Mommy's Pen

A writer's notes on family

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Archives for May 2011

The Brush Off

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It goes like this: you see someone who’s all tensed up, perhaps he’s been dealing with a boundary testing preschooler them day, or worse, boundary testing adults. Turn him so his back is towards you and have him hold his arms out a bit from his sides. Starting at the top of the head, use your hands to firmly brush downwards. Not too fast, not too slow. Brush that crappy energy down his arms and right out the fingertips. Proceed down his back if you know him well enough. Repeat for at least 30 seconds, he should be thanking you before you stop.

This is also a fantastic way to chill out your child. Let’s say you got a new iPad and let your 4-year-old play Angry Birds right before bed. (I know, I’m wincing, too. Nobody’s perfect.) Just lay her down on her back, and start at her head brush the stress all the way down her body and out her feet. Repeat this for several minutes while singing a lullaby or playing relaxing music and you have a seriously chilled out munchkin.

Nora now asks for “the brush off” whenever she’s wound up.

Try it on someone you love today. It’s the only way to get someone to use it on you in the future.

You’re welcome.

#SeniorHottie

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I love nothing more than to make a fool of myself (for proof, just read this post on potty training).

So when Liz from A Belle, A Bean and a Chicago Dog offered a chance to mock my 17-year-old self, I gleefully dug up my scrap book.

But I found that, except for the haircut, there wasn’t much to ridicule.  (The haircut was short lived, no one in Central Minnesota had the skills to give me the Meg Ryan pixie I was going for.)

I didn’t have Chewbacca eyebrows, as I had gay friends who ruthlessly plucked them along with pushing back my cuticles.

I never wore braces.

I don’t recall my skin being this glowy and clear, so I’m going to thank the airbrush.

I’m not leaned against a fake tree, clutching a band instrument (I gave up french horn in the sixth grade).

So, I’m left in the strange position of posting something I’m not mortified to share.

But dammit if my hair wasn’t more red then.  Humph.

No More “Kiddo”

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Growing up, I was called “Susie.”  Once I reached cynical teenager-hood, I loathed the name.  I didn’t feel it fit me.  I met Ben, and he started calling me “Sue.”

Casting off a childhood nickname is a powerful thing.  It can free you from a role you never agreed to play.  (Have you ever met someone who has completely renamed themselves?  Changed their name to Summer Showers or Cat Rainbow?  Something traumatic is in their past. But I digress.)

Nora has informed Ben and me that she does not want to be called “Kiddo” anymore.  I didn’t realize how often we were doing this until she asked us to stop. We found we couldn’t. The first few days she was constantly reminding us, and now we try to remind each other.

It may seem silly, but I feel it’s very important to honor this request. She’s establishing a sense of herself, and if we ignore that, or don’t take it seriously, what would that tell her?

So, when I forget, she says, “Remember?  I don’t want to be called “Kiddo” anymore.”

“Oh, that’s right.” I say, “I’m sorry, I forgot.  You may have to remind me a few more times.”

“I just want to be called ‘Nora,'” she replies. “That, or ‘Honey Bunny.'”

“Can do, Honey Bunny.  Can do.”

Best Game Ever

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I spent this last weekend with my parents and my sister and her beautiful family.  On Saturday, we went to the ocean for a day trip.

My oldest nephew, Sameer, is six weeks older than Nora. They had a raucous time climbing over sand castle remnants and being reminded not to throw sand at each other.

My youngest nephew, Arnav, was in the midst of ten-month-old angst: he was cutting teeth and getting over a cold. Naturally, when he fell asleep, it was time to get back to Portland while the getting was good.

The four-year-olds were exhausted, but still a bit wound.  And their shenanigans threatened to wake the little one.

So, my brother-in-law, in a moment of either genius or desperation, said, “Okay, we’re going to play a game. The person who talks the least wins.  Go!”

Thereupon the two children closed their eyes and went to sleep. For real.

And to his eternal credit, when they awoke back in Portland he declared, “You both won!”

I stand in awe.  Sumeet is humble about his accomplishment.  He claims his success was a fluke.  Still, with luck like that, I’d be stocking up on lottery tickets.

How to Know if Your Child Loves You – An Age by Age Guide

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0-12 Months: She screams like a banshee if anyone but you attempts to touch her, or if her precious backside touches a crib mattress.

12-24 months: Incessant cries of “Mama!  Mama!” populate your waking minutes. You wear earplugs in the shower to drown out the banging on the bathroom door whenever you feel bold enough to perform your ablutions by yourself. 

2 Years: Your child comes to you for comfort after an injustice you have inflicted on her. Examples: Shampoo in the eyes, vaccinations.

3 Years: The time has arrived when your child will look at you sweetly and say, “Mama, I love you.”

4 Years: Your child now tells you in a milk and honey voice, “Mama, I will never kill you.”

Those of you with older children, help me fill out ages 5 and above.