um, no.  What did I do?”

At this point, I believe that he has either decided that playing dumb will get him a lesser sentence, or he’s gambling that maybe I am so tired/ old that I’ll forget everything.  Either way, he is like a black-out drunk friend from college who needs a recap of all of the events from the previous evening.  It can get annoying.  He also has taken to defending his actions from the night before, sometimes creatively, but usually with very matter-of-fact explanations.

“Dude, you were awful last night.  You tried to get in bed with me and when I took you straight back to your room you insisted that you needed something to drink.”

He almost laughed in relief.  Then he looked me straight in the eye and said with complete conviction, “Mom, sometimes thirsty happens.”

I almost expected a “duh” to follow, but he is good at reading an audience and left it off this time.  And in my sleep-deprived haze his justification seemed completely legitimate.

Yawn.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Beware the Silence

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Drowning can be deceptively silent.  People who are drowning in real life don’t look like they do on television.  There is no splashing, no screaming, no flailing about.  There is usually no noise at all.  Just eerily silent suffering.

I almost can’t bring myself to write this post, as the recall of memories still brings tears to my eyes and a physical pain to my heart.  But I am doing it to remind everyone to be vigilant this summer… at the pool, on the beach and on the lake.

At a community pool, with both Sheepdog and I right there, Kid C once almost drowned.  She had just turned four years old and she did not know how to swim on her own, so she wore one of those swim vests that zipped up the front and snapped under the crotch.  It kept her afloat while she learned the mechanics of swimming and developed strength in both her arms and legs.

She was sitting on a towel off to the side of the pool snacking on some fresh berries, and she had taken the vest off to be more comfortable.  When she was done she went back into the pool, forgetting to put the vest back on first.  She descended the pool steps, quickly – and oh so silently – she was submerged under the water.  A mother nearby noticed that she was perfectly still and miraculously yanked her out of the pool in time to keep her from drowning.  As she vomited strawberries and pool water all over me, I couldn’t believe how quiet everything had seemed.

I can tell you that this all happened in a matter of seconds and that, even in hindsight, both Sheepdog and I felt like we were being watchful.  You will most likely presume that we were distracted socializing with other parents or that maybe our attention was drawn elsewhere by another child.  Neither of those things is true.  I have gone over those seconds in my head more times than seems humanly possible and I still don’t have all of the answers.  I can tell you that I grew up with a pool in my backyard, and spent countless summer days at the beach and on a sailboat.  I know infant, child and adult CPR and have even taken lifeguard training courses.  I certainly thought I was an attentive parent, especially when my kids are around the water, but that day taught me otherwise.

Just this past Memorial Day weekend a three-year-old girl silently drowned in a community pool on the Main Line in Philadelphia, with her parents only a few feet away.  The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention site says that fatal drowning remains the second-leading cause of unintentional injury-related death for children ages 1 to 14 years.

The Atlanta forecast over the next few days is currently “hot,” along with several days of “very hot,” so there will certainly be an increase in water activities.  Please be reminded to watch your children carefully at all times.  Remember to always listen for the noise of them playing in the water.  And beware the silence.

Are You There God? It’s Me, Crazy Lady.

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

I am suggesting a different type of prayer in the bathroom, but do whatever works for you

This morning started off swimmingly… I awoke with a start just after six a.m. as what I perceived to be Godzilla (turned out it was only Kid D) was stomping down my hallway, yelling at top volume about nothing in particular, turning on every light along his route and opening and closing every door “just because.”  Of course he woke his little brother, who was up too late last night and desperately needed to sleep in this morning.  Kid E came into my room in a foul, foul mood… extra whiny, croup-like coughing, hug-me-but-don’t-touch-me, “I gotta pee” and just plain miserable.  Kid C was upset that her hair wasn’t looking just right and wanted me to straighten it for her (she has been ten-years-old for about five minutes… no I am not using a heating appliance on her hair.  What is this?  Toddlers & Tiaras?).  Kid A was harboring residual teenage anger at me for not trying hard enough to rearrange the schedule for her to go in late to school yesterday or be able to see her boyfriend tonight, and somehow (and I DO NOT understand how), Kid B managed to sleep through all of this and almost miss her school bus, thus requiring me to drive her to school this morning.

It was too early (well, anything before ten a.m. is technically “too early” in my book).  I hadn’t even put my contacts in yet, let alone started my coffee i.v. and all of this was barreling down on me already.  Let me check the calendar – wasn’t Friday the 13th just last week?  And, dammit, when is Sheepdog coming home?  The “Yelling Mom” part of me wanted to shout from the rooftop for all of them to just shut the front door.  Sometimes you can stop the insanity by simply being so loud and insane yourself that your over-the-top meltdown trumps everything else and they all stop to watch your spiral into complete lunacy.  I’ve done that before and it can be effective.  Kid C was about two-years-old or so and having a nice screaming fit in the car seat behind Sheepdog, who was in the driver’s seat.  We hadn’t even pulled out of the driveway yet and I had had enough, so I turned around from the passenger seat and I looked at her and I just screamed at the top of my lungs.  Let’s just say that I caught everyone off guard and it’s probably a good thing that Kid C was still wearing diapers at that moment, but she stopped her fit.

So I’m lying in my bed this morning, having pulled all of the pillows over my head to pretend I am anywhere but there and chanting ever so softly, “Eff, eff, eff, eff, eff, eff me” and basically being the guest of honor at my own little pity party.  I was going over the planned events for the day and dreading all that I needed to accomplish was never going to have enough time for and basically setting a really bad tone for my day.  And I already knew that the kids were queering up the mojo this morning, so they wouldn’t be any help.  But then I stopped.  I mentally popped all of the black balloons at my pity party.  I remembered something that Sheepdog is teaching me, and I began to meditate.

Meditation for Moms is not easy.  True meditation calls for silence and a mental escape to your happy place.  How am I ever supposed to do that when I’m usually being beaten over the head (either literally with a toy or metaphorically with constant demands or questions or requests)?  I’ll let you in on a little secret.  Tell them all that you have to poop, then lock yourself in the bathroom.  It usually buys about two minutes of uninterrupted time, which is just enough for a quick request for peace, patience and clarity.  My family thinks that I poop all the time.  It is such a great plan that I don’t even care if they tell their friends.

Alone for just a few precious seconds, I quietly whisper, “Are you there God?  It’s me, Crazy Lady.”  And I ask for help and strength and patience and creative solutions and generosity of spirit, because all of those things are missing or almost depleted from my stockpiles.  I pray for the Kids and I pray for Sheepdog, especially if they are struggling.  And I also ask for thinner thighs, even though I’m not supposed to do that.  And then, if I have time, I pray for the people who I don’t really like, especially the idiots.  By then there has almost always been at least one knock on the bathroom door and I am pulled away from thoughts of warm sand between my toes.  But by then it is okay.  I take a deep breath as I flush the toilet for effect, ready to face what challenges lie ahead of me today.

Can I get an Amen?  And can Sheepdog please come home soon, because this single-parenting thing is definitely for the birds.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

No, He Didn’t

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Mornings, "Mother's Day, Run Away" style. I'll never tell what is in my mug.

I also considered calling this post “Payback is a Female Dog,” but enough about animals already.  If you read Friday’s post, you would be aware that I have gone out of town every Mother’s Day weekend for four years now.  My weekend is filled with a whole lot of nothing but reading, sleeping, and pondering the wonderment of life.  I am actually still pondering right now.

Yesterday was Mother’s Day.  I awoke on my own, had a great cup of coffee while watching boats go in and out of the marina, leisurely read the paper (Shout Out!  The Press of Atlantic City), and went to a fantastic Mother’s Day service at the church in which Sheepdog and I were married (Shout Out!  Rev. Ron Watts).  Then I came back and fell asleep on the deck for over an hour.  It was a fantastic day.

After a simple veggie burger and tomato lunch I decided to check in with the real world and read some emails.  Sheepdog always says that he is never quite sure that I will return from one of these trips (and rightfully so), so he is careful not to call me too often, leave too many messages, or generally bug the crap out of me.  See – I told you that Sheepdog is a very smart guy.  Yet on Mother’s Day, in a very uncharacteristic twist, this is the email that Sheepdog sent me.

To: Me
From: Sheepdog
Subject: Mohawk
Attachment:

Happy Mother's Day!

A friend saw the picture and after she stopped laughing hysterically she said that’s either the kind of thing that you find incredibly endearing, or the kind of thing that you will kill your husband over. (Shout out! Payback is a female dog).

Wish me luck for tomorrow (and maybe wish Sheepdog a little luck too)…

You’re Not Ugly

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Some of my kids I worry about, but not so much Kid E.  What is one of the most critical things to master in the grown-up world?  People Skills.  You won’t get anywhere if you don’t know how to deal with people.  And the best of the best always seem to leave us wanting more.  That’s why I think Kid E is on his way to having it all figured out.  Seriously.  But did I mention that he is three?

He goes to pre-school a few mornings a week.  Pre-school in a strip mall.  I learned years ago that the best pre-schools are not the pretty new buildings with the high-tech computer rooms for babies and the young, sexy teachers (Sheepdog was sad, sad, sad when I figured that out), but the best places to send your kids are the ones that sometimes smell just faintly of pee and have women running the show in sweatpants and ball caps.  Some of the best pre-school teachers and day care providers I have met have been the ones who work in older facilities that have been around for ages and put more money into macaroni and glitter than any of that other unnecessary stuff.  These are the women who usually have kids of their own and they have been through all of it and yet they still choose to work in a place filled with other people’s snotty, whiny children all day long.  They actually like what they do and they care about my kids.  These are the women I want running my pre-school show.

Anyway, Kid E goes to school and he loves it.  He learns letters and shapes and colors and songs.  He ends his days with a sticker and a stamp.  It doesn’t get much better than that for him.  He really loves his teacher.  She came in mid-year and replaced another teacher who he couldn’t get enough of, yet apparently he loves the new one more.  Do you want to know how I know?  He paid her his highest compliment.  He totally grabbed both of her cheeks with both of his sweaty little hands and looked her straight in the eyes and said with all the seriousness he could muster, “You’re.  Not.  Ugly.”  And, just like that (snap!), she was putty in his hands.

It is true because shortly after he buttered her up they had a conflict regarding the overuse of hand soap in the bathroom.  She was (rightfully) telling him not to do something and he got mad at her.  She stuck to her guns and he shut her out the rest of the day.  He wasn’t disrespectful (not allowed), but he withheld hugs and would not even say goodbye when we left.  I could see the pain in her eyes as he left her.  I think that she probably cried herself to sleep that night.  I told her that she should be ashamed for allowing a little kid to outsmart her.  He was becoming a master puppeteer already.  We are in for some serious manipulation, folks.

Think about the genius of it for a moment.  We all love to have compliments paid to us.  Don’t you get a little extra bounce in your walk if somebody notices a new haircut or mentions how cute your outfit is on any regular day?  Of course you do.  And it is hard to deny the drawing power of someone who plays hard to get.  That unreachable, untouchable, unattainable something or someone can be like crack if you get it in your head deep enough.  Somehow, with three simple words this kid managed to combine the two.  It’s not really a compliment, yet it makes you feel like you are special.  It is actually just a negated insult presented as kudos.  Unbelievable.

So my little Pre-School Playa continued to woo the masses.  He sensed the power and started to dole out variations like, “You’re not scary” and “You don’t smell bad.”  People would eat it up.  They think he is charming.  He was starting to get comfortable and I was momentarily a little worried that he might grow up to be one of those jerks who only gave out backhand compliments as some sort of control move.  This was the kind of boy that I didn’t ever want coming near my daughters.  What if I became the Mother of one?  I had to stop this behavior immediately, no matter how cute it was coming from a toddler.  Then one day out of the blue he grabbed both of my cheeks with both of his sweaty little hands, looked me straight in the eyes and said with all the sincerity in the world, “You.  Are.  Cute.”  My heart swelled with joy as I replied, “and You’re.  Not.  Stupid.”

Nope, I really don’t worry so much about that kid.

I Have to Start Somewhere

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

…mid-sentence, so I can introduce you to my lack of formality right from the beginning.

Right now my life revolves mostly around my husband and our five kids.  My husband (“Sheepdog”) is an attorney and a cyclist (road and mountain).  The kids (“Kid A,” “Kid B,” “Kid C,” “Kid D” and “Kid E”) – three girls followed by two boys – go from high school all the way down to pre-school, so we are dealing with a huge array of life experiences.  I want to write about them because (1) I like to write; (2) they provide endless funny, scary, sad, exasperating stories that are sure to entertain; and (3) having something to do is probably better for me than watching DVR’d reality shows all day.

Many people tell me that I am good at managing a large family.  Organization comes very naturally to me.  Honestly, I love what I do most of the time.  There are always periods of adjustment (the start of a new sports season or new school year) and times of desperation (when everyone is sick or when I try to do too much of anything), but I have an incredibly supportive husband and generally really great kids so we usually make it all work.  The balance comes from having a good system with a fair distribution of responsibilities, but also a wicked sense of humor because you know what they say about the best-laid plans.

I really like the idea of reminding people that nobody is perfect and nobody has the ideal life, no matter how awesome it may seem from their Facebook page.  I hope that I am able to write as openly and candidly about the times that I screw up as I am about the things that make me proud.  I am actually convinced that it will make for better reading when I focus on the former.  Fortunately I like to make fun of myself and I have ample opportunities to make a mess of things.

I am a little obsessive-compulsive, although that has surprisingly subsided slightly with age (Sheepdog may argue with this point).  I make my bed every day.  I love a good schedule.  I like potty humor.  I love zoos.  I do not love animals.  I love sleep and the beach.  I may get a little orgasmic if I can sleep on the beach.  I can be judgmental.  I do not like working out, but I do it because I dislike being out of shape more.  I like being a stay-at-home mom because I can wear sweatpants to work, but I feel bad that I do not take more time to do my hair or put on makeup every day.  I can be ornery.  I am not very politically correct.  I like to be good at things.

I have been blessed with good health and good luck and a good family.  I realize that the world can be a very scary place if you don’t have those things.  I believe that positive thinking and consistent hard work can make a big difference.  I believe in the power of shared experiences and how hearing about somebody else going through something similar can make you feel less alone.  I hope that you will read along as I go through and tell you about my life experiences and that you might laugh and cry and scream.  Both with and at me.

Welcome to my world!

Oh, and wish me luck for tomorrow…