What's Money Got To Do With It

The Romine family ate out last night.

It doesn't happen a lot anymore. Too much effort and stress. Sam's very predictable but Jake ... a wildcard.

It wasn't too bad really. There was a time when we thought it could turn; Jake either raised up underneath the table and hit his head or hit his head trying to bend down and retrieve a train. Either way, I missed it because at that precise moment I was scarfing black bean nachos like they were my last meal. (I eat like a dog who knows her food might be taken away at any minute and she might not be fed again for awhile.)

Most of the time he just wanted to run his cars along the divide between our booth and the people behind us. I don't really know why kids always want to bug the people at the next table, but coming from a mom with two kids, please just let them do it. As long as they aren't crawling under your table or throwing food at you, please just let them peekaboo at you a few times. It's not like you're getting engaged or celebrating your anniversary, not at the places we tend to patron. Just don't make eye contact and they'll soon leave you alone.

Last night we were almost finished when Sam said "Just think, if you parents didn't have Jakey and me, you wouldn't be rich!"

Well done, Sam, well done.

Wash Me

At the beginning of the year I wrote about how I wasn't going to let my bathroom cabinet get the best of me this year. And so far it hasn't. Now it's the backseat of my car.

Despite my best efforts (OK, my mediocre efforts) the backseat is evolving into a fruitcake. It is glossy with dried apple juice (because I continually kid myself that Jake can successfully drink from a juice box), studded with Cheerios, bits of dried bananas and Goldfish crackers. I know it is difficult to keep a car clean, especially when you have two little ones in it an hour a day. But I so want to be the person who CAN keep the car clean. I want their car toys in nice little wicker baskets at their feet. I want those net organizational thingies on the back of each seat, stuffed neatly with Kleenex, Wet Ones, spare water bottles, CDs (in the correct jewel boxes).

But instead, on any given day the car is full of toys, banana peels, smashed crackers, days-old McDonald's drinks, dried wipies, and usually a random shoe. Yesterday we were coming home and Sam yelled out, "Hey, where did Jake get that lollipop?" And I had to say I didn't really know, but perhaps if he fished around under his car seat, he'd come up with a treat too.

Oh well, there's always the bathroom cabinet.

Oh Yeah?!

On Saturdays Sam plays soccer in a neighborhood league coached by our neighbor Blackie. It's called the Dream Team. About 30 kids, ages 3-6, who put on their jerseys and shin guards and gather for 90 minutes at the park at the end of our street. Blackie is great with kids. You could imagine how coaching 30 kids could be but he does it. They listen, they run through drills, they play soccer.

Except for Sam. I'm afraid he's following in my footsteps in that he doesn't really like to "do" anything. Sure he likes to put on the uniform but he doesn't want to play.

So after soccer this Saturday I sat him down and tried to get him to look at my face while I asked him whether he wanted to keep playing. I told him there is a thing called commitment, and that means that when we told Blackie we would come and play soccer on Saturdays, that we made a commitment. To Blackie and our teammates. I said that means you go and play for one hour each Saturday. You don't have to think about soccer the rest of the week, but when you are there, you are THERE. You can't play sometimes and not play others.

Just when I thought maybe I was making my point he said, "Well, that's how I roll."

Patience Is a Virtue

I feel I've been frustrated with the boys a lot lately. Jake's at that stage where he doesn't know what he wants and all I want is for him to stop crying all the time. Sam's at that age where he wants to do everything by himself. Get dressed, put on shoes, get in and out of the car, pour his own milk. And before it starts to sound like I'm the hovering, just-let-me-do-it, type of Mom, let me say that I'm not. On any day I would rather have Sam dress himself, take his own dishes to the sink, buckle his own seat belt. It's just that it takes soooo long. God, give me patience, and give it to me now.

The point of this is that my frustration with them is doing two bad things, at least. One, I'm rushing them through things that are important. I know there is a reason it takes Sam twice as long to get ready. He's a kid, and everything he does, everything he has the opportunity to do, is an opportunity to learn. Second, my frustration is clouding my behavior. One day this week I went out to get the car while Sam got his shoes on and got his Lovey Quartet together (Ducky, Woo, Spud, Sky Puff). I barreled the car out of the garage while looking over my right shoulder. When I turned around to reset the side mirror Sam was standing at the car's left. You know what I'm thinking, and what I thought.

My mother-in-law gave me a refrigerator magnet once that says "He who knows patience, knows peace." That is my mantra this week.

Sweeping the Nation

In an effort to communicate with your kids, you often adopt phrases they use. My sister called Pop Tarts Tee-Tops for quite a while. We call pausing a movie or TV show (thank you Tivo!) 'choking.' Pancakes were k-cakes. Shoes were stompers. You forget that to most people these are foreign phrases but you use them just as any other word. (You know it's bad when you're at work and say you need to use the potty.)

So add to that list Sam's latest. I believe he's heard 'it's a snap' somewhere, pulled it into his memory and morphed it into 'quick as a flick.' You heard it here first.

You Say Tomato

I know I don't often write about Jake. It's not that he isn't doing amazing things. He runs around the house like he owns it, loves to play 'parking lot' with Matchbox cars just like Sam did, drags around a big bear we've named Manhattan. He's goofy and cuddly. And he has a temper. He is either entering the terrible two's a few months earlier or he is going to be fierce.
I think he will give Sam a run for his money one day very soon.

The time change was not good to Jake (which means it wasn't good to us). He doesn't want to be picked up. He doesn't want to be put down. He doesn't want to eat, but you'd better offer him some food. He wants a bottle to hold but don't make him drink it. He wants to get out of his crib, but don't try to pick him up. In other words, he's an enigma. A screaming, scratching red-faced enigma.

If the timing is right and he gets a snack on the way home, some outside play before dinner and dinner at exactly the right time, he's in good shape. Last night was one of those nights. The planets aligned and we had a good night. If I remember right I actually sat on the couch and read the newspaper while they played, quietly, on the floor.

But before that, while I was getting dinner ready, Jake engaged in one of his favorite activities, playing in the refrigerator. He likes to prop the door open, sit on the bottom shelf and re-arrange the condiments. I have found that this is a lifesaver. I don't care about the energy wasted by propping the door open for an hour at a time. He enjoys it, you can actually fix dinner or put away dishes.

Anyway, last night he got into the veggie drawer and opened a baggie of cherry tomatoes. I knew they would make great toys, squishy, perfect size. But instead, he popped one after the other in his mouth. So there he was eating his tomatoes while I reheated leftovers. It doesn't get much better.

Unless, maybe I could get him to clean the fridge while he's in there.

What Comes Around

The raccoons are back (not just the jaunty ones in my head).

The Talented Mr. Romine

Sam plays basketball at school on Wednesdays. His coach, Coach K, gives out lollipops. So driving home last night Sam got to have a Starburst lollipop. It has a soft Starburst inside and smells awful. But he must've liked it because he chanted "Yummy in my tummy!" most of the way home.

At one point I looked in the rear-view mirror and noticed he was holding the pop several inches from his face and doing some strange, exaggerated near-licking of the lollipop. And then, I saw it. He can curl his tongue. Apparently he inherited the dominant, enviable tongue-curling trait from his dad.

The Best Policy

When Nash died last week I decided to be honest with Sam about her death. I'd been preparing him by saying she was sick and one day very soon she might not be with us anymore. When she died last week I sat down with him and asked him if he remembered that Nash was sick. I told him when we got home from Grandma Becky's, Nash wouldn't be at our house anymore because she had died. He didn't seem phased.

But shortly after, he started asking questions about when I would die and where would I go. This Sunday on the way to church he asked when he would die and if I would be with him when it happened.

It's a difficult line to walk - I don't want to lie to him about Nash or make too big a deal out of something he most likely won't remember. But I don't want to scare him either. I know that talking about my death or his, especially, is very scary for me.

The Streak

Ever since Sam was little, he has liked to run around naked after his bath. (This is a good anecodote for his future girlfriend.) You would get him out of the tub, dry him off and yell "NUDIE, NUDIE" and off he'd go, through the house.

But the past two nights, when Sam takes off down the hall, he yells "Make way for Jack Johnson!!!"

He's going to be a bawdy frat boy someday isn't he?

Goodbye Nash

My 14-year-old cat Nash died last week while the boys and I were visiting my mom. She's been sick for awhile and had just seen the vet about two weeks earlier. He thought she would live a little while longer if we could get her hydrated. Apparently we didn't.

Bryon found her Friday morning, half in, half out of the crawlspace under our house. He said her eyes were closed so I hope she died in her sleep. She wasn't very active in our house anymore. In fact, she rarely left the kitchen. Still, when I was upstairs rocking Jake one afternoon this weekend, the house seemed kind of quiet and empty without her.

Good vs. Bad

Good vs. Bad

A few days ago Sam out of the blue told Jake he loved him.

"That's nice Sam. It's good to tell others we love them without being asked."

"That's what big brothers do," he replied.

"Yes, you're right. And you're a good brother," I told him.

"And you're a good mama, Mama."

VS

Last Friday we were driving home when I pulled into 'our' McDonald's to get a 7-Up. I had a stomach ache.

Knowing our McDonald's drive-thru history I told Sam I was getting a drink, but we weren't getting nuggets or a Happy Meal. Instead I would stop the car and pick up a toy he'd dropped on the floor. (That's one of our car rules ... anything dropped in transit stays in the floor. Especially because Sam sits behind me. I'm not good at those one-handed steering, twisting, blind groping attempts at picking up a Batarang while barreling down the tollway.)

He agreed, we shook on it, I got my 7-Up. But that wasn't the end of it.

"Why do you have a stomach ache?" he asked.

"I'm not sure. I think it is because I'm a little nervous."

"Maybe it's because you are mad," Sam said.

"Really? Do you think I'm mad? Who am I mad at?" I asked him.

"You're mad at me, mad at Jakey, mad at Bryon ..." he answered, in a tone that implied he could go on and on.