Maturity

Last night, I left the livingroom briefly, and when I returned, Finn said, "Mama, I'm sorry I spilled your beer." It took me a second to process, as I looked at him, and then noticed the Guinness bottle on its side near the front door, its contents spilled in between the floor rug and the door mat. I then remembered that Finn and I had been sitting in the arm chair by the front door, and I had put my beer on the floor next to the chair, thinking, as I did it, "This is a stupid place to put this. I am going to knock it over."

Well.

The thing that astounds me is Finn's willingness to volunteer this information when he could have said nothing. I probably would have figured that I did it. I am going to take this a sign of maturity and intelligence.

Of course, he still craps in his underwear.

But all-in-all, I think I would rather have the honesty and apology.

Days of Whine and Roses

It appears that some people think we get babywhumpus from day care, bring him home, slap a crown on his head, and let the little prince rule the show.

This is far from the case. He doesn't get his way through whining or demands, which are his two favorite modes of communication at the end of the day. I get it. All I wanted to do yesterday was whine. Or wine. (I beered.) But we don't foster that type of communication by capitulating. We ask him to try again, or we restate that he can whine and have nothing instead of the wonderful thing he wants or we have offered. It usually works, but we are not to the point where he starts out asking nicely more than 50% of the time. I'd be happy with 51% at this point.

I just read that one good tactic to use in response to whining is whispering. The article says that it will help you keep your cool and encourage your child to use the same type of voice. It's also remarkably creepy to whisper in a potentially volatile situation. It can create a strange aura of intensity that is often much more effective than anger or yelling. Yelling rarely helps, although I have found a quick, sharp bark of "FINN" to be useful to cut through the Wall of Whine.

Another suggestion is to designate a "Whine Room" where the tiny person has to go when it whines. I think I would rather be the one isolated, but this is an interesting idea, though probably impractical in a small house that already has a Naughty Chair.

Then there's the Whine Toll, where the kid has to pay every time it whines. This is, of course, money out of my pocket, and I don't think I can afford it, especially considering that he has no real concept of money, and we might have to resort to a Fee-for-Pee system in the Whumpus house.

We can't confuse the real value of money when we are trying to exit diaper land. I think I'd rather have whining than crappy underpants (last night, it was really, really similar to cat barf).

This is a Family Issue

You know, I don't normally use this site for activism, but I know this man, and he has a family here.

This is important, so take a minute, follow the link, read the information, and if you agree, please sign.

The recent ICE raids may well have brought in some dangerous people-- Aracelio is not one of them.

Link to Petition on change.org

Minnesota State Fair 2011

Minnesota State Fair 2011, a set on Flickr.

Two half-days at the Minnesota State Fair. September 1-2, 2011

Ride This.

babywhumpus is not a fan of rides. babywhumpus does not even like bouncy houses.

I think this is fine. I didn't ride on my first roller-coaster until I was in my twenties. For me, it was a combination of fear of the unknown and not being in control that kept me bemused by amusement parks.

babywhumpus is three. I don't think he's going to have an explanation of why he does not like rides, but I suspect it's similar in its roots. He loves to jump on the couch and race around, but bouncy houses might simply be too bouncy and unpredictable.

Apparently, it was OK for me to dislike rides and such when I was in junior high because I was a girl. Apparently, being a junior high boy who does not like rides is going to open FJ up to endless ridicule and scorn from other junior high boys. This is what I have heard from one source, at least.

Isn't ridicule and scorn what junior high is all about? After all, you could not pay me a million dollars to go back to seventh grade, even if you let me keep all the knowledge I have gained since then. Just dropping me back into those putty-colored halls, into that awkward body complete with home perm and glasses, wearing my pale yellow Izod shirt and tapered, mauve, faux suede pants with the pleats would be enough to erase all the self esteem and relative security I have gained since then. Between socially debilitating "Fun Nights" where I pined after the boy of my dreams and sometimes insufficient bladder control, junior high was a nightmare of bad fashion, appearance issues, and generally devastating social failures.

(Point learned: good grades don't make you popular.)

So far, FJ is an outgoing yet reasonably cautious, engaging child who does not seem at all tempered by a character that could be termed nervous or worried. (When I think about being a child, the terms "nervous" and "worried" are the first that come to mind.) I do not consider "does not like rides" to be a character flaw, nor do I think that this is necessarily a fixed state. Before he went to the state fair with his friends, I actually told him that he did not have to ride and rides if he did not want to. He rode two. When we went back with him, he went on none, except for the Sky Ride.

He pet a cow. He was unfazed by hordes of humans. If he did not want to get into the bumper boats again, that's just fine with me. The possibility of future humiliation is not going to alter my choices for him today. If that were the case, I would be busy trying to cover a whole lot of bases.

I would probably have to quit my job in order to cover dating, class pictures, piano recitals, choir solos, and musical theatre alone.

Dinner Conversation

"Are you real?"

"Yes. What do you think that means."

"I'm real."

"What does that mean?"

"Chicken."

Suck on that, philosophy.

I'm on a Bus

I'm on a bus

Right next to the bathroom, and I can hear someone talking. Are they on the phone because, really? What could be that important?  Then I saw a small boy and his dad come down the aisle, and thought, even if Finn were here, I would not need to ever set foot in that terrifying little room because he is not potty trained.

We're on our own, and we are on a bus to Logan Airport. Finn is behind us at the beach house for more than a week of holiday fun with his grandparents and auntie.

Pulling away, I did not have a feeling of relief. Nothing to strike any chord of parental guilt. He sat on his auntie's hip waving, and I watched his blond curls and stripy shirt grow smaller through the tinted, rainy window until he was finally obscured by the trees. I simply felt sad to be away from him, knowing I would not see him for ten days. Those days are filled with work and plans, and they will fly by, and all will be well. We will sleep and eat and save time, and we will not have to worry about who is doing what as we go about what promises to be a very week and more.

And after I get past arriving home to a quiet house and his empty room, and waking up to the same, I will probably be ok.

For now, I'm on a bus