Two very different girls . . .

I think about this a lot.  This parenting thing.  It’s been my primary vocation for 8 years now.  (I start counting with Isaac’s conception, as that was the point at which I began obsessing about the whole parenting enterprise.)

It seems everybody’s got their ideas, their philosophy.  Rules to follow, guidelines to lead you in leading your children toward adulthood.  I tried to qualify that adulthood:  healthy, well-balanced?  productive?  But every little nook and cranny of parenting-lore has its own goal in mind.  Christian circles where the name of the game is obedience:  raise your kid to be obedient to you so that when they are adults they will be obedient to God.  Non-Christian circles whose goal seems to be adults who are capable of finding their own way, their own path.  And everything in between and a zillion hybrids.

There are some things I’ve learned in these eight years of parenting.  Well, 7 1/2 years with a kid I can actually see and touch.  These rules.  These guidelines.  These “Do XYZ for ABC results” applied to kids?  Bunk.  A whole lotta bunk.  Who are we kidding?  Kids did not come down out of a shoot from a factory.  There is not one model.  There is no model.  They are individual people–hear that.  People.  From birth.–with their own particularities and peculiarities.  Just as different one from another as adults are different, one from another.  Why is it that we expect our kids to fit some sort of mold, follow some sort of equation (if X, then A), when we know enough to never expect the grown ups around us to work that way?  When we encounter adults knowing to expect the unexpected, always prepared to respond to what comes next, knowing that what comes next is not always predictable?  Why do we view adults this way, but not kids?

I can’t talk to my mother the same way I talk to my sister.  They have two different languages.  Two different senses of humor.  Yes, they are similar in many ways, but in others they couldn’t be any more different.  And this is one woman raised by another woman, taught about the world by her from her earliest days.

Yet.  Yet we get these first kids and we open up these books to find out what to do to them, with them, for them, to turn them into the people we want them to be.  Then we have these second kids and we apply all those same rules to them and expect the same result.  “If I do R, this child will do Y.”  But the thing is, the child (C) in the equation (R + C = Y) is not a constant.  The child is one, unique individual and, therefore, a variable.  A variable of enormous magnitude.  So, how can we expect to consistently get Y, the results we desire in and for our children, when we add the same X to a completely different C?  Are you following me?  I have at least one numbers-oriented friend who might be.

We have to change the game.  Change the equation.  Start with the variable.  Start with the C.  End with the Y, sure.  It’s OK to have a goal in mind for your kid.  I want my kids to grow up knowing the Lord, loving him with all their hearts, souls, minds, and strength, and loving their neighbors as themselves.  That’s my goal.  That’s my Y.  So I have a kid, C, who I want to get to equal Y.  Actually, I have three kids, I want to get to equal Y.  Three different equations, one for each variable.  Because each C has a completely different value and measurement and character and you-name-it.  So, I’m left with a general  ( __ + C = Y), but with each child, I have to figure out what goes into that blank.  I have to figure out the Rules, the tools, the means, that need to be added to each different child to get–to the best of my limited abilities–to the results I’m hoping for.

What does this child, Hannah, need?  What does this child, Ruth, need?  What does this child, Isaac, need?  Those are the questions I need to be asking.  If I go to any “rule” books, I need to do so with these questions in mind.  Seeking not rules, but ideas, possibilities.  Things I can try that might work for Ruth, but not for Hannah, things that hit Isaac just right, but send Hannah off the deep end.  Too many of these people selling these books fail to tell you that.  I think these books tell us more about the kids the authors’ had than it tells us about what we can do for our own kids.  And in some cases, my heart breaks for the kids who came after the author’s firstborn but who likely had the nerve to operate completely differently.

So not where I intended to go.  Shock of shocks.  My real point in writing this, as may be evident from the title, was to share an experience I had last night that demonstrated just how different my two girls are.  My three kids are so very different, one from another.  And maybe that’s why I’m so sensitive to all this.  Maybe not everyone’s kids are as varied as mine.  Mine barely seem that they came from the same planet, I don’t see how they all could have come from the same womb.  I simply cannot treat each one of them with the same set of rules.  I would have broken them long before they came off the assembly line.

So, in keeping with the title, an illustration of just how different are my girls. . . .

Everybody was sick yesterday.  Well, not me, but everyone else.  Fevers and coughing and general flu-like stuff going on.  I’m pretty sure no one’s going to die, but there are buckets of misery being passed around.  Hannah and Ruth each had a fever at dinner last night (in the 104 range), so I gave them each a dose of ibuprophen at 6:30 and sent everyone off to bed (read, 2 1/2 hours later, everyone was asleep).

Around 2AM I hear a distinctly croupy cough and a whimpering “Mommy” coming down the hall.  Hannah and Ruth sound pretty much the same, so I can’t tell who it is until I am greeted by the messy halo of blond and footed-jammies silhouette with the yellow blankie tucked under my toddler’s chin.  Ruthie.  “I want Mommy.”  OK, honey.  I climb out of bed to meet her in the hall, but realize, Boy I really need a trip to the bathroom before I get involved in this.  “Ry, can you keep Ruth while I run to the bathroom?”  “Sure,” says my most beloved, always-willing-to-help-a-kid-or-wife-in-the-middle-of-the-night husband.

I return from the bathroom to find my Ruthie snuggled in bed with her daddy and chitty-chatting away in a chipper voice:  “Dem was WRobots.  Da wittle one was WRushy.  What dem peas doing?  What was Pa Gape doing?  Dem was singin’ “  And so on.  And on.  And on.  Ruthie had watched a lot of TV on her sick day, and is retelling much of what she saw.  Chipper and happy and ready to go.   Ry and I are laughing, despite the fact that it’s 2 in the morning and we are both desperately tired.  Ruthie’s just so funny.  I feel her forehead, to check on how her fever is doing and she is burning up.  I run downstairs for the thermometer and ibuprophen.  102.3.  Hot enough.  She’s chipper, so perhaps I shouldn’t worry about bringing the temp down, but I want her to be comfortable enough to sleep well, so I drug her up.  I send Ry off to Ruth’s bed while I hunker down with her in ours.  When she lay down, she has some big, wet coughs and she throws up.  After cleaning up, we both start to drift off to sleep.

Next thing I know–and very little time has passed–I hear yet another croupy cough and whimpering.  Hannah.  She whimpers and whines her way up over Ruth, straddles my legs and just whimpers and whines.  I try to tell her I need her to get off my legs so I can go get her daddy to help her–so Ruth can stay asleep–but she won’t move, won’t speak, can only whimper.  I’m trying desperately to quickly get her up and out of my room before she awakens Ruth, but she’s beside herself.  I also know that she’s going to throw up, because she always does when she’s sick like this with excess mucous–she’s always choked and gagged easily–so I’m also trying to get her to get off my bed before she does.  But she can’t do anything but whimper and whine.  She’s just pitiful.  As predicted, she barfs, mostly getting it off the side of the bed to the floor as instructed–though the bed does not go unscathed–and continues to whimper and whine and tremble.  My poor, poor baby.

I carry her off to Ruth’s bed (in the room next door to ours, so as not to disturb Isaac who shares Hannah’s room) while my beloved cleans up the mess and changes our sheets–have I mentioned how wonderful he is?–and Ruth, long since awakened by the hullaballoo, wanders around between both rooms chattering away, chipper and happy, despite her rosy cheeks and glassy eyes.   Hannah huddles into a shivering ball under Ruth’s blankets.  I get the thermometer and ibuprophen.  102.8.  And miserable.  Drug her up good.

I send Ry off to bed with Hannah, so she has someone to snuggle and keep her warm, and again I hunker down with Ruthie who is really ready to go now, chitty chitty chat chat.  And I marvel at the difference between my two girls.  Both with the same symptoms, the same grade fever.  One happy-go-lucky, bubbly, chipper, ball of energy, one shivering, trembling, whimpering, most pitiful creature.  So different.  Neither good nor bad, just different.  And if they can’t even have the same response to the same virus with the same symptoms, how can I expect them to have the same response to anything else?

Wow.  I’ve rambled.  Blame the fact that I haven’t been blogging much lately.  Blame the utter lack of sleep.  Blame the encroaching virus.  But who am I kidding?  It’s my way.  It’s who I am.  It’s one of the ways God made me special.  It’s my own little way of being different.

Funny kids say funny things . . .

I think it’s been a little while since I’ve had a funny kids post. And I’ve had little of significance to write about for the last several days, so I thought I’d write about significant little things. Which, you know, is pretty much the biggest story of my life these days: trying to savor all the little, teeny-tiny, mundane things beautiful life with beautiful little children brings in abundance. Knowing that this stage of life will be gone in a flash, I want to try to not get bogged down in the frustrating junk, the relentless cycle of dirty-clean-dirty-clean, wash-brush-dress-eat-play-eat-play-eat-undress-brush-wash, just-keep-swimming, that is the other big story of my life these days.

So. A moment to pause. And chuckle at my silly kids.

Heard in the kitchen last week: A fly was buzzing around the kitchen, in fact, there were lots of flies buzzing around last week, not sure why, but there we were in the kitchen with a buzzing fly. Hannah says, “Shoo, fly! Shoo!! Shoo!!! . . . I have a shoe!” (scurries over to her cubby and pulls out a bejeweled flip-flop, raises it in attack) “Shoe, fly!! Shoe!” I confess I did stop her from squashing the fly with her shoe on my counter. But I did it with a straight and understanding face.

Heard at the breakfast table this morning: Ruth was eating pancakes (pay-pates) with syrup (see-up).  “I put mine finger in mine nose!  I put mine finger in mine nose!”  (lighthearted response)”Oh, yucky, Ruth.  Don’t put your finger up your nose.  Yuck.”  . . . . minutes pass . . . . (very excited pronouncement) “I hat see-up in mine nose!”  “You have syrup in you nose?!”  ::sneeze:: “Yeeaah!”  ::sneeze::  ::giggle giggle::  Maybe it’s just because I’m her mom, but this one  cracked me up.

Ruthie, are you ready for pants?

Nobody can throw a fit like my Ruthie.

I wrote that much while shut up in my bedroom trying not to listen to Ruth scream her lungs out just outside my door. Wow. The fits this girl is throwing these days. Last Tuesday’s lasted 20 minutes straight. Full-on, high-pitched screaming, flinging her body hither and yon, flailing and wailing. Twenty. minutes. straight. Why? you might ask. What had your poor little girl so upset? What are you denying that precious girl?

She needed to get her diaper changed. Wet one off. Dry one on. Same thing she’s been doing a zillion (or so it feels) times a day since the first one was applied right after they cut her cord. (Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, I don’t know how or when that first one is applied. I never got to really see/hold any of my babies for the first little while after they’re born. Maybe, as Hannah suspects, babies really are born with diapers on . . .) So, suddenly diapers are evil. At first they were just a mild annoyance. And we had the couple of weeks when she was removing her diaper at every chance, particularly right after or right before defacating. Remember that? But, really, once we stopped letting her get a bath just because she had feces all over her, she stopped doing that trick.

For a time. A short time. Now . . . now she has a whole new strategy. She just takes off her clothes and diaper at random times. Often when she’s dancing, as if she thinks one must be naked to dance. Here’s hoping she changes her mind on that one. The problem? When you don’t know how to use a potty, you kinda need something to catch your uncontrolled bodily fluids and solids. Blech.

And now, apparently, the diaper has taken on new powers, evil powers, and Ruth feels obligated to fight their menacing way with all she’s got. Here’s how it went down:

Ruth had been nursing and fell asleep–early for naptime. I thought I could lay her down, but she awakened and wanted more milk. I had to get clothes in the dryer (as in I had to leave home in 45 minutes wearing a pair of pants that are wet in the washer. I had no choice but to get them in the dryer.) Ok, Ruth, I know you want more Mommy milk, first I have to put some clothes in the dryer. SSCREAM WAIL FLAIL NOOOOOO!!! Do you want to help mommy? NOOOOOO or do you want to wait in your bed for me? NOOOOOO! Well I have to do it, I will be right back. The washer/dryer are just outside Ruth’s room. She can likely see parts of me from her crib while she wails.

So I return, OK, get some mommy milk, sit down with her and realize her princess pull-up is wet, as in it made my shirt wet. (someone who had leftovers gave them to us, we’ve put them on sometimes cuz she likes ‘em and fights ‘em less) “Oh, Ruth, we need to change your diaper first.” WAIL FLAIL Full-on tantrum the likes of which have never been seen in these here parts and Isaac and I are gold-medal-worthy in the Tantrum-Throwing Olympics. Or so I thought. 20 minutes of screaming like you-wouldn’t-believe. I fought the pull-up off her; Ruth pulled it out of the trash. I tied up the trash bag and threw it to the landing; Ruth wailed for her Princess diaper, reaching through the gate toward the landing.

Thing is, we don’t have any more princess diapers. “Here are some lovely (generic) fancy fairies diapers.” NOOOOO! WAIL, FLAIL, KICK, YOU NAME IT. I used the bathroom, locking her out. I tried to hold her and comfort her. I closed all the bedroom doors, leaving her stuck in the hallway while I hid in her room. I offered choices. She was screaming for mommy milk but I insisted on a diaper before milk–I don’t want wet pants. Fight fight fight. Ok, Ruthie you need a diaper, do you want Blue, or this green dog, or Periwinkle? Or this fancy fairie, or this fancy fairie? Scream yell fight, etc. etc. Finally I was able to pin her down in her crib and get the diaper on her and say OK, let’s get Mommy milk, but right about then I’d have preferred to get mommy a margarita.

The trend has continued. When I began this post, Ruth was screaming in the hallway because she didn’t want pants on. So I sat in my room and waited until she was ready to stop screaming her head off. Periodically opening the door and asking, “Ruthie, are you ready for pants?” And for the first (long) while, her answer was a vehement, “NOOOO!!!” Well, OK, then, you let me know when you’re ready. And, eventually, she was ready.

So, what am I learning in all this? Well. First, Ruth has inherited my stubbornness with an extra dose of German tossed in. Second, it’s time to teach the girl to use the potty. Third, I just invested in several new play dresses. Apparently the girl prefers dresses. Fine by me.

Maybe I’m messing it all up. Maybe I’m doing the right thing. All I know is what I’ve known for nearly 7 years now. The same thing my mom has told me repeatedly. All you can do is your best. I’m doing my best. And thanks be to God, my best isn’t all this girl’s got going for her. Thanks be to God that first and foremost, she’s his child. And he can do far more with her than I can. I am simply his servant. Seeking his guidance. Doing my best to care for his child as he turns her into the person he’s called her to be. I’m trying to strike the balance between reigning in her terroristic temper and encouraging her to be herself, keeping her God-given intrinsic character and personality intact. Ever seeking, as I have sought with Isaac, to guide her toward using her powers for good and not for evil. I pray she will never know a day when she’s not thoroughly convinced of God’s love for her, and that she will live out her life in response to that love, living her life to His glory.

Meanwhile. I’m a little tired. And thoroughly amused. And head-over-heels in love.

My Girl. Mommy-in-Training.

Lovey dovey Hannah Girlie. She adores her baby sister, has from day one. She has yet to stop her obsessive loving on her, despite Ruth’s tendency to rip Hannah’s hair out by the handful and . . . er . . . ruthlessly** destroy anything Hannah tells her she can’t have. “Well. If I can’t have it, no one can!” Still, Hannah loves on her. Grabbing her around the neck to bring her cheek close so she can kiss it. Pulling Ruth over as she embraces her. Still, after two years, sitting right next to me as I nurse Ruth, rubbing her head, kissing her cheek. Swweeet.

I expend a great deal of each day’s breaths reminding Hannah, “Hannah, you are not Ruth’s mommy. That is not your job. It’s mommy’s job to take care of Ruth like that. It’s your job to enjoy her and play with her and have fun with her.” (Yes, it is on some level her job to take care of her sister; she is her sister’s keeper. But that’s not what needs to be emphasized right now.) Still, Hannah tries to redirect Ruth, tries to “help” her up or down the steps, tries to keep her out of trouble. And my “You are not the Mommy” reminders continue to go unheeded.

But the other day I heard Hannah mothering Ruth in a way that I found beautiful; in a way gave me a glimpse of Hannah as a mother.  It was lunch time and I was working at a feverish pace to make sandwiches for Ruth and Hannah.  I was trying to make them simultaneously so that they’d be finished at the same time and could be presented together so no one was left waiting for hers.  Meanwhile, Ruth is behind me whining and crying and yelling and trying to grab the plate off the counter.  “Dat mine?  Ee want turkey cheese!  Ee ‘ant turkey cheese!!!  Ee hung’y!  Eat!  Turkey cheese!  Turkey cheese!  Dat mine turkey cheese?!”

Holy smokes!  I’m starving to death my own self, blood sugar non-existent, coffee running on empty making me tremble with edginess.  “Ruth! I’m getting it!  Yes, it’s yours, but Mommy has to make it for you! Yes, Ruth! I know you’re hungry!”

Finally, the voice of reason and calm pops up behind me in the form of a sweet four-year-old girl voice:  “Roofie, I know it’s hard to wait.  It’s hard to be patient.  When I was a little girl I had to be patient when I waited and it was hard.  But it’s rude to yell, so you need to be patient and wait.  Mommy will get your sandwich for you.  It’s hard to wait.”

I just stood there smiling.  There’s my girl, reflecting her sister’s big feelings.  It’s hard to wait.  Mommy is making you wait and it’s hard.  Sure Ruth doesn’t necessarily need the lecture on rudeness at the moment, but the mommy-in-training is, after all, only four.  She was just so calm and quiet and still for Ruth.  Both identifying and validating Ruth’s struggle, offering words of encouragement.  Ruth zeroed in on Hannah’s calmness and she herself calmed down and waited a little more patiently.  And patience doesn’t come easily to Ruth.

Sweet sweet Hannah Girlie.  Trying out her grace-filled mommy skills on her sister.  Someday she’s going to be a great mom to her fifteen kids.

**I might petition the greater English speaking community to change the word to “ruthful“. . . .

My baby is two.

And I’m having a hard time believing it.  I think she aged tremendously, just this week.  I know two is still really little, but it’s also getting pretty big.

Poor Ruthie was sick on her actual birthday, so we postponed her family birthday party two days, to give her a chance to stop barfing.  You can’t enjoy chocolate cake while you’re barfing.  So, we had her aunt and uncle and two cousins and grammy and grampy up for a little shindig on Friday and Ruthie had a ball.

She was inside-out excited when she opened a package from my sister and her family and found a little Abby Cadabby inside.  She kept digging deeper in the bag to find Elmo, but to no avail.  Her disappointment over Elmo’s absence was short-lived however.  When Hannah brought out the new umbrella stroller, once again Ruth was over the moon.  She spent the rest of the evening running Abby around in the stroller.  And by running, I mean running.  And each take-off would begin with Ruth picking up the stroller and slamming it down.  Then zooooom!!  Ry hoped that Abby had taken her dramamine.  The girl just cracked us all up.  I tried to push Abby just a bit to get her started:  “NO!”  “Ruthie, Abby so sweet.  May I give her a kiss?”  “NO!”  Nobody mess with her Abby.

Cake time comes.  “Ruth, you want to come get some cake?”  “No.”  “Really?  It’s cake.  You want some cake?”  “No.”  “You can bring Abby with you.  Abby can come with you.”  “Cake!”  And off she runs with Abby in her stroller.  Abby sat in her stroller right next to Ruth, with Ruth looking over to check on her periodically and to chat with her a bit.  At one point, Ruth looks to Abby and says, “Watch this, Abby!” and proceeds to pick up her scoop of ice cream in her hand and eat it.

Ruth pretty much amuses us all to no end.  She’s just the funniest little kid.  Really.  Really really.  I know, everyone thinks they have the funniest little kid.  But I really do.    There’s nothing delicate about her.  She knows her mind and she’s not afraid to speak it.  Well, as best she can at two.  But somehow, she succeeds in speaking it, no matter how limited her vocabulary has been.  No one will mess with Ruth.  We once joked about how enormous Isaac will be and how no one will mess with Isaac’s younger sisters when they hit dating age.  We’re now thinking no one will mess with Ruth’s older siblings.  “Oo.  Have you seen that Isaac?”  “Yeah.  But don’t mess with him.  He’s Ruth’s brother.”    At the same time, she’s sweet and caring.  When Hannah is upset, she’s the first to stand by her side and rub her back and hug her.  And sweet Hannah is so comforted.  She turns to Ruth’s open arms and they hug each other for a while.  This is, of course, only when Ruth is not the source of the pain and agony, like when she’s yanking Hannah’s hair out.

I look forward to seeing who Ruth turns out to be, who God has created her to be.  In the meantime, we can’t imagine life without this third one.  Ry and I both come from families with only two children.  In our families–our extended families, even–three kids is a lot.  That leads us to reflect often on life with three, and what an amazing blessing this third one is.

Happy Birthday, Ruthie Ruth.  Ruth Ann.  Roofie.  Ruthie Ann Kadiddlyhopper (your mom’s personal favorite).  And your own name for yourself, you who know best who you are:  Ruth.

Sooo . . . What silliness to talk about today?

Because silliness seems to be all I’m capable of today.

Well . . . there’s the fact that my dear husband made coffee again today.  While I was sleeping an extra 45 minutes, making up for the time I spent up with Ruth last night.  He also made hot cereal and straightened the kitchen some.  After thanking him, I said, “So should I blog about this, too?”  “It wouldn’t hurt.”    So here it is.  He’s the bestest man ever.  Really.  I got it good.

And . . . there’s the fact that as I write this my two girls are locked in the living room–one on the couch, one wandering around aimlessly–eating whole apples and watching Sesame Street.  Yep.  Exactly how I pictured my mornings as a progressive stay-at-home mom back when I had only one wee one to care for.  We used to have snack times.  We used to only eat at the table.  A toddler, especially, would never be out and about, wandering with food at random times.  And eating while watching TV?  Scandalous!  Certainly not!

Well.  There they are.  Munch.  Crunch.  Slurp.  Drip.  And here I sit.  Writing and drinking coffee I didn’t even have to make.  Barefoot, make-up free, dirty dishes scattered about me.  Nice.  I am Super Mom.  Hear me . . . yawn.

Ruth has been wandering around eating all morning.  I’m hoping the fact that it’s all healthy food will make up for the steady stream of calories entering her little body.  She already had breakfast with Ry before I got up.  A banana was involved, I’m not sure what else.  But then she starts helping herself to stuff.  Like we have a freezer-on-the-bottom refrigerator/freezer.  So she just opens that door right up.  Grabbing a bag off the door, she lifts it up, looks at it:  frozen blueberries.  “NnnoooooO.”  Sets it back down.  Next bag:  frozen raspberries.  “Rapbeyies,” as she lifts the bag up to me.  Sure, why not?  I grab the bag, she grabs the bowl.  Today I insist on the table because for the last week and a half she’s been eating her frozen raspberries while sitting on the little stool on the floor.  But we’re civilized people, so I insist on the table.  And she even insists on the spoon.  Nice.  I don’t know how she eats raspberries frozen.  I get brain freeze just looking at her.

Now . . . couple of minutes later . . . Ruth wanders back out to the kitchen.  Opens up the pantry cabinet next to the fridge.  Pulls out the bottom drawer full of cans.  “Hmm.  NoooO.  NoooO.  Oo.  Deans.”  Picks up the can of kidney beans, hands it to me.  I grab the can, she grabs the bowl.  Again I insist on the table.  Again she insists on the spoon.  See?  We are civilized.

Hannah, of course, didn’t partake in all this snacking.  So, when 10:15 rolls around, she is ready for a snack.  She’d like an apple.  Well, then.  Full-of-berries-and-beans Ruth sees the apple.  She too would like an apple.  So there they are:  apples and Elmo.  I didn’t insist on the table.  And you don’t need a spoon for an apple.  And civilization is highly overrated.

Now, back to my coffee.  And my mess.  And tomorrow I’ll be a better mom and homemaker.  For afterall . . . tomorrow is another day.

And for today’s visual:  Ruth in the Living Room of the Perpetual Mess.

For the record, she has lovely silver and pink with bangles dress-up shoes under that blankie dress.

Never mind. I’m too old for this . . . um . . . stuff!

So I wrote the whole nicey nicey “Love my kids” post wherein I claim God gave me my kids in just the right order.

I’ve changed my mind.  Cuz I’m getting old.  And this littlest one is going to be the death of me.  I’m too tired for this nonsense.  (I know you will hear this in the tongue-in-cheek manner in which it is written.)

First off, let me start with the “How I Started my Day” story.  After being up with Ruth for about 45 minutes beginning at 4AM, Ry was kind and generous enough to let me sleep some more when he got up with Isaac at 7:00.  I woke up at 8:00 and when I went into the bathroom I found Ruth there.  Standing at the sink, trying desperately to reach the Dixie “dups” to get a “dink”.  So, I ask myself, “How did Ruth get here?  Where is Ry?  Why is she alone in the bathroom with Ry nowhere in sight?”  I asked myself these questions, but deep down inside, in those secret places you don’t want to go, I knew the answer.  I did.  She got herself out of her crib and I have to start thinking about a sleeping arrangement that allows her to roam free at will.  At two days shy of 22 months. . . . I can’t think about that now.  I’ll think about it tomorrow.  For after all . . .

I’ll just move right on to Ruthie’s other latest trick.  Taking off her diaper and pooping on the floor and demanding a “Tub!”  Nice.  Really really nice.  I’m afraid, much against my pottying philosophy, I’m going to have to get proactive on the potty-training-teaching-learning-who-cares-it’s-all-a-mess-anyway front.  Under advisement of my dear old curmudgeonly friend, I have generally put off potty-training till the kid was all but begging to do it.  I didn’t go quite as far as she went with her older two, where they were, literally, begging to use the potty and get big-girl gotchies.  My kids hadn’t quite reached begging, but Isaac was nearly 3 1/2 before I put any real, concerted effort into the process and Hannah was completely self-motivated when she decided it was time to use the toilet at 2 years and 7 months.  (I know the exact age because I vividly remember Ruth was only two months and I would never in a zillion and a half years have suggested pottying to Hannah at that point.)

The benefit of waiting so long?  It was really simple.  Both times.  Isaac more so than Hannah, with no . . . um . . . solid accidents.  Some bizzarro issues to overcome, but no horrific messes.

Now.  Ruthie.  Keeps taking her diaper off.  Sometimes right after she poops, sometimes right before.  Generally we’re not around when it happens, she’s with a sibling or two in the gated-off living room, so I’m not sure if she’s like, “Hey!  I need to poop!  I don’t want to mess up this here diaper!”  Or, if she takes her diaper off (“Because I can.”) and then just happens to poop.  But, the frequency of the pattern is beginning to make me wonder if it is indeed the former.  I have even found her in the process of stripping a diaper that has (obviously) just recently been made wet.

The third option, though, is that the few times she did it, before this past week when it’s become a habit, she went right from the poopy mess to the bathtub.  So part of me is wondering if she thinks she’s found the ticket to the joyous slice of heaven known as the “DUB!”  As in “If I take off this poopy diaper or take off this diaper and poop on the floor, then I get a DUUUUHB!!!”  I wouldn’t put this last one past her.  Which is why she now gets cleaned up in the living room with the help of some antibacterials.  Just in case.  Lest you scoff, let me tell you the tale of her older sister who, around 18 months, would literally force herself to poop every time she sat on the potty.  Every time.  Several times a day.  She watched Prudence do it and she figured that’s how you use the potty:  poo-poo and wee-wee every time.  Can I just say, “Ick!“?

Anyway, I’m too squeamish for all this.  I’m not a body person.  I mean sure, sure, I know, I know, mind-body-spirit, all one, holistic, yada yada.  I know this.  But I’d rather live in my brain and never have to deal with body stuff.  And potty-learning just gets downright icky.  But right now the alternative is turning my living room into one big litter box and that’s not so appealing either.  So.  Here we go.  One last time. . . .

My apologies for the quality of the pic.  She hopped right off the potty as soon as she saw me coming with the camera, but I couldn’t resist providing you with a glimpse of Ruth as she looked this morning watching her potty show.

I love my kids . . .

and the God who gave them to me.

God knows what he’s doing and he gave me these three crazy, silly, completely unique kids . . . he gave me these kids.  Not the lady down the street.  He gave Ry and me these three kids, and for that I am so very grateful.  I love these kids.  The Boy and his intensity and non-stop verbiage and big schemes and dreams and passion for food and life and breath and the universe.  The Girl with her inborn empathy and compassion and soft and tender heart who will love anyone into submission and peace and who will lull people into complacency but with her sharp mind and wit take them completely off guard.  And that Other Girl with her spunk and her fire and her tenacity and her temper and her humor and her stubbornness and her own non-stop verbiage.  All three of them.  So very different, such wonderful gifts.

We’ve spent some time reflecting on their birth order, how they came in such a good order. Having our Boy first was perfect.  He’s just so very intense, he requires so very much energy, perseverance, and patience.  But because he was our first, we just figured that was the way our babies were made. We simply met him where he was and went from there; there was no point of comparison.  Then Hannah came along and I still remember vividly Ry and myself looking at her, wondering what was wrong with her because she just sat there.  In one place.  With one toy.  And she was so, so, very quiet and required next to nothing.  As long as she had her mommy and her milk, she was AOK.  I can’t imagine if Isaac had to follow her, if we were asking ourselves, “What is wrong with him?“  I’m afraid we would have pushed until we did find something “wrong” with him and then we never would have grown to have this great appreciation for who he is, for his qualities that will lead him to take over the world.

And then came Ruth.  Who is so interesting.  She split the difference between Isaac and Hannah as we all predicted, because, really, there was nowhere else to go:  Isaac and Hannah are so very different.  What she required of us that her birth order provided is our mellowed attitude.  We’ve been around the block a few times.  Go ahead, throw your head back into the oak molding, you still have to come with us.  Sure! fling yourself to the ground kicking and screaming, you just let me know when you’re done and we’ll carry on with our day.  Oh dear, you seem to have flung yourself into a support beam and split your face in two, I think we need to go the emergency room now.  She needed to be third.  We needed her to be third.

Sometimes I worry about Hannah in the middle.  Worry that she’ll disappear in her quiet, subdued way in the middle of these two loud, boisterous lunatics.  But then I think, No.  She’s so completely connected to the ones on either side of her; she looks out for them, she seeks them out to hug and kiss (or poke or jump on).  She worries about them when they’re sick, she lifts their needs before us, urging us to care for them.  Above all else, she hates to be alone, always has.  So I’m happy for her that with an older brother and a younger sister, she likely won’t be left alone.  When we’ve suggested time out with just her and her two parents, she’s disturbed at the thought:  what about Isaac?  What about Roofie?  And when she’s sick of her brother or sister, when she just needs someone to love on her and take care of her, she just climbs right up on our lap, or into our bed, or between our hug.  She’s not only aware of the love and care others need, she’s aware of her own need for love and affection.  We call it her “snuggle tank” and she lets us know when it’s empty.

I love these kids.  I love the God who gave them to us.  He gave them to us, created them individually, in just the right way, in just the right time, in just the right family.  I pray he gives me the grace and the love and the fortitude and perseverance to do right by them.  God’s beautiful children.

Ruthie’s new words

Ruthie has added some new words to her vocabulary this week.

tase=Cyber Chase

ruff!=Ruff Ruffman

bvhy (rhymes with eye)=Super Why!

teet=Sesame Street

elmo=well, Elmo.

All of those things can be found here.  Just in case there’s any confusion.  Guess what my house-full of sick kids has been doing a whole lot of this week. Slap that on top of my purposely killing all the good, healthy bacteria in their guts, the Krispy Kremes, their isolation from church for two weeks . . . Mommy of the Year, I tell ya.  Mommy of the Year.

Seriously, Ruthie’s new words are awfully cute.  She’s also added some non-TV related words:

dink=drink, of water

gook=milk.  usually cow milk, though occasionally it replaces her *gasp* f0r Mommy-milk

meemee=Grammy or Grampy, must discern from context.

And, the all important,

ankie=yep, you guessed it, blankie

She’s also been entertaining this week by hanging her head over the puke bucket Isaac’s had to use and sputtering, spitting, drooling and coughing into it.  Nice.

Ruthie’s growing vocabulary

To further my mission to blog more I’ve decided to take some days to describe my kids one by one. For posterity’s sake. They’re each so different and they’re each at such neat ages, I think it will be fun for me to have a record of this time to look back on. I’ll start with Ruth.

Ruth. Ruth cracks me up. Cracks us all up. She is fiery. Feisty. With a hair-trigger temper. Much screaming. Head thrown back–sometimes into door-frames, walls, floors, Mommy’s jaw–SCREAM!!! We don’t do much in the way of baby signing, but we did teach her the sign for “more” because from the time she began eating solids, as soon as her tray/plate was empty she would start screeaming at the top of her lungs. Loudly. And repeatedly. So we figured we’d give her the tool she needed to get her needs across. So, more. She can sign more.

The rest of her vocabulary is quite limited. She can say Mama and Mommy, Dada and Daddy. The most surprising linguistic feat, to me anyway, is that she’s been saying Isaac for months. Maybe 4? So since she’s around 16 months. Isaac. Clear as a bell. The -z- sound, everything. But she can’t say Hannah. For Hannah she says “Eee.” Come to think of it, “Eee” is a very popular moniker applied liberally to a great variety of things: her cousins’ names, Jamie and Kristin (yes, both); Pretty? (as in, while grabbing at pants or shirt, “Isn’t my shirt pretty?”; water (not to be confused with cow milk, which is called Eeek); banana; blankie; and the signal that she has just pooped in her diaper . . . just to name a few. She calls all babies “uN.” She calls my sister LaLa with great gusto, though her poor husband falls into the generic “Eee” category.

Come to think of it, she really is a generalist. She can say lots of animal noises: pig (gohk gohk), sheep (bah!), dog (oof, oof, ad infinitum), cow (boooo), horse (boooo), reindeer (boooo), giraffe (boooo) and pretty much all birds talk like chickens (bahk), including the majestic American Bald Eagle who says “Bahk!” Oh. And I just learned tonight that broccoli is also bahk. Go figure.

As amusing as all these things are, this week Ruth has acquired a new sign for communicating. Actually, I think she acquired it last Sunday while I was watching the Philadelphia Eagles (sadly) lose to the Redskins. As you can well imagine, figuring out exactly what Ruth wants is quite a challenge, given her limited vocabulary. There’s a whole lot of “Eee!” followed by a whole lot of guesses. “D’you want water? D’you want a banana? D’you want some yogurt?  Did you poop?” Before last Sunday, a correct guess would be met with great enthusiasm: she’d get excited and bounce up and down and her hands would perform a near perfect ASL sign for “Yes.” This week, it changed. Now when you guess correctly her little hands shoot straight up in the air, elbows by her ears, face filled with glee as if to say, “Touchdown!!!” I don’t know how I don’t fall over laughing every time. My brother-in-law received his first “Touchdown!!” affirmation yesterday. He reported it with a big silly grin on his face. “It’s the first time I ever got the touchdown yes. It’s remarkably gratifying. It makes you feel so good, like ‘YES!’” And it does. You really do feel like you’ve just scored a touchdown.

Next week, I’m getting her pom poms. Green and white ones. Just in time for the Wildcard game.

We all love our Ruthie Ruth.  I tried to get a pic of her “Touchdown!!” but she won’t let me take her picture these days because all she wants to do is look at the digital camera screen.  So I go to take the pic and she starts running toward me to look at the other side of the camera.  All I’m getting these days are good shots of her nose hairs.  Hopefully this phase will end quickly.  In the meantime, here’s one of her with her hair in a ponytail, admiring her pretty self.