Eat, Read, and Be Mommy

Sadly, my kitchen computer isn’t.  Yet.  My hubby very sweetly set me up with a laptop, but laptop keyboards are not so much my friends, which is why I haven’t been posting.  On the other hand, I do hate to return a book to the library before I get my review done, and Jim Gaffigan’s Dad Is Fat is due this week and not renewable.  And so I brave the laptop keyboard!

Dad Is Fat was actually a book club pick, and I’m glad–I didn’t actually know it existed, but I would be sorry to have missed it.  In it, Jim Gaffigan captures the ridiculous aspect of parenting; what makes me happy is that even as he does it, his love for his children and for his role as a father comes through.  Gaffigan jokes about being a clueless dad, but any man who takes all five of his (YOUNG) kids to the park by himself has mastered the basics.  (And let me be clear–that statement holds just as true for women.)  He loves his family and loves spending time with them, which is what makes his humor so enjoyable.  It’s not negative–it’s wry.  I about died at his bit about keeping toddlers awake once they reach the no-napping stage.  And the bit about the sunscreen (although most of my children have avoided my redhead skin).  And the–okay, you really ought to just read the book yourself.

Bottom line?  Jim Gaffigan isn’t perfect, but he’s funny as all get out–and the world needs more dads like him.

Not only did we not have power for over 5 hours today–which wreaked serious havoc with my laundry schedule–but when the power came back ON, my kitchen computer did not.  Which means, sadly, that my review of the Oreo meltaways is going to have to wait until it’s back, because prolonged typing on a laptop keyboard (my hubby set me up so I could cover the basics) is not my favorite thing.  Stay tuned for a progress report!

(By the way, I am beyond all grateful that this outage happened on such a randomly cool July day.  Sometimes the simple blessings are the ones we most desperately need.)

My mother lent me Janice Kapp Perry’s Songs From My Heart:  The Stories Behind the Songs years ago; I was intrigued by the idea, started it, but didn’t finish at the time.  I recently restarted it and read it through this time, but I have mixed feelings about the process.

Here’s the thing.  It’s absolutely an interesting book if you are at all familiar with her music (she is a well-known composer in my own faith, but much of her music is non-denominational and part of the wider Christian community), and I enjoyed it.  The background about her life was engrossing, and I loved learning just how many songs I love were composed by this down-to-earth, unassuming woman.  The bits about the songs I didn’t know, however, were less interesting than the bits about the songs I did.  Not NOT interesting, mind you.  Just not AS interesting.  Reading it through, though, meant that I was reading bit after bit after bit, and most of the songs I knew were in the first half of the book.  It would really be ideal as a reference book, or one to pick up on Sunday afternoons, but I’m not in a stage of life where that is going to happen enough to finish the book and return it to my mother sometime in the next decade.  Owning the book would be more conducive to the most enjoyable way to read it; on the other hand, it isn’t a book I’d use enough to purchase.  Hence, the reading it through–and the conclusion that less than ideal is, sometimes, unavoidable.

I was going to tell you about the Oreo Meltaways.  I was also going to read the last three pages of my current book and review that.  I find, however, that after the last three weeks of craziness, I haven’t anything left in me tonight.  The laundry alone has consumed me.

Glug.

Glug.

Yesterday, my only son (yes, the potty training one) turned three.  And while he is sometimes incredibly exasperating, he is also adorable, mischievous, intelligent, loving, and sweet.  His blue eyes are framed by long, beautifully curving dark eyelashes–a model would kill for those eyes–and he’s been telling me jokes since before he turned two.  He loves his blue Crocs–really, really loves them–and is delighted when we pass construction vehicles on the road.  He’s willing to play Barbies with his sisters (guess who gets to be Kristoff every time?), but he also gets them to play ‘Bob the Builder’ with him.  He gives me big hugs and kisses at bedtime, and he was so full of joy at his birthday presents that I almost cried happy tears (it was possibly the highlight of my week).  I love all of my children, and I am so very, very grateful to have them.  I am also grateful to be raising them in a free country.  I believe this nation has its flaws, but there is still much that is great here.

To my son–and to the United States of America–Happy Birthday!

Today I finally faced what I have been dreading with an all-consuming, unreasoning horror since the second half of 2012:  potty training.  Again.

It wasn’t so bad with my first, you see.  We switched to panties (cold turkey), and while we went through 10 pairs the first day, she woke up dry by the third.  (In a pull-up.  I don’t worry about kids sleeping in panties until they’ve woken up dry for a month or two.)  She had accidents, of course–including one truly awful one at Classic Fun Center when I was 8 months pregnant with her sister–but overall, there was decently rapid forward progression after the first day.

Then came her sister.  OH, the horror!  My second girlie hates new experiences on principle.  She’s also as stubborn as a Russian winter AND in possession of an inherited need for, um, a lot of fiber in her diet (so to speak); it was almost a year before I could really consider her potty trained. The accidents were awful, the frustration was beyond belief, and the thought of reliving the process was unbearable for a long, LONG time.

My son, however, will turn 3 tomorrow, and he’s begun removing his own diaper at diaper changes.  I’m running low on his size of diapers, and while I told myself I wouldn’t start until I was done with kindergarten pickup, and then I wouldn’t start until we were home from Idaho, I have finally run out of excuses.  His older sisters are doing a mini cheer camp with cousins, so today I bit the bullet and broke out the underwear.

(By the way, I lost count of how many times I started to say “panties” today and had to correct myself.  The hazards of starting a family with two girls in a row.)

Here’s the thing.  Almost nothing is as bad as the dread makes it out to be, and I knew that.  I was still pleasantly surprised, however, at how well he was doing by late afternoon.  We only went through 5 or 6 pairs of underwear, and I didn’t begrudge him his late afternoon realization that he could call attention to his dry underwear, squeeze out another teaspoon or two into the potty, and get another M&M.  (I was so proud of him for coming home from the neighbors with a quarter-sized wet spot on his underwear and then going a considerable amount in the potty I was happy to humor him, although I did suggest he wait a bit after his 4th trip in 10 minutes.)  We’ll be busy enough in the next few days that keeping up will be challenging, but the first day is over with, and that’s generally the worst.

We will survive.