The Taste of Spring

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Happy to be outside on their bikes!

Yes, we got that sweet taste of Spring yesterday afternoon.  

The sidewalks cleared of snow early in the morning, and the sun smeared itself onto the land through the grey clouds above.  It is obvious that Mario has Spring fever – he continues to rip off his pants and pull-ups, and dance around the house half-naked screaming “Naked boy!”  Maria is less obvious in her antics but I know that she is anxious to see the sun and warm days with the way she talks about picnics in the park, swimming at the pool and biking around the neighborhood.  

When Maria woke up from her nap at 5 pm, it was still light and a balmy 39 degrees.  We threw on our coats and hats and gloves, and headed outside.  Half way out the door, Maria remembered that she needed her knee pads and her helmet.  I had to give her my bike helmet because she has officially grown out of her Dora one (poor girl has her daddy’s head)!  I grabbed Maria’s bike in one hand and Mario’s plastic big wheel in the other.  I made sure Maria’s bike was in the front because Maria gets very upset when her brother gets ahead of her; she worries that he will go in the street or hit a pothole.  “I need to be the leader so my brother does not get hurt.”  

Of course, Mario got irritated with this arrangement at first.  But he felt better after I told him that he was in charge of “saving” Ria if she needed a push from behind.  We trucked it up the street with Maria leading the way in her velvet green dress and white stockings.  Mario did not do a bad job keeping up with her, especially on a plastic big wheel.  When we reached Grandview Avenue, we took turns pressing the walk button.  They ran back to their bikes at my command and we darted across the street as soon as we had the walk sign (this is quite a sight with me running up to push Maria onto the opposite sidewalk ramp and then running back to help Mario get across the street before the light turns green for the cars).  

We finally arrive at Panera.  

Maria has been concerned with her manners and etiquette lately because of a Princess CD that talks about them all the time.  We ordered Broccoli and Cheese soup and wheat bread.  She placed her napkin on the neck of her dress and picked up her spoon.  She filled her spoon half-way, blew on the soup, and ate it pristinely.  I worried I had an alien daughter for a second but then she asked “Mom, am I showing good etiquette?”  As much as I detest those princesses, I have to give ’em a shout for pushing the etiquette.  It was like eating with another adult. Amazing.  

Meanwhile, her heathen brother sat in his chair with a straw in one hand acting like he was shooting bystanders.  After playing that for five minutes, he jumped down from his chair and ran over to the counter trying to play hide-n-seek with the Panera workers.  I scolded Mario for the next 20 minutes about sitting still (worked really well).  I sighed.  Maria sighed.  Then Maria lamented that Mario has no etiquette, and that he really needed to learn some quickly.  I seconded that, and we grabbed him and left to the workers’ glee. 

Maria wanted ice cream at Jeni’s but we had to discuss whether Mario should get any because he did not act the best at Panera.  Maria finally made the executive call that Mario should get some but only because we loved him.  Mario has no idea how much that sis of his stands up for him.  We ate our “purple ice cream” (black currant yogurt – yum!) while sitting in our favorite booth next to the picture window.  We love it because we can people and dog watch and comment on which dogs we would want to own and which we think are better left with their respective owners.   We finally finished up and jumped back on our bikes for the ride home.  

I saw a glimpse of Mario in his later years on the ride home.  Maria is a fairly careful biker – she pedals pretty good on a long stretch of sidewalk but when the handicap ramp comes she makes a complete stop and slowly goes down the miniscule ramp.  Then she stops at the sister handicap ramp and usually needs a push to get up the ramp.  Then there is speed racer, Mario.  He sees the tiny down ramp and jives up those little legs pedaling as if to get away from a horrid monster behind him.  He soars down the ramp and slides on the pavement with no control.  It jars him and I get prepared to have to soothe him from the scare.  But no, he looks up at me with a smile from ear to ear and pronounces “that was so fun, mommy!”  I can already see him with his buddies coming home every day with a new bruise or laceration.  

Spotting the nest above

When we were almost home, Mario looked up in one of the adolescent trees on the street and shouted “Look Mom, bird nest!”  He had spotted a newly spun nest.  We stared at it for a few moments and I commented that this was a great taste of Spring.  “Where are the birds, mommy?” asked Mario.  “They are gathering more twigs to build the nest even bigger, Mario,” I responded.   Maria looked at me and replied “The nest looks pretty good to me, mom.” 

Yes, it does, little one.  And Spring is another day closer.         

The inspiring sight of Spring

Just Say No

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M&M at Krogers (for Halloween): a little better place to run around!

I should have declined. 

When my dad told me that he was bringing Grandma Menkedick and Grandpa Bill up to see my little brother in his first OSU play and that they wanted to have dinner with us prior to the show, I should have said “no.” Not because I dislike my Grandma Menkedick or Grandpa Bill.  In fact, every chance I get, I see them. But because my children display the absolute worst manners ever possible when out at a restaurant. 

My husband has mini-coronary arrests when we are out because he cannot stand the sight of them running around and acting goofy.  I, on the other hand, do not quite get to that level but I do get frustrated and anxious, especially when older guests are eating with us.  Why? Because 9.9 out of 10 of them do not find anything funny about two children running around the table, climbing underneath it, banging their spoons, and winging table scraps at each other.  In fact, they cannot even hide their disdain.  They either stare at them in disgust or they shake their heads and sport those disappointing faces with the mouth turned down and eyelids half-shut. 

Maria and Mario did better tonight than they have in months at other restaurants (may have had to do with Jon and I both lecturing them for the past few days about acting right or taking every privilege from tv to eating away from them!).  Nonetheless, they still didn’t sit still, they still moved chairs and climbed on them, and they still whined about how long the food was taking to arrive at our table. 

Grandma Menkedick just chuckles through it all but I heard her true feelings the other day when I called her.  She went on and on for 10 minutes about my cousin’s children and how well behaved they are when they eat with her.  I joked “and mine aren’t Grandma?”   She sat there in silence probably trying not to scream “Hell No!” and then responded with a slight laugh stating “You just have to keep working with them, Mary.”  Nonetheless, god love her, she did not make any comments while this was going on and she did not engage in any head movements or sighs that would make me even more anxious and irritable.  She is an extraordinary grandma to say the least. 

Grandpa Bill is pretty good, too.  Although, I still get the feeling that he reflects back to his days raising my stepmom and her brother and sisters and thinks “I would never have allowed….”  But, again, he gives slight smiles and sticks in there as the two crazy children climb on me and dump the salt and interrupt every word I say. 

So, again I walked out of the restaurant thinking “no way will I return until the children are 18, if then.”  Of course, I will be back in another week or two with the two of them in tow, meeting grandma or a cousin or a friend, and I will get that anxious and frustrated feeling back as I try to control the two nutballs.  If I was more of a disciplinarian, I would simply put them in the corner or enforce a no tv rule on them but so far I have found that I don’t have it in me.  Nonetheless, I feel the day a comin’ around the corner and when it does, watch out you two – I owe you some!

Not My Garlic Bread!

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Maria eating her pasta

Maria was starving when we got home from school last night.  She opened the freezer and found a frozen spaghetti dinner that also included a slice of garlic bread.  You would have thought the box contained a princess Barbie or gold.  She held it up in the air as if it were magical, and screamed “Mom, can I have this for dinner!” 

Well, before my organic, “my kids would never eat microwaveable food” mothers go nuts, I typically cook spaghetti with wheat noodles and pour on some yummy tomato sauce.  However, I was tired last night.  I had felt nauseous all day and I just wanted to sit down on the couch and rest.  So, it was Maria’s lucky night. 

We popped the dinner in the microwave, and kept the bread out until the dinner cooked.  The entire time the dinner was cooking, Maria kept touching the plastic on the garlic bread and chanting “this bread is going to be so yummy.”  I made some other toast with our wheat bread and slathered butter and garlic salt on it.  I told Maria that this bread would taste just as good.  She knew better.  She has experienced “true” white bread garlic bread smothered in butted and garlic before – at our local pasta shoppe – so there was no tricking her.  One bite of that wheat imposter, and she made it clear that the plastic wrapped garlic bread was her choice. 

The spaghetti finished and the garlic bread went in.  Twenty seconds later, the bread came out.  Maria ogled it.  I broke the bread in half and told Maria she had to split it with Mario.  She protested at first but figured she would get Mario’s half anyway since he eats nothing but Goldfish and suckers.  I took the two pieces of bread to the kids’ Dora table and went back in the kitchen where Maria was putting parmesan cheese on her spaghetti. 

Before I knew it, I heard Mario running into the kitchen and yelling for Cy.  Next thing I knew, Maria was screaming uncontrollably and then sobbing and then darting toward her brother with both arms out ready to strangle his little neck.  I caught her during the choke hold, and pushed her aside.  She ran in the living room like a frantic lost animal. 

“Daddy, Mario fed my garlic bread to Cy!” 
“Maria, it is ok, we can make you some more.”

Still sobbing uncontrollably “No, Dad, that was the only good piece we had and Mario fed it to Cy.”  She threw herself onto the chair and cried and cried and cried.  Mario tried to get near her and she scolded him to get away from her.  “I never want to be your sister again!” 

Pretty harsh words over a piece of garlic bread.  Ahh, but that is our Maria.  She enjoys her food and is willing to give up friendships and even family when it comes down to it.  Mario has bitten her, scratched her, head-butted her, hit her, pulled her hair, and she still gives him hugs and kisses and sings “I love you little brother.”  But last night, he went too far.  He relinquished Maria’s garlic bread to the dog. 

It may take days, even months, for him to win her back over.   I advised him to invest in another piece of garlic bread, and this time, to make sure the dog is no where in sight.  Kroger’s here we come….

Hope

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Maria enjoying dress up at school

I drove downtown today to head to an appointment to tour the YWCA in hopes of volunteering there in the future.  I got thrown back in time as I drove down Spring Street towards the heart of downtown.  I had taken that route for eight years – four of them with my daughter to and from daycare at Bright Horizon’s at Grant Hospital and two of them with my daughter and son.  

I had placed my daughter in the Grant daycare because it was directly across the street from my law firm.  I still remember those first few months of dropping her off at daycare, age three months old.  It devastated me to drop her off in the morning because she always cried – always.  The daycare providers tried to console her but unfortunately they had lots of other screaming babies to console (although I would always unreasonably expect that my sweet baby should get all of the attention – not those other babies).  What made it worse, too, was that I would go over in the mid-morning or early afternoon to see her, and she would be crying when I walked in the room.  

This pissed me off beyond belief.  I would remain calm and pick her up and try to talk to the girls about different ways to calm her down.  They would listen in between feeding other babies, burping them, changing their diapers.  I was yet another neurotic parent telling them how to do their job in their eyes, I am sure.  Heck, they were only making $8.00 an hour to take care of my child for eight hours – what could I expect?  I always felt bad for not speaking up more about the hourly wage that these gals were making; it is such a travesty that the women and men who watch over our children and care for them while we are off at work make the same or less money per hour than a valet or grocery store bagger. 

I never have come to terms with leaving them at daycare while I go off and work.  I still feel conflicted when I think about my choice to retain a career.  There are nights when I watch a certain scene of a movie or read a story on-line, and a flood of emotions come over me and I feel like I am the worst mom ever and I think my children will grow up to feel abandoned and lonely and despondent.  I don’t think that will ever go away – subside, yes, but never vanish forever. 

Maria grew into her own at the daycare, and of course, was the little munchball that everyone wanted to hold and play with through the day.  So, it got easier to some extent.  She still was never the type to jump up and down for school (and still isn’t) but at least she was not crying hysterically everyday when I left.  Now, I take her to her new school closer to our house (she started there in September 2009) and she begs to return to that old school because it was so much fun and she misses her teachers.  So, I guess it wasn’t the dungeon that I always made myself feel it was when I left her in the morning.  

It is funny how the same routine consumes you day in and day out, and you feel like there is no way that you will ever forget the monotony of it all.  How you will never forget the devastation and loneliness and sorrow that encompassed your entire self as you tip-toed out of the infant room trying to calm your little one as she sobbed for you to stay.   How you sank deep in your chair at work bombarded with thoughts about whether you were doing the right thing, how your child would be affected by your decision, what you could do to make it better. 

But then they get older and they are less fragile, and they enjoy interaction with friends, and you see them developing, and they say something that is so heartfelt and so enlightening that you think “they are coming along just fine….” 

My darling, happy daughter in her Mexican dress

And those moments from the past, that heartbreak from the past, that confusion from the past, does subside greatly and you feel hope rising up.     

My goofy, muffin-loving son

What more can I do?

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I got caught up today in my own thinking to the point of driving myself close to the edge.  In fact, I think I was teetering off the cliff’s edge when I finally jerked myself back and put it in perspective. 

Jon took the kids up to his folks for the day and I got to head south to Washington Courthouse for lunch at Bob Evans with my four best girlfriends from Cincinnati who I have known since first grade (one of them I met in high school but it feels like I have known her, too, since first grade).  My thoughts during the entire trip south were “what more I can do.” 

What more can I do at work? 

What more can I do for my organizations where I sit on the board? 

What more can I do for mothers who are in need of support after having a baby? 

What more can I do for men and women who face a scary world after being incarcerated?

What more can I do for Maria and Mario? 

And the list continues and continues and continues…. 

The same thoughts swirled through my head on the way home from the lunch and throughout the afternoon as I waited for the kids and Jon to arrive home.  I researched grant opportunities for my organizations; I read about ideas for assisting new moms; I learned about programs to help men and women released from jail. 

And then I sat. 

And I sat. 

Then I walked through the neighborhood. 

I become so overwhelmed with all of the ideas of what I could do to make this world better, and then I get irritated because I never act on them.  I shouldn’t say never.  I forward grants of interest to colleagues and my organizations.  I contact individuals about causes I believe in and try to make them more aware.  I educate Maria and Mario about giving back.  But, I feel like I do nothing because I want to do something BIG and HUGE and AMAZING and WIDESPREAD.  But how can I do that when I cannot even concentrate my energies on one cause?  And when I do concentrate on one cause, I still want to do something BIG and HUGE and AMAZING and WIDESPREAD so I have no interest in the little steps that may be necessary prior to such doing. 

As I walked home this afternoon, I thought about why I was hard on myself.  Why couldn’t I pat myself on the back for taking care of two kids, working full-time, serving as president of one organization and chairperson of another, keeping in touch with friends, loving my husband…?  Why did I feel like everything I did had to be a little more?  

I have an all-or-nothing mentality in every aspect of my life.  If I workout in the morning, I am good about what I eat throughout the day.  If I don’t workout, I eat candy and junk all day long.  If I workout, I do it intensely with a hard run and heavy weights.  If I don’t workout, I lay around all day.  If I get a project at work, I put all my energies in it.  If I am not the lead on a  project, I ignore it. 

So, I understand that this personality disorder rears its ugly face in all aspects of my life.  I know I need to continue to work on it while not losing sight of all of the causes that I am passionate about and want to advocate in the community.  It is difficult.  I want to do so much, so fast. 

I read in a book a few months ago that up to age 35 or 40, it is mostly ego.  You want the good job, the house, the nice clothes.  Then, all of a sudden your priorities change and you start to question what this life is about.  You want to have a purpose.  You want to feel like you have added something of value to this Earth.  Jon always laughs at me “Look at everything you do for people, look at your happy kids, look at what you sacrifice for your friends and family, look at the boards that you are on in the community.”  That is wonderful and good. 

But, clearly, I believe there is something more for me out there or I would not be struggling so hard.  I may need to calm my all-or-nothing attitude to some extent, but that does not mean I need to calm my quest to do more.

Be Careful What You Wish For

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When Mario was around 1-year-old, he did not enjoy cuddling with me.  He asked for his dad a lot.  He refused to kiss me. 

No wonder he did not cuddling!

I divulged to Jon how much this bothered me and how I longed for the day that Mario would call for me, run and hug me, kiss me goodnight. 

Fast forward to the age of two and a half.  Mario cuddles; Mario kisses; Mario asks for me…ONLY.  For everything. 

He needs to get dressed – “Mommy Do It!”  He needs his blanket – “Mommy Do It!”  He needs his milk – “Mommy Do It!”  He needs to get out of the car – “Mommy Do It!”  

And, if Jon ignores his demands and picks him up out of his car seat or puts on his pants, Mario launches into an unrestrained frenzy.  He arches his back like an upside down cat, he jabs his arms at any body part available, he lunges his head into your gut, and he screams and sobs “no, mommy do it” with an unfathomable sorrow. 

Yes, I know this ridiculous and that Jon needs to be able to do these things for him, but it still crushes me.  So what do I do?  I pick him up from where Jon left him and take him back to the way life was before Jon engaged in whatever act that prompted the holy fit.  It is really the only thing that calms him (or I can just give him a bar of chocolate but that will lead to another piece and another and another (he has his mom’s obsession with chocolate)).  

Tonight, Jon ejected him from his car seat after we arrived home from Cincy.  He immediately protested as soon as Jon got near his car seat.  Jon had no choice – I had Maria who had fallen asleep in her seat.  Mario screamed, he kicked, he yelled.  He sobbed as Jon placed him on the couch and tried to take his coat off without getting maimed.  I ran down the stairs after putting Maria to bed and he could not get any words out.  Finally, between sobs, Mario blurted out “Daddy took me car seat.”  I asked him if he wanted to go outside with me to the car and he shook his head “yes.”  We go outside and grab my bag from the car. By the time we head inside, he has calmed down and is holding onto me like a little chimpanzee with the mama chimp. 

A few minutes later, I had to run down to get his milk.  I did not think he noticed me heading downstairs until I heard a frantic cry followed by “Mommy, take me. Take me, Mommy” over and over again.  By the time I got back up the stairs (not even two minutes later), his face had turned cherry red and it looked as though his head had been dipped in to a bowl of onions.  His tears could be seen from the bottom of the steps, and he looked at me with such misery.  I scooped him up, took him down the steps, re-poured the milk, and rubbed his head.  He looked into my eyes, clasped a hand on each cheek, and purred “mommy.”

There are times when it gets old – especially on weekday mornings when Maria is grumpy and wants me to help her get dressed, too.  But as much as I sigh, complain, or moan about it, I secretly love it. 

My lover boy - for now at least!

I am not naive.  Next time I blink, he will be asking for dad, refusing to cuddle, refusing to kiss.  Therefore, I must slurp it up today.           

From Monsters to Cherubs

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It has been a long week. 

Jon was gone two days.  I let the kids stay up late with me so they were grumpy and mean in the morning.  Mario had a horrid meltdown when I turned off the fan yesterday morning.  He flung his little body against his crib and wailed.  I tried to turn the fan back on and allow him to turn it off but that just pissed him off more.  “No mommy, go away!”  Wah, wah, wah, wah.  Ugh, I just want to scream at the top of my lungs during these moments and tell him to get a life. 

But rather, I walk into my room, lay on my bed, and breathe. 

It usually takes 3 minutes and then he brings his sobbin’ butt onto my bed.  Maria, on the other hand, turns completely silent when she is grumpy or angry.  While Mario was busy wailing and flailing all around, Maria was in her room, door closed, stewing over the fact that I told her I didn’t want to play Barbies 2.2 seconds after we woke up.  I need time to get into that Barbie playing thing.  Before I could even get out the words “not right now” she stomped away from my bed, slammed her door shut, and yelled “Don’t come in my room, Mom!”  Oh, that is so fine with me, little girl. 

After Mario got in bed with me, he realized Maria was not around.  “Where’s Ria?’ I think to myself “the prima donna spoiled thing is in her room wishing evil on me” but I paraphrase that thought to “Ria is in her room.”  He jumps up to check on her sensing something is wrong. 

I continue to lay on my bed, eyes on the cracked ceiling, thinking about what this life is all about.  I tend to get philosophical in times like these for good or bad.  After about 10 minutes of silence out of Maria’s room, I decide I better check on the insane children.  I go in and see this picture.  

Maria reading to her little brother

Every horrible thing they have done or said in the last twenty minutes is forgotten and I am consumed with affection.  Maria is such the mother hen to that little brother.  She is patient when he asks five questions about the same thing on a page and she allows him to choose any book he wants to read.  He is mesmerized with her as she reads to him and trusts her words completely.  The scene is heart-stirring.  

Why can’t it be like this every second of the day?  I mean, really?! 

In sum, it would be boring, I guess.  I wouldn’t get any philosophizing done without the craziness.  I need those meltdowns over fans and Barbies to genuinely appreciate such charming moments.

Snow Day!

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The university closed Tuesday due to the incredible snow fall and ice accumulation. I woke up at 5:30 due to my darling son who has decided that 5:30 am is his new time to rise. You can almost see him popping his tiny head up, rubbing his eyes, and opening his mighty mouth. Indeed, I am quite sure that is his routine before we hear our morning serenade of: “Maaaaaammmmmmeeeeee; Oh, Maaammmeeee.” I dragged myself out of my warm nest of a bed and told him to go back to sleep. “Rock, mommy?” I scooped him up and pushed his head onto my shoulder and firmly stated “five minutes, Mario, that is it.” Yeah, I might as well be saying “blah blah blah blah blah.” He had what he wanted and I knew he was sporting that devilish smile as we headed to the rocking chair.

After ten minutes of rocking and thinking to myself “this is the last night of this – tomorrow he is crying it out!”, I put him in his bed and trip back into my nest. Five minutes goes by before I hear “Maaaaammmmmmeeeee” again.  The irritation and anger I feel at that moment compares to how you may feel if you were getting your eyelashes pulled out or getting run over by a semi truck.  I get up, stomp to his room, and put him in bed with me. It was no use. He was wide awake.

By 6:30 am, we are all eating pancakes and eggs and watching Little Bear. Maria’s new favorite morning activity is to cook pancakes and eggs, and yes, she actually prepares everything to cook them. She gets the bowl out, the mix, the eggs, the milk, and the oil. She stirs it up as much as she can (she has counseled me on numerous occasions that I need to buy an electric mixer so that we do not have to do it by hand!). She prepares her plate and mine, and we all sit down together (Mario finds our pancakes absolutely repulsive – the first bite he takes immediately causes a cringe on his face and a regurgitation into my open hand). After breakfast, we get all bundled up in our snow gear and head outside.

The snow was too light to make a snowman but I found a plastic sled and the kids took turns getting pulled down the front yard hill. Mario popped up after one run and yelled “Mommy, go Stauf’s get ice water and muffin?” I thought Maria would poo-poo it because she likes to stay near home but she agreed (with a little cajoling involving hot cocoa and a muffin for her). I held Mario on my right hip and pulled Maria on the plastic sled. By the third block, I felt as if I had just been in a WWF wrestling match – my body ached completely! Maria could see the pain in my face and got out of the sled, pulled it behind her, and walked the remainder of the way. Why do I try to be Superwoman all the time? I ain’t 20 any more….!

Maria trying to help mom pull Mario (Mario wanting nothing of it!)

We got our ice water, hot cocoa, bran muffin and black russian bagel and plopped down at a table. I love that my kids love Stauf’s – it is a refuge for me and I enjoy that they find it to be the same for them. They will sit in their seats for a half hour eating their muffin and bagel, looking at the pictures on the walls, watching the people, and even talking to me! It is a piece of heaven. After Stauf’s, we walked back home (Maria walked the whole way home again!) and I decided it was time for a little day care. It was close to 11 am and I knew they would not nap with me. And, I wanted a little Mary time before the night came (I fought guilt all afternoon about this decision but that is a whole other blog entry). I dropped them off at school and headed back to Stauf’s to catch up on email and fund-raising for my boards.

Before I knew it, 3 pm hit, and I decided that I would try to take them sledding at a local park with a nice sized hill. I loaded up the sled, their snowsuits, and sped to the daycare. The entire way to daycare, I debated whether to actually take them or not because I knew the hill would be full of kids and I would have Maria and Mario and a sled and just little ol’ me. But, what the he–. Life is too short.

We headed over to the park, threw on our bundles of clothes while maneuvering and squirming around in the car, and trekked it to the hill. There were quite a number of people there already and Maria immediately withdrew. “Why are all these people here. I don’t want to sled here.” We tried a little side hill at her request but the snow was too thick and we barely moved. After that lame experience, she decided to work with the crowd. We headed over to the hill and began the climb up. I held Mario and the sled and she climbed up using the blue and white striped rope that the City must have installed to help with the climb. Maria impressed me with her climbing skills and determination. I had to help her up a few times, but she got close to the top each time and if it wasn’t for the ice, she would have done it alone. I told her her to chant “I know I can do it” each time she got down, and after telling her that, I heard her whispering it as she struggled up the hill.  My girl. 

Maria and Mario after a sled ride down Wyman Hill

The first ride down the hill was all of us on the “Flyer” – an old school wood sled that I think my dad gave us back when Jon and I were dating. We barely fit on the sled, and we flew down the hill after a push from a man who I am sure got a kick out of me trying to handle M&M, the sled, and the ice up the hill. But we hung on, and when we finally stopped, we were all smiles and laughs. Mario turned around and pleaded “Again, mommy?” I looked at Maria wondering if she would want to brave the hill for another run (Maria and exertion do not typically get along). But, to my amazement, Maria was already heading toward the hill. Again, my girl.

Maria found a girlfriend who asked her to go sledding with her and I got a glimpse of Maria playing with her girlfriends in a few years. Ahh, I had visions of me and my Cincy girls when we were 10 years old and taking advantage of our snow days. We did about 7 runs before we called it a night, and I must say, my winter blahs flew away for the remainder of the night. Of course, those winter blahs flew back with a vengeance the next morning when I stepped outside and slipped onto my rear while taking out the trash (the cuss words were spewing out so fluidly that I amazed even myself) but heck, with this weather, I will take an evening  of bliss anyday.

“Give Ria Big Hug?”

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Mario is a complete nut.  He is what you think of when you think of a two-year old boy: wild, rambunctious, ornery, spastic, loud, violent, obstinate, emotional.  It has been quite the ride over the last five months when he turned in to this little creature. 

The wildman at age 2

Maria was never like this at age 2.  She was an atypical two-year old girl: quiet, reclusive, thoughtful, serious, deep, soulful, clingy. 

Maria at age 2

Hence, my surprise and concern when Mario turned into this half boy-half animal after turning two.   If he is not jumping on the couch, holding any long object as a gun, pinching or scratching Maria, throwing a shoe, jettisoning his body on Jon, or running around yelling, then we know (1) he has been taken by aliens and replaced with one of them or (2) he is seriously sick. 

However, there are those few fleeting moments wherein Mario is a true gentleman.  We experienced these moments tonight as were preparing for bed.  Maria has a full size bed in her room with a rocking chair in the corner.  The usual routine is to read books together and then Maria climbs in her bed while I rock Mario.  I began rocking Mario tonight, and he looked up at me:

“Mommy??”

“Yes, Mario.”

“Go give Big Hug to Ria?”

“Mario, it is bedtime.”

“Please, mommy.”

Now, how could I resist if his true desire was indeed to kiss his sis?  Besides, Maria lives for that affection from her brother so she would have been devastated if I prohibited it.  Mario hopped off my lap and ran to her bed stepping his right foot on the ledge, grabbing the mattress with both hands, raising his left leg onto the ledge and thrusting his body onto her bed.  Maria sat up with delight.   Mario jumped from the bottom of the bed into her arms and smothered her with a big ol’ hug.  She hugged him in return and sang “Oh, you sweet little baby brother.”  

I called him back to the rocking chair, and he abided.  We rocked about one minute before he glanced up at me and said “Give Ria a kiss?”  I am such a pushover.  I let him down and he engages in the same routine but this time Maria is sitting on both knees with her chin out and mouth puckered waiting for her prince charming.  Mario sits in front of her and pecks her right on the lips.  Golden.  He then proceeds to jump on her again and they roll around together giggling and hugging. 

I watch them and fall in love.  I delight in them.  I call Jon in to see them.  And then I hear a sharp cry….

“Mom, Mario just pinched me right on the arm. Make him in trouble.”

Better fleeting moments than no moments, heh?!

Giving the Love

Monday morning blues

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Back to work and school tomorrow.  Ugh. 

Maria on Monday morning: pre-dressed stage

The kids will inevitably pitch a fit in the morning when we announce that it is time to get dressed.  “I don’t like school, Mom! I don’t like my friends. I don’t like the food,” announces Maria in her dictatorial fashion.  Mario then has to chime in because his sister has expressed her views.  “No school, mommy.  Stay home!”  Monday morning consists of constant bickering back and forth between me and them. 

“Maria, please stop hugging your brother – he is not in the mood.” 

“No, Ria. Get off” as Mario digs his nails into Maria’s arm. 

“Owwww, mom, Mario is scratching me!”

Mario laughs like a crazed maniac.

I run over and grab him off of Maria (it still floors me that she does not simply punch him right in the face as she is twice his weight but that would need some exertion on her part, which is not her strong suit).  Mario runs in his room, and slams the door. 

His new experiment lately is to try to get himself dressed.  Unfortunately, he always comes out with a t-shirt pulled up on his waist and nothing on his top so he looks like a little hippy girl ready to sing some Joni Mitchell.  When I tell him that I have to dress him, he yells “No, me do it, Mommy!” and runs away.  Meanwhile, Maria is in the background shaking her head, smiling and remarking “that Mario is a silly boy!”  Such the mother hen, she is.  

Maria refuses to let me in her room because she wants to surprise her dad and I with her outfit, which lately has been layers of three shirts, one sweater, and two pairs of pants with a barette clipped haphazardly in her tousled hair that she refuses to allow me to comb (I have given up on that battle long ago – let her have tangled hair, who cares?!).  Once she dressed herself, she seems resigned to head to school and usually ceases the whining. 

Mario, however, fights me like the Huns.  He hates getting dressed because he knows that is a step closer to school.  He is no dummy.  I usually have to bribe him with a binkie or a sucker (yes, I am a horrible mother who will deliver suckers to her children to get them to work with her) to get his clothes on him and even then I have to allow him to put on his socks (which are inevitably two different colors and I so so not care. Jon, however, bristles at letting him go to school with non-matching socks. He is two, who cares!?).  Then the fun starts over again.

“Let’s go downstairs!” I yell. 

Maria screams “I am gonna win!” and runs down the stairs. 

Mario flings himself on the hall floor and balls “No, Ria, me win!”  I try to pick him up but he maneuvers his body like a wet noodle; my patience is fading quickly.  I ask Maria to come back upstairs so Mario can win.  Now, this is why I just love that girl.  She does it!  She comes back up and even roots Mario on when he is heading down the stairs “Go, Mario, you are so fast.  That is a good, strong brother.  You are the best!”  Yeah, I really doubt that Mario would be doing that for Ri if he was the older sibling.   By the time we are all downstairs, about one and a half hours have passed.  Mario stomps into the kitchen crying for his binkie and blankie and begging me to hold him still chanting every so often “no school, mommy.”  

By the time we put on our coats, Monday’s poke in the eye has stopped hurting so much and we have resolved that this is life so we may as well roll with it.  After all, how much crying can you do before you realize it won’t change anything?  I should say that Ri and I have reached that resolution.  Mario still has a couple of years to reach it, and he reminds of that every Monday morning. 

Mario on a Monday morning - please leave me alone!