Category Archives: Developmental

Milestones and almost-milestones.

Something about cats and away and mice playing.

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In case you hadn’t figured it out from my cryptic Twittering last week, Steve packed up the kids and left me alone by myself. FOR A WHOLE WEEK. BY. MY. SELF. As they pulled away, I cried for about the first 27 seconds or so, then looked around and realized that this? This right here was what I have spent the last 5 years pining for, and that I had better shut it, and get with the program. So I laid on the couch for a while. Then, that got boring so I got to work painting. And painting I did, for the entire week. Even going so far as to cut out of work early a couple of days because painting ceilings is THE DEVIL’S WORK.

They, on the other hand, frolicked in the snow and, from what I could gather from Steve’s text messaging, managed to fit in their fair share of marshmallows tater tots, fishsticks and orange flavored Sunkist. Fair enough, considering I consumed nothing but Brio bread and Wildberries’ deli food the entire week. I never even turned on the stove. Not once.

One of the highlights of the week was that Steve and my mom took Stella up the hill for her first official ski lesson. I wish so much that I could have been there to witness the splendor of it all, but I rested safe in the knowledge that Steve was threatened with bodily harm if he did not take an OBSCENE amount of photos of the whole event. He did not disappoint.

stella
(click on the photo to see the entire set)

Warning: Heavy on the caps lock.

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So okay then. Here we are. Again. Us and all that awkward distance between posts. Lets just pretend it never happened, and deal with it in therapy later. See? Now isn’t that easier?

I made the mistake of showing that holiday slide show to the kids, and do you know how many times I had to watch that stupid thing? DO YOU? Like 15. Even when I tried escaping to another room, I could still hear the soundtrack. I may never be able to hear those three songs again. Like, ever. I have decided that I need a special vault wherein I can deposit all the music, books and videos that I have been subjected to endure on endless repeating loops. First would be Mama Mia (she ruined it for me forever), that dorky Tootle the Train book (the story doesn’t even make sense!), and let’s not forget the deliciously annoying Wonderpets Save the Effing Nutcracker. What is it about kids and their borderline inhuman ability to enjoy something just as much the 347th time as they did the first?

As payback we started throwing away all their toys. Ok, not really. But sort of. As we began the yearly holiday toy assimilation process it became increasingly clear that our inaction on ever doing a substantial toy purge was impeding our ability to reclaim our own living space. We did a roundup of clothes, toys and other miscellaneous unused items and donated to Porter’s school, the local thrift store, the local animal rescue shelter and I will shortly be shipping off a gargantuan stockpile of stuffed animals (we actually kept as many as we are giving away) to a contact in the Army Corps of Engineers deployed in Iraq who – with a couple of others – is distributing them to the children there.

It was unexpectedly easy to bring the kids on-board with our plan, considering that – for completely different reasons – this type of activity is not their strong suit. Stella’s inability to effectively process any and all feelings of nostalgia are always a source of contention between us. The conversation is usually one-sided and sounds a little like this: “But Mooommmmm! I love this broken plastic dog cup that I got at that fast food place when I was three years old and remember it was raining and remember we saw that rainbow and remember then we all laughed and hugged. Don’t you remember? How could you ever make me throw this away? I need to sleep with it every night.” This, the toy that has been buried in the bottom of a tote bin for the better part of the last two years.

On the other side of the conversation is Porter. He throws a fit because that is line item number one in his current job description. Porter is going through one of those stages right now where CONTRARY DOESN’T EVEN BEGIN TO DESCRIBE IT. I could offer him a bowl of ice cream and he would refuse it simply on principle. What principle? I HAVE NO IDEA. To further complicate matters, Steve is his unequivocal favorite. Why do I know that? BECAUSE HE TELLS ME. I am not even exaggerating. True story: we were standing in the kitchen last night and Porter comes strolling by Steve and I. As he passes us he nonchalantly tosses out an ‘I love you daddy’ and keeps on walking. I look at Steve, then at him and offer, “I love you Porter” His answer? “No. I like Daddy.” And this happens ALL THE TIME. He won’t let me read to him before bed, he won’t let me put him to bed, and in the middle of the night when he is screaming for someone to come get him because he hates his bed, who do you think ends up dragging in there to rescue him? ME, that’s who – only to be greeted with, “Nooo! I want Daddy!”

New Year’s resolution #1: Win back the love of my son. Use bribery if necessary.
New Year’s resolution #1.a: Devise plan to undermine husband’s appealing nature.
New Year’s resolution #2: Buy a vault.
New Year’s resolution #3: Get more massages.
New Year’s resolution #4: Master the Wii ski jump.
New Year’s resolution #5: Use the Caps Lock key less.

Super P & Princess Clam Boobies

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So you already had a preview of Stella’s confection of a costume, however you’ll notice I didn’t make much to do about Porter’s selection for this year. And if you guess that it’s because he would have nothing to do with THE COSUME HE SPECIFICALLY REQUESTED then you’d be absolutely correct. While Stella was busy wallowing in the glamorous sparkle of her costume, Porter was standing on the other side of the table looking at his spiderman-with-a-cape ensemble as though we were suggesting he dress up as a turnip. Un-uh. The less seasoned Natalie would have been begging and cajoling him to wear the get-up. The Natalie who has been around the block with this a time or two simply shrugged and walked away. Lesson learned: the most unsuccessful way to get Porter to do ANYTHING is to ask him to do it. Better to let him come around to this one one his own.

I have struggled with this a lot with Porter – the epic power struggles. Then, in a momentary vision of clarity, I realized that there are two realities I am stuck between. Pushing Porter to conform to the role I want him to be, or allowing and embracing the role that he chooses for himself. I first realized this with his haircuts – as in the ones he refuses to get. Picture day at his school was approaching and the inclination to force a haircut for the good of the photo began to take over the household. Somewhere in the middle of one of those meltdowns in the middle of the salon, it occurred to me – these pictures are supposed to capture our kids to remember them at that exact point in their life. Why would I want to sanitize the memory by eliminating the pieces and parts that really represent who he is at two and a half years old? A cute little blondie would rather eat glass than get a professional haircut, has reduced his entire wardrobe down to three shirts and two pairs of “working pants”, refuses to wear shoes, and recently insisted that I rub off the pizza-gobblin tattoo and re-apply a new one on the top of his forearm. Almost all of which are fully represented in this year’s school picture. Oh, and there is also the part where he wouldn’t sit for a picture by himself, so Porter’s school picture includes his big sister.

All of this to explain that when you look through these pictures and see Porter wearing street clothes and a pair of swim sandals along with a red and blue silk cape you’ll know why we couldn’t have imagined a more successful Halloween. And not to brag, but guess who actually walked and spoke to people as well? Photographic evidence to follow.

stella and porter
(click photo to see entire set)

The Great Debate: To Swing or To Slide

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There was a time, back in the day, that Stella and I would walk to the park in our old neighborhood and I would spend the entire time pushing her on the swing. We are talking 45 minutes straight. I even figured out a way to incorporate an abdominal muscle workout timed to the rhythm of each push.

Enter Porter. He won’t be caught dead on a swing – and by the sound he makes each time I try to put him on one, you’d think I was trying to inflict Death by Swing. No, Porter is a slider – not to be confused with a miniature hamburger. Although sometimes I wonder….oh, nevermind.

One of the first orders of business once we moved in at 111 was to put that overgrown apple tree to use and install a couple of swings – knowing that at least there would be three of us who would use them.

So guess who went and grabbed her camera when just one short year later he not only put his padded little butt on those wood planks, but let his sister show him how to do it right proper – which naturally included the spin-till-your-brains-ooze-out-of-your-ears trick she is so proud of.

porter and stella

porter and stella

porter

porter

stella