Pink Prickly Pear

I've been awake for hours...

Well before dawn.  Hours before dawn.  Why?

This one, to be sure.  

I did not take that picture this morning.  In that picture this one is eating.  And eating is not something this one wants to do lately. 

Frequently, this one decides he's not all that into eating.

Vita-Mix to the rescue!  A generous handful of kale, a generous tablespoon of chia seeds, a generous dollop of full fat organic yogurt with the cream on top mixed with whatever fresh fruit we've got on hand makes a super smoothie packed with enough protein and vitamins to let this mama's mind rest at ease. He will always drink a smoothie!

Except for yesterday afternoon.  And last night.  Oh, and this morning.  He was hungry last night.  Hungry this morning.  But he does not want that smoothie.  Or this one.  Or a banana.  Or some blueberries.  Or Gorilla Munch.  Or grapes.  Or cherry tomatos, or any other orb shaped fruit for that matter!

You know when you haven't eaten, and your mood gets a little...all. over. the. place???????

It's like that.  

I have offered chips.  I have offered ice cream.  I have offered him his yogurt.  I have offered him his sister's yogurt.

In a couple of hours, I am taking him and his sister to the beach to meet up with some friends.  Not so many months ago, he could be counted on to eat sand at the beach.  Perhaps he will have some sand for lunch.  I would not mind.

Just me and the boy.

Mini-Pear is at camp this week.  D'anjou rarely gets me all to himself and it will be interesting to see if all this one on one mommy time satiates his appetite and kicks the sibling rivalry down a notch.  It's great to feel so loved, but it would be nice to get to cuddle my girl without her little brother's face contorting with the agony of sharing.

So far we have enjoyed a couple of hours at the sand/water table (rivers need big rocks in them), watched a little Thomas the Tank Engine, eaten rice cakes, yogurt, raisins and Pirate Booty (Oh, Pirate Booty why can't I quit you?) and looked through a great many picture books in search of other trains.  We've also thrown a rubber ducky down the stairs about 57 times, accompanied by D'anjou's excited stream of play by play, "Ooooh, Quack-Quack!  Oh noooooo! Up?  Up!  Ooooh, Quack-Quack!  Duck, duck, duck, duck.  Up, up.  Oh noooooo!  Boom! *laughs*  Oh, boom!  *more laughs* Mommy?  Mommy? Mommy?  Up?"  My job is to sit at the bottom of the stairs, look appropriately horrified at the plight of poor Quack-Quack, and to trot him back up the stairs for more fun.  

Ikebana Fail.

That whole Montessouri-esque "Put a small arrangement of flowers on their own child sized table" thing?

Not really working out for us.

 

Oui, oui!

I'm not about to wax on about why I dislike the term "potty training", but I do have the following things to say:

Whoever invented wall to wall carpet (hate! gag!) obviously didn't have a toddler (or a husband whose morning grogginess includes a propensity towards spilling coffee).

Also, this bilibo thing may have won every toy award under the sun, not to mention the accolades of design conscious hipsters (who may or may not be parents) everywhere, but my boy has trouble distinguishing it from his $5 potty from IKEA.  

Just sayin'...and you know he's wicked smart, so it's not him.

While we are not on the subject (of "potty training"), may I say that big sisters who change their little brother's diapers are the bees knees.  I didn't even ask her!  

I love my thoughtful girl.  Ten minutes ago we had this exchange:

Me "Awww.  We're out of milk for the mashed potatoes!"

She (not missing a beat) "That's okay.  Let's just invite Luke [friend with dairy allergies] over for dinner!"

In which he is a resourceful little fellow.

 

Here he is at the park; having elbowed the dogs out of the way, he helps himself to the spigot.  

Something about being at home brings out the little baby bird in him though; this afternoon he kept bringing me the tiniest little doll teacup to fill with water.  Tablespoon by tablespoon, slow and steady wins the race.  I am cursing the day I cooed, "How cute!" and filled it up for him, because now it is 2 sips and "Mama!" and 2 sips and "Mama!" and 2 sips and...

 

In which I stop being judgmental about your kid's graffiti.

My boy loves to vacuum. I've also caught him in the act of cleaning up his spills (he prefers to drink from a regular cup all by himself).  He opens the bottom drawer, pulls out a dishtowel and goes to town mopping up.  All I have to say is...SCORE.

That said, I've become one of those moms.  Without a doubt, ours has become one of those houses with stickers and crayon markings on the furniture and walls.  I have to confess that on more than one occasion I've glanced over at his hijinks and sighed, "Well at least he's occupied and I know where he is for five minutes.  I can always wipe that wall down later."  

And then I breathe.  Nice and slow.

Mondays are...

trying.

How many times can I make a little snack for the boy, only to have him either spit it out, throw it on the floor, humor me with one bite, or turn resolutely away from it?  I don't know, but the boy's got to eat, hasn't he?  I should mention that the majority of the time these are little snacks he has gestured towards emphatically.  He has grasped my hand in his and yanked on the fridge door, or attempted to scale the kitchen drawers in an effort to reach a container on the counter.  He has wailed impatiently while I unwrapped, or washed, or sliced, or heated up...and then...

Breathing.  Breathing is good.  As is not thinking about waste.

Valentine's sweatshop

 

I love, love, love (or should I say "luv") how these turned out!  I think I love the big printed sheet even more than the individual Valentines.  If I weren't renting, I might insist on a stamped wall of hearts somewhere.

We had to shut the door on a certain someone in order to complete the project unmolested.  It didn't stop him from scampering in this morning and attempting to put my little press bed through its paces. "Monkey see, monkey do".   D'anjou cannot resist tools of any kind.  

 

How cool would a family print shop be?

Cue: Sheila E's "Glamorous Life"

Things That Were Not On The Floor An Hour Ago

A flathead screwdriver (toy).

Miniature wicker basket filled with little plastic kittens.

A Wii remote.

A purple hair clip.

At least ten individually wrapped sachets of chamomile tea.

Tomato seeds.

4 pieces of train track.

Karate focus pad.

Little bin of assorted cars, boats, construction vehicles.

Babies, babies and more babies...

My baby cannot stop watching this.