Warm at Last

Charlie is not a cold-weather person. He wants to be a cold-weather person, because he wants to be like Cubby. Cubby is most definitely cold-hardy; he comes alive when the temperature drops below freezing and will stay out for hours. Charlie valiantly attempts to stay out with him, but will invariably show up at the door after a little while to announce he's "fweezin' ter death" and wants to come in.

Then he plants himself on the heating vent in the living room until he thaws. Sometimes he gets so comfortable he passes right out.

Like so.

I foresee a future for Charlie in the sunbelt. This frozen wasteland is not for him. Because he can't stay on the heating vent all the time.

A Small Taste of Freedom

Sometimes in this frozen wasteland of upstate New York, and particularly at frigid Blackrock, when the winter is spent swathed in layer upon layer of wool, the children just need a little freedom. Let them shed their socks indoors, no matter how frosty their feet become, and they will play happily.

Until their cold toes remind them that, oh yeah, this is not summer. And they have to put their socks back on.

But that little taste of toe freedom makes for a satisfying half hour, anyway.

Arizona Sunshine Delivered

Here is a reality of choosing to have three young children: Traveling becomes a difficult-to-impossible endeavor. I mean, sure, you can pack up all your kids and all their junk and haul them anywhere you want theoretically, but the reality of that decision is going to involve a lot of crying, screaming, hyperactive, and otherwise whacked-out children. Also, a ton of money.

I choose not to subject myself to that sort of unpleasantness if it can be avoided, so at this stage in my life, if it's not within a few hours in the car, it's not happening.

Unfortunately, my family does not live that close to me. They live in Arizona and Florida. As nice as those places are to visit to escape a brutal upstate New York winter, the truth is that barring a really big event like a wedding or a funeral*, I will probably not be in Arizona or Florida anytime in the near future.

But my brother sent me a little bit of Arizona for my birthday. He was traveling a lot for the holidays--which is, woe is me, when my birthday happens to be--so he didn't get home to pack up my present until last week. But yesterday, this arrived:

Hello, my pretties.

Those are oranges from his backyard orange tree. The fact that I cannot grow any significant citrus here is a great sadness to me, so this was an especially thoughtful present. 

Cubby examined them and announced, "They look like cartoon oranges." Upon further questioning, he elaborated, "They're bright orange everywhere." A. explained that's because they were actually ripened on the tree, rather than picked green for better shipping.

They taste like it, too. So good. So, so good. And yes, I shared some.

So thank you to my brother for sending me a small ray of Arizona sunshine to brighten these dreary New York days. Hooray for family in warm places. And backyard orange trees.

* No funerals, Universe. Do you hear me? NO FUNERALS ANYTIME SOON. Weddings are okay.

A New/Old Childhood Soundtrack

When I was young, my mom used to put on two records (yes, the actual rad vinyl) when we were doing our required chores, I suppose to make it more fun: Michael Jackson's Thriller and the Footloose soundtrack.

Child of the 80s? Why, yes. Yes, I am.

The songs from those two records bring me right back to my childhood (and my chores). And now I am providing a soundtrack for my own children to take a trip down memory lane someday: Billy Idol's Greatest Hits.

Nope, totally not kidding. If I have learned one thing in my six years of parenting three children, it's that every child loves "Dancing with Myself*." All of mine do, anyway. Including Jack, who gets right up on his knees and waves his arms around when it comes on.

That CD stays in the stereo upstairs, so whenever we need a change of scene, we head upstairs to turn on their dance music and let them run around like maniacs in the upstairs hall. We don't usually get to "Flesh for Fantasy," which is obviously not something I want lyric-conscious Cubby to start asking me questions about, but the rest of it is ambiguous enough for little kids.

They can't resist the beat. And few things in life--well, in my life, anyway--are more amusing than watching small boys bust out their best dance moves to "Mony, Mony."

Of such things are childhood memories made.

* I just looked up the original video for this song to link to, and WOAH, BILLY. Never going to show that one to my children. Billy Idol was into creepy zombies 30 years before they were the big thing, apparently. 

Another Mothering Milestone

Today my two youngest children watched me throw up into a plastic bowl while I was sitting on the couch. This is one of those defining moments of parenthood, right? When your own needs--in this case, the need for no audience when emptying the contents of your stomach--is subsumed by the need to take care of small children.

And what did those small, precious children do when they witnessed my lowest moment? Did they express concern for my well-being? No. They laughed. And then Charlie helpfully observed, "Wow, that's a lot of throw up!" while Jack tried to grab the bowl.

I had been sick--in lesser though definitely not fun ways--all morning even before A. left for work, so he told me he had no appointments today and I could call him if I needed him. I briefly considered collapsing on the couch and just toughing it out until 5:30 p.m., but then I realized that sort of martyrdom is really unnecessary. Also stupid.

So I made the distress call and A. was home within 45 minutes. At which point I put Jack down for a nap and crawled into the bed, where I stayed for the next four hours.

It was miserable of course, but not really. And that is because I was not trying to change diapers or meet the bus or provide food or anything else when all I felt like doing was hiding.

The definition of stay-at-home-parent luxury: Being allowed to be sick in peace. Thank you, A. Gold star for you.

I'm better now. I've had some hot water with lemon and honey, and a little rice. Tomorrow I'm sure I'll be revved up and raring to go for another day of caregiving.

Or at least not vomiting, which is really all I ask.

The Snowsuit and the Sculpture

I've been feeling kind of bad lately that I haven't made much of an effort to get Jack outside. It's been cold and wet and he doesn't walk yet, and a crawling baby on cold, wet ground makes for a pretty miserable experience. But then yesterday it was cold enough that the ground was frozen and Charlie was already outside when Jack woke up from his nap, so . . .

It's the return of the baby snowsuit! Charlie's particular favorite, you may recall.

I crammed him into the snowsuit and found some tiny mittens for his tiny hands and off we went. All was well until the inevitable happened after about five seconds . . .

Ah yes. Well do I remember the Baby Mitten Battles. Wretched things.

Mittens never, ever stay on a baby's hands. They're off within seconds, and then the baby puts his bare hand on snow and the fun is over.

So that was that.

Also yesterday, Cubby came home with the momentous announcement that his Sculpture was ready to come home. The Sculpture (totally deserving of capitalization, as you will see in a moment), which he made at school weeks ago in art class, has been a subject of conversation for some time now. His Sculpture was the biggest. His Sculpture was acknowledged by his classmates to be the best. His Sculpture was too big for him to carry home and I would have to pick it up in the morning when I dropped him off at school.

I was expecting some collection of, like, pipe cleaners and construction paper. I was not expecting a foot-tall thing made of solid wood and painted in neon pink.

The toy elephant is for scale. Or maybe it's supposed to be the Taj Mahal? It's certainly large enough.

So now in addition to the reams of papers and paintings and worksheets and other priceless treasures my children haul home every day from school, I have to find an appropriately magnificent display spot for The Sculpture.

I think it will look lovely on the dresser in his room. Maybe even along with the elephant.

Just One Woman's Opinion

Cutting up winter squash is some kind of bullshit. Ow. And this time it was even butternut squash! That's supposed to be the easy kind!

Obviously a Hubbard would be the end of my frail little hands.

That's all. Carry on.