Triple Threat - Or How the Pants Problem Has Hit the Wheezers

Before the advent of the 90s, I assumed there were only two ways to wear pants: clean or dirty. Now that I am much older and fashions have changed, alas, I have learned wearing pants has become an artform.

Take S. for example. She is 9 and is only comfortable in her pants if she is in danger of exposing her nether regions. When she was a toddler, 'pull up your pants' became a constant theme in our house. She is quite thin, so I can kind of wrap my head around why she might have trouble keeping her pants in her hip region.

Moving on to L. This child knows how to wear pants. Hers always sit right at hip height. Never do I see any part of her rear end while she is out in public. Ah, I am so proud.

Now we have A. She is three, and she insists on keeping her pants yanked up as far as they will go. The child has a constant wedgie, and I just can't understand it. Isn't it uncomfortable? It sure makes me wince.

With S. we worry about the top part of her bottom hanging out. With A., she yanks her shorts up so high, we worry about the bottom part of her, er, bottom hanging out.

I wonder if I can get L. to give her sisters instruction on how pants are supposed to be worn...

Overheard...

L. has a best buddy, P., who she claims she will marry some day.

While walking along behind L. and P. (who were holding hands, awwwww), I overheard L. telling P. all about their future life together.

L.: When we grow up and get married, then your little brother will be my brother! For real!!!
P.: Can we count now?
L. & P.: 1, 2, 3, 4...

They pooped out on the counting right around 48.

P. is an adorable little boy, but I hope he and L. never date. I want to use him as a spy on the boys she does wind up dating some day...

Fun is when...

your 2 year old begins to quack like a duck...

loudly...

longly ...

in church ....

during service ...

while Communion is being served.

Becauthe the talkth like thith...

After 2.5 years hemming and hawing and trying to figure out therapy and schedules, we finally started L. on speech therapy. Her first session was today, and she skipped merrily off with her therapist. Literally. It completely cracked up the entire waiting room as she flipped her ponytail back and forth.

They have begun work on the letter 's' which I cannot recall having ever heard L. pronounce properly. This includes the times she and I have stood in front of the bathroom mirror practicing. The little mite just can't seem to keep her tongue back on the right side of her teeth.

She came skipping back to me after her session, pretty pleased with herself. The dark cloud fell when I told her she had to go back to school so I could go to work. When she threatened to run away from me, I informed her that threatening to run off was not okay at all. My response made her start to cry... Mommy guilt is in huge overdrive today.

Ah, well, I am taking vacation two days next week and plan to spend one of them with the L.-bug. Maybe spending the day together will ease the guilt a trifle.

Meanwhile, Mr. W. and I will have to sort out schedules for taking L. to her 10:30 appointment twice a week. It is inconvenient timing, but I am grateful that she is going to a very reputable clinic that is part of the local university. I am also grateful that the cost for a semester of one hour/week therapy time is costing us a grand total of $50.

Red Letter Day

Miss A., after weeks of struggling, has managed to put her shoes on. The velcro is undone and the shoes are on the wrong feet, but she did it all by her little lonesome.

Of course, I had taken her shoes OFF in order to get her ready to take a nap... This one has a defiant streak a mile wide.

Ham soup for breakfast

It's Saturday morning in the Wheezer household. S. played a basketball game this morning. We signed L. up for tee-ball, and A. has gone happily about her way.

I missed breakfast thanks to being blessedly slow to get ready this morning. Now that the younger two girls and I are back home, I decided to get some breakfast. Mr. W. made some really delicious ham soup earlier this week, and it really hit the spot.

While I have been eating L. and A. have been amusing themselves with Liza, the cat. Both the girls and the cat seem to be enjoying themselves, and the running commentary from L. has been hilarious.

L.: Liza tripped A. (complete with the singsong tattletale tone).
Mrs. W.: Liza makes everybody trip.
L.: What about Nadya? (our other cat)
Mrs. W.: Eliza makes Nadya run away.
L.: Why?
Mrs. W.: She is shy.
L.: Why?
Mrs. W.: Why do you ask so many questions? It's just in her nature.
L.: Why?

While playing with a feathery, jingly cat toy.

L.: Here, A. shake it like this and then throw it.
A. shakes and throws. Liza ignores the toy.
L. picks up the toy, shakes and throws again, this time beaning the cat. Liza runs off.
L.: Mom, why did Liza run away?

After I spotted L. tracking Liza with a big blanket.

Mrs. W.: Don't you put that blanket on the cat.
L. putting down the blanket dejectedly: Okay, I won't.

L.: Look! Liza let A. pet her!

L.: Mom! Can I pick up Liza? She touched me, but she didn't scratch me!

L.: Mama! Mama! She's giving her a bath. (As Liza attempts to groom herself despite the 'help' of two little girls.)

Liza is the world's most tolerant cat. Or at least, she is in the top 10. In the nearly 8 years she has been subjected to children, she has not scratched, bit, yowled or hissed at any of my kids. She has had ample provocation, too.

The Hope Suit

At the beginning of my pregnancy with S., I had bleeding issues. Lots of bleeding issues. Bleeding issues that led my doctor to give me a hug and tell me he was so sorry I had to go through this with my first pregnancy. He told me anything could happen, but that this pregnancy did not look healthy. I should be warned that it was likely I would miscarry.

I was a mess. I cried, I prayed, I begged God to let me keep this baby.

And I continued to bleed.

Blood tests came back with hormone levels rising normally.
Ultrasound came back with a little heartbeat fluttering away.

And I continued to bleed. In fact, the bleeding became heavier.

Mr. W. found me in the shower sobbing one morning when I had passed a clot. He hugged me and insisted that I was still pregnant.

That was the day I went shopping. I needed a talisman, a solid object I could look at and take comfort in. I drove to WalMart hoping to find the perfect stuffed animal or baby blanket. Instead, I found a white Winnie the Pooh sleeper with green trim around the cuffs and little pictures of Pooh, Tigger and Piglet all over. It was a size 6 to 9 months.

I can remember holding it tight and trying not to cry in the middle of the store. When I got home, I hung the sleeper up in the middle of my closet. Every morning when I got dressed, I would stroke the little suit and say a little prayer of hope.

The bleeding continued. It lasted 30 miserable, emotional, crazy days. But I was still pregnant, and on April 17, 2002, I gave birth to a squalling, healthy baby girl weighing 10 lbs 3 oz and measuring 22.5 inches long.

I do not credit the Hope Suit, as I've come to call it, with giving me a healthy baby. However, I did come to understand how much a physical object can come to mean to a person.

PS: All three of my daughters have worn the Hope Suit at some point in their lives.

*sniff* *sniff* So Very, Very Proud

At the ripe old age of 4 and a half, L. has learned to cross one eye whole holding the other one still.

She gets that from me.

I'm so proud.

Aren't They Just Adorable?

What would a DaVinci exhibit be without Carnival masks?

Of Strawberries and Bar-B-Q

Miss A. shows a very decided preference for strawberries and anything that could have bbq sauce on it. It's to the point that if we are having one or the other, I have to hide them until after she has eaten the other foods with her meal. Otherwise, she refuses everything until she has gorged herself on the favored foods.

Neither of the first two ever showed that strong a preference for a particular food.

We drove down to Llano, Texas in order to enjoy some of Cooper's BBQ last month. It is Mr. W's favorite place to eat, and this was the first time he ever took me. Kind of a fun place where you pick out your food from the pits outside and take it inside to be weighed, cut and eaten.

Miss A. ate more of the bbq than I have ever seen her eat in a single meal. The kid sucked this stuff down FAST. We had leftovers we took home and reheated a couple days later. When she caught the aroma and saw the plate piled with the brisket and sausage, she squealed. Again, she sucked the food down.

Earlier, she pitched a fit because I did not have enough strawberries to suit her at supper. This was after she'd eaten plenty of other food. But darnit, she WANTED more strawberries!

Is it bad that I still giggle when I watch a baby pitch a wall-eyed hissy fit?

Conversation at Dinner

S: Do boys get more baths than girls?

Mrs. W: What?

S: Do boys get more baths than girls?

Mrs. W: Say that again?

S: Do boys get more baths than girls?

Mrs. W: Boys usually get as many baths as girls... Why do you ask?

S: Boys are more stinky than girls.

So very, very many firsts

February 6th. 1st Birthday

Amelia turned 1 year old. How, oh how, did the time fly by so quickly. She is a joy and a raging terror at the same time. Her curiosity is infinite, along with her ability to get into trouble. I had her home with her oldest sister one day, when I thought they were both sick. During the course of the day, I wore out my voice and my back redirecting her and pulling her out of trouble.

She ripped the covers off some books, shredded the pages and began eating them. She got into the bathroom and shredded a good portion of a roll of toilet paper. She snatched a chunk of fur off the cat and ate it. She pitched multiple royal fits when she found she could not get into certain drawers and cupboards. And on and on and on.

February 7th. - Our first shared birthday party and house fire.

In a fit of 'efficiency' mindedness, I decided we could combine A.'s 1st birthday with L.'s 4th birthday. L. is still young enough not to mind, and A. is still clueless. I figure that will change very, very soon.

We invited a bunch of people to our house, including a couple of L.'s buddies from daycare. The kids all had a great time running around like hooligans. The adults seemed to enjoy themselves, too, thanks to Mr. W.'s provisions. Honestly, he tends to put enough food out to feed an entire professional football team.

Now, I know you're DYING to hear about the housefire. Weelllll... I baked a cake early-ish in the morning and did not like how it turned out. So, I baked a second late-ish in the morning (party was scheduled to start at 2). In a rather stupid attempt to speed things along, I popped the baked cake under the broiler in order to toast the marshmallow topping just a wee bit faster. It should have been in there for a minute. Just as I shut the oven door, S. slammed L.'s fingers in a door. I completely forgot about the cake while kissing boo-boos and yelling at the door slammer until smoke and flames started pouring out of my oven. Seriously, I had scorch marks on my white oven door handle.

I managed to get the fire out without hosing down the inside of my oven with fire extinguisher stuff, but my house was FULL of smoke. You know how when you're a kid, the firefighters come and tell you that smoke rises? They're not kidding... at all. I put the charcoal cake out on the back porch so it would quit smoking up the house. It made for quite the conversation piece during the party.

My husband and his dad are two peas in a pod. During the conflagration, Mr. W. was out of the house picking up balloons. His first response when he got home? Maybe we can scrape off the top. When I showed him exhibit A., he said, 'Never mind.' When my father in law heard the story, his first response was, 'Maybe we can scrape off the top.' When I showed HIM the wreckage, he just started laughing to the point tears were forming. I've got a good picture of the cake, but I'm not sure where Mr. W. stashed his camera. I'll post it when I can.

February 8. - First broken molar

The tooth my dentist said needed a crown decided to start falling to pieces. Fortunately, this was not especially painful. Getting the crown later in the week was less than pleasant. Getting the bill was even less pleasant.

My dentist would give Doogie Houser a run for his money. This makes me feel old. Only old people need crowns (yes, I know how that sounds) and only old people fuss about how young their doctor is. Seriously, I thought the guy was a high schooler doing some sort of work study until I realized he wasn't there for giggles.

February 12. - First cancer diagnosis

Technically, my dad got his cancer diagnosis earlier than the 11th, but that is the day I got the news. It's supposed to be taken care of with surgery, but still, the 'C' word is scary stuff.

On the one hand, it feels unreal. I'm staunchly in the middle of the denial stage. Because, you know, it's just not possible for your parent to have a life-threatening illness. It's just impossible.

On the other hand, I'm kind of mad. How could something so nasty be growing on my oh-so-wonderful dad?

February 17th. - First word

Miss A. has decided to offend both her dad and me by her choice of first word. S. and L. both said 'dada' first. I have been working with A. trying to get a 'mama' for first word. Nothing doing with her, though. Instead, it's 'ka! ka! ka!' for one of our cats. Her second word is 'kee ka' which she uses for our other cat.

I could handle falling behind dad, but coming after not one but two cats? I get no respect.

Hanging up the Horns

10 months for S.
12 months for L.
11 months for A.

That is 2 years, 9 months of my life devoted to pumping milk at work for my babies. I'm through!

No, A. is not weaned. No, I am not giving up pumping altogether. I am just done hauling the pump and paraphernalia back and forth to work every day. Of all the drudgery that accompanies pumping, the back-and-forth aspect isthe most onerous (to me, anyway).

When L. was a baby, I bought a second pump so I could leave one at work. However, in a moment of 'we're never having any more babies, so why do I need two pumps'-itis, I sold one to a co-worker. Since we are now 100% committed to 'we're never having any more babies'-itis, I decided not to fork over the large chunk of change for a new pump.

This is only day 2 of no pumping during the work day, and I'm pretty uncomfortable. I'll pump when I get home, though and am guaranteed to get at least 10 ounces. Actually, yesterday, I managed to extract 12.

I felt oddly naked walking into work yesterday. All I carried was my purse. It's been a very long time since I didn't have a laptop or pump to haul in with me in the morning. This morning was easier since I had the laptop.

Based on previous experience, A. will wean around 14 months old following a steady decline in breastmilk production. Since she was 11 months on Tuesday, this very special time is drawing to a close. I don't miss the pregnancy part of having a baby, but boy do I love nursing my little girls. Is it bad that I hope A. breaks the trend and nurses to 18 months?

Important Bulletin: 3 Year Olds are Extremely Literal

Some days, it feels like I will be a successful parent if I give my children the tools to become financially prosperous enough to afford the therapy they will ultimately require...

L. had been twirling 'round and around and 'round the living room to the point of becoming staggeringly dizzy. This is a source of great fun for both my older girls. I watched from the nearby rocking chair nursing Amelia and called out, 'L. did you know if you spin and spin and spin until you're very dizzy, you can lay down on the floor and the ceiling will spin?'

S. heard and immediately spun herself dizzy, lay down and watched the ceiling 'spin' around. She giggled the whole time.

L. was too impatient to spin enough to become properly dizzy, but she tried multiple times to catch the spinning ceiling.

Mr. W. called the girls in for their bath, and after L. was clean and in her pajamas, she came back to the living room and tried again. This time, she spun and spun and spun to the point of staggering around. When she lay down, though, the giggles disappeared. She looked panicked and began trying to crawl out of the living room but was still too dizzy to make much progress.

Poor baby thought the ceiling really was twirling and falling down on her. For most of the rest of the evening, she refused to walk through the center of the living room and eyed the ceiling with deep suspicion.

Mr. W. was in the girls' room with S. prodding her into pajamas, and L. took off after them. I called out, 'Don't let her spin in her room!!!!'

Mr. W. came back to the living room to ask why, and I told him what had happened just a few minutes prior. He didn't quite get it until I told him I did NOT want L. afraid to sleep in her own room for fear the ceiling was going to fall in on her.

(What sorts of careers do provide for either the mental health benefits or the high pay that many, many years' therapy will require?)

We have too much Wii

S. is trying desperately to turn into a video game junkie, but her mean old mommy just won't let her.

Last Christmas, Santa brought us a Wii system, and we've thoroughly enjoyed it. I love that L and S can both play together and that the games require a certain amount of moving around.

The current big hit with the girls is Mario Party 8. You have the full spectrum of Mario Brothers characters who can all play various mini-games and board games. The girls have been playing board games against each other and two computer generated opponents. Each round of play starts with each player punching a die and traveling the number of spaces the die shows. Candy is available which gives a special power to the player. At the end of each round, there is a mini-game all four players play. Winner gets extra coins.

I let S and L play for about 30 minutes last night and then turned it off. Boy did S. fuss! Wouldn't you know that after supper, they pretended to be in the game. They picked characters' names, jumped up to hit the 'dice' and ran laps around the living room counting the number that turned up on their 'dice.'

L. insisted she was eating her 'bat' candy, so her running around involved a lot of wing flapping.

Maybe it's time for me to 'lose' Mario Party for a few days?

Early (morning) birthday present

I recently had a birthday, and it was lovely. I spent the entire weekend with my girls (except for a couple hours Sunday morning when S. decided she'd rather scream and cry than go to church).

Friday evening, we had a fabulous birthday-eve evening. We pulled out the hide-a-bed in the living room, popped popcorn, and watched movies until we passed out. A. woke around midnight, so I got up from the hide-a-bed and fed her. By the time I had her soothed and asleep, Mr. W. had snitched my place. Being good-natured (and thinking I'd be more comfy in my own bed), I left him there. Around four, A. woke again, and Mr. W. came in to see how things were going, and to wish me happy birthday.

I told him he'd stolen my spot next to L. He offered it back (oh, how sweet), but I told him he should probably keep it since A. will probably be up again by 6.

Alas, my prediction was 100% wrong.

I woke at 6, not from the sounds of A. fussing to be held or fed, but from a ruckus in the living room. The scene in the living room was:

Mr. W. was running around grabbing blankets and pillows and grumping, 'I need a shower. I need a shower!'

S. was still sacked out on the bed.

L. was pirouetting around the room singing, 'I wet the bed! I wet the bed!'

And I, I laughed until tears poured down my face. Once we had everybody cleaned up and the mattress marinating in a vinegar spray, I gave Mr. W. a kiss and told him 'Thanks for the early birthday present.'

I had thought about waking L. around 4 to take her to the potty. She did drink two cups of juice with all that popcorn. Mental note for next living room campout!

I Not L, I Tinkerbell!

L. is in the middle of a love affair with Tinkerbell, and I think it is adorable.

We have a tattered old Tinkerbell costume that L. adores. When she gets home in the evening, one of the first things she does is strip out of her play clothes and put on that costume. The wings are falling off the back, the hemline is approaching Paris Hiltonesque proportions and the fluffy little skirt is unraveling. But, L. loves it.

So long as she is wearing that costume, she refuses to answer to her name. We must call her Tinkerbell.

The funniest thing about it, though, is that she immediately changes back into her play clothes at meal time. She doesn't want to get food on her precious Tinkerbell dress. I'm more accustomed to three year olds who insist they will NOT change a treasured piece of clothing.

I have the fixings to make a new costume, and hope to have three matching costumes made for the girls for Christmas. Who knows if I will find the time, but I plan to send Mr. W. out with the girls over the Thanksgiving break giving me a few hours with the sewing machine. Wish me luck!

At least it wasn't RSV

Miss A. knows how to do misery right. Poor little lamb ran the full spectrum last week and this past weekend.

Fever, congestion, wheezing and the struggles to breathe weren't enough. She also cut her first two teeth. Poor little thing.

She is a pretty remarkable baby, though. Through it all, she still remained in pretty good spirits, so long as I was holding her. At the doctor's office, she went to the nurse, the x-ray tech (had to rule our pneumonia), back to the nurse and back to the x-ray tech without complaining. I had to run into work for a few minutes with her and stashed her with three different people so I could get a few things done. Again, no complaints (but she was awfully glad to see me).

She would have an awful coughing fit and then go right back to cooing and babbling just as soon as it was over.

I wasn't kidding when I told Nurse Bonnie that A. is like that fantasy made-up perfect baby. She makes me feel positively competent as a parent.

What has she been up to lately?

Baby A is on the move. Crawling, standing, trying desperately to pull up. Here are some pictures from when she turned six months old earlier this month:

Crawling, with drool:


Standing with drool:

Love those baby blues, without drool:

First Aid in the First Grade

S started first grade on Tuesday. Where, oh where, has the time gone. She has gotten to be such a big girl. It sounds like she had a good first day, even came home with a band-aid after ripping a scab off her elbow while playing outside.



First day of school. Can you tell she just could not WAIT for me to get out of there?