The Picky Eater

The strangest thing has happened.

Out of nowhere, my seventeen-month-old son has become a picky eater.

Coincidentally, the changes to my toddler's food preferences occurred on the same day as my older kids' school Valentine's Day parties.

"I need you to play with him for a minute," I told my kindergartners, plopping their brother at their feet. I was making lunch. Kellen and Cortlen were counting, sorting, and decontaminating valentines received from their classmates. Any card decorated with a Barbie or without a package of candy attached was tossed into a pile appropriately labeled 'toxic dump.'

"Oh no!" I yelped thirty seconds later. "What happened?" The baby was sitting on top of 50 valentines. He was bleeding profusely from his mouth.

My older sons giggled and ran away. When I tried to wipe the blood off my baby's face, I noticed that it was sticky and smelled like high fructose corn syrup.

"Please don't give the baby any more candy," I told the boys. "It's not good for him."

Kellen shrugged his shoulders and asked if I wanted a red lollipop. I accepted.

The next morning, I went in to the baby's room to find that he had eaten an entire package of Nerds, as well as the box that they came in.

"Who gave him this?" I asked, holding up what was left of the wrapper.

My daughter told me that Cameron had spoken to her in a dream. In it, he specifically asked for grape flavor.

Later that afternoon, Kellen found a piece of chocolate underneath the sofa. He left it on the seat cushion while he went to the bathroom. When he returned, it was gone.

"That was mine!" barked Kellen, shaking his finger at his brother.

I scooped up the baby and put him in his high chair. "Time for dinner!" I announced. Shockingly, Cameron batted away the food I put in front of him and looked longingly at the three white paper bags that were on top of the refrigerator. The ones decorated with heart doilies and red and pink heart stamps.

He's no dummy. Why fill up on broccoli when you can hold out and get a handful of sweet tarts?

The Alternative Family

Last week, I received two AMAZING invitations. The first was extended by the producer of a national talk show. Think seventeen notches down from Oprah.

"We're doing a makeover show and think you'd be perfect!!!!!" the producer chirped over the phone.

Already I was offended.

My self esteem officially went down the crapper when she asked me how long I had worn 'mom jeans' and why I wouldn't give them up.

"I think you have the wrong number," I told her and hung up.

The second invitation came from the producer of a new reality television series. She found my blog through a friend of a friend of a friend and "LOVED loved LOVED" my "unique perspective on parenting and positive views on life."

That's when I knew that she had never read my blog.

This producer told me that if it was all right with me, a camera crew and fifteen million people would come to my house and follow me and my kids around for a week.

The prospect of such awesomeness underwhelmed me.

When I didn't respond right away, the producer added that yours truly wouldn't be the main attraction. The series is going to feature a number of alternative families from all across the country.

"Alternative?" I asked. Her choice of words confused me.

That's when she told me that one of the other young families that she is working with vacations at nudist colonies. Another set of parents pierced their toddlers' noses and eyebrows and let their six-year-old get a snake tattoo.

As much as I had felt like I had found my home, I declined the very generous and heartwarming offer to join the freak show.

It's been a week, and I'm starting to worry that I made the wrong choice.

Not.

Drinks on Me

My husband was out of town all weekend. In an attempt to fill the waking hours with something other than animated movies, I took my kids to the pawn shop, Chuck-E-Cheese, and the garden center at Home Depot.

"You can sit on every riding lawnmower except that one," I said, pointing to the $7,000 convertible.

By 3pm on Saturday, I was making paper chains out of construction paper.

"What is that?" my son asked.

"The number of hours until you go to bed," I replied, ripping off a link.

"Let's take our kids out to dinner," I suggested to my friends Becky and James. "You pick the place."

It went without saying that said restaurant must be equipped with booster chairs, plastic tablecloths, and waitresses who look the other way.

An hour later, I found myself at a fifties diner. Two minutes after that, I was forced to confiscate the salt and pepper shakers from the table next to mine. Thirty seconds later, I was back for the packets of Splenda.

The hyenas lost interest in the sugar substitute when their drinks arrived...in mason jars.

"AHHHHH!" yelled Kellen, barely able to contain himself. The simple pleasures in life.

"Be careful with that cup," I warned.

By the time that the food was brought out, Kellen and Camber had spilled their drinks. After round two, the waitress left me with a roll of paper towels.

"It's your turn Cortlen," I said flatly. The last one standing giggled and covered his hands with his mouth.

"I'm joking," I said.

Trials are not without tender mercies.

My son waited until after I had consumed almost half of my meal before knocking eight ounces of soda into his lap.

*****
Any awesome restaurant stories out there?

Our New Pet

My kids have been saving up for a Chihuahua. They would also accept a Great Dane or any type of dog in between.

After pooling the money they've collected from the Tooth Fairy and pilfered from my purse, they have a whopping $43.00.

"This is definitely enough for something at the animal shelter," my daughter said to me this morning, fanning a wad of dollar bills across the kitchen table.

We are frequent fliers at all of the animal rescue centers in town. Petsmart= petting zoo.

"I can barely take care of the living things already in this house," I replied. "We can't get a dog right now."

Cortlen threw himself off the sofa when he heard the bad news. Kellen took the setback in stride. He chucked a library book at the wall and won a free trip to time out.

Just as I was tuning my violin in preparation for the pity party, a furry beast bounded across my deck and jumped onto a patio chair.

"A gift from the gods!" I shouted to my offspring. "Come look!"

My children stopped hating me long enough to look out the window.

"That's a squirrel," my daughter said flatly.

"It's your new pet!" I corrected.

Kellen liked my idea so much that he threw another book.

All was not in vain. After a half hour or so, my children warmed up to the idea of claiming ownership of all of the wild animals in our subdivision.

"Let's call him Squirrely," chirped Cortlen.

It's my sincerest hope that my son didn't have to dig too deep to come up with that name.

*****
Super cool! A couple weeks back, the super smart ladies at Segullah and I had a little chat. You can read the interview HERE.

Mama Bird

This afternoon, I took my daughter to the pediatrician for a check-up. While I was checking in, Cameron started crying. In an attempt to pacify the seventeen-month-old long enough for the receptionist to photocopy my insurance card, I tossed the toddler's sippy cup to my six-year-old twin sons.

"Give the baby a drink please," I told them.

I should have been more specific.

When I turned around, all three of my sons were at the drinking fountain. Cortlen and Kellen were taking turns filling their own mouths full of water...and then spitting the liquid into Cameron's.

I wanted to die.

One of the other mothers in the waiting room was so kind as to point out that the scene reminded her of a mother bird feeding her young.

In a demented sort of way, I guess she's right.

Dippin' Donuts

While my kindergartners were at school this morning, I cleaned my house. The desire to prolong the transcendent experience of having all of the beds in my house made at the same time led me to pick up my sons from the bus stop and drive aimlessly around my town for two hours.

"Where are we going?" they asked.
"I don't know," I answered truthfully.
"How long are we going to be gone?" Cortlen asked.
I shrugged my shoulders and turned into a random subdivision. "Look at those Christmas decorations!" I said, pointing at the house on the corner.
"I want to go home!" Kellen wailed. There was worry in his voice.

Three subdivisions and drive-thru car wash later, I found myself at a stoplight. Straight ahead was a tattoo parlor. On the sidewalk to my right stood a man dressed as the Statute of Liberty. He was gyrating to the music in his i-pod while holding a sign bearing the contact information for a local tax accountant. To my left was a bakery named Dippin' Donuts. If it weren't for the obscenely large hand-painted buttermilk bar on the front window, I might have mistaken the shop for its legitimate relative.

Of course we had to go in.

There were exactly 11 doughnuts in the display case. I would have ordered a dozen, but I didn't have enough cash.

Taped to the front of the register was a large poster board listing the shop's daily specials. Lucky for us, Wednesday was "Kid Day." For 96 cents, children under the age of 10 could decorate a doughnut (and I quote) "just like the pro's."

"We'd like to decorate two doughnuts please," I told the cashier.

The cashier gave me a blank stare and asked me what I was talking about.

When I pointed to the sign, she let out a long, loud sigh and coughed into her hand.

"I have a woman here who wants to decorate two doughnuts," the cashier yelled to someone in the back.

"My kids want to decorate the doughnuts," I corrected.

A teenage girl popped her head around door frame. "What?" she asked. The girl's eyebrows were furrowed into a puzzled expression.

"We'll come back later," I said, shoving my kids in the direction of the car.

"No, it's all right, " moaned the teenager. "I've got the stuff right here." With great deliberation, she wheeled in a cart from the back room. On that cart was a tub of chocolate frosting and a can of candied sprinkles.

"So that's how they do it," I said to myself. My brain almost exploded with this revelation.

What I had hoped would take 45 minutes ended up taking 4.5 seconds.

"Now what?" my sons asked, licking their fingers.

I gave them two choices: they could either chat with Lady Liberty or watch someone tattoo a row of barbed wire around a drunk man's forearm.

****
What "amazing" things are you doing to entertain your kids this winter?

The Valentine's Day Party

Today was my daughter's Valentine's Day party at school (postponed from Friday because of the snow).

As co-room parent, my job was to co-plan an event that included a snack, a game, and a craft that did not involve dried pinto beans or anything else that could be intentionally snorted up one's nostrils.

My partner and I drew straws for our assignments. She picked the game and treat. I picked the craft and the beverage portion of the snack.

I spent the better part of the past two weeks scouring the Internet and the still-functioning parts of my brain for a seasonally appropriate beverage recipe that would upstage a store bought cupcake.

Turning a first-grade Valentine's Day party into a petty competition takes a lot of time and work.

Despite my labors, I woke up this morning without a clear vision of what I wanted my daughter's class party to be. Fortunately, I found that vision in the form of my son's class party, which was held first thing in the morning. My daughter's party was scheduled for the last period of the day.

I spent the hours between 9am and 2pm at the craft store, duplicating every detail of my son's party, down to the highly original foam heart picture frames.

Some will call my actions tacky. I prefer the term "resourceful."

Snow Days

Weird, unacceptable things have been happening around here as of late. After the big storm last week, the schools shut down for three days. By Friday at noon, I was speaking in tongues.

"We need to get out of here," I announced to my brood.

The front doors of Burger King greeted us a sign bearing some unfortunate news: "Due to inclement weather, the indoor playground is closed."

I was not the only person who felt betrayed. The parking lot was full of minivans.

"This doesn't make any sense!" screeched a wild-eyed mother in the direction of the restaurant manager. "This kind of weather is why you have indoor playgrounds!"

Another mother leaned across the counter. "Please open it," she begged. "Please."

The manager explained that he didn't have the staff to supervise the playground. Several of his employees couldn't make it to work in the snow.

"I'll supervise!" volunteered one woman, raising her hand.

The manager shook his head.

Another mother took five dollars out of her purse and pushed it across the counter.

I kid you not.

I immediately began to rummage around in my diaper bag for something to add to the growing pile.

The manager was entertaining our offer when one of the mothers' cell phones rang. It was the woman's friend, who was at the McDonald's down the street. The angry mob in that parking lot had successfully talked the restaurant manager into opening the indoor playground for an hour.

Time was ticking. Within thirty seconds, we had cleared out.

Valentine's Day

Instead of giving me a formal Valentine's Day card, my son made a list of things that he loves.

The neighbor's pet rat, a college in Idaho to which we have no connection, and Peyton Manning all ranked above me.

My self-confidence, however, was restored by the realization that I am loved more than hot dogs.

Happy Valentine's Day

The Blizzard

Today Philadelphia was hit with a record-breaking snowstorm. There hasn't been a blizzard like this in the city for a million years.

I feel incredibly fortunate to be in the right place at the right time.

Our family's fun began when we woke up this morning to find snow up to our windows. Our elderly neighbor has a snow blower that was manufactured, we estimate, sometime during World War II. Tim offered to remove the snow from Darlene's driveway if she would let us use the contraption to remove the snow from ours as well.

To everyone's great joy and no one's surprise, the snow blower sputtered to a halt right after Tim finished clearing Darlene's driveway and right before he started on ours.

Darlene expressed her condolences by offering my husband a flag-shaped lollipop with the phrase "Happy 4th of July" printed on its wrapper.

The School Nurse

We have discovered the school nurse.

Last Wednesday, I received a phone call at 2:50pm.

"Your daughter is in my office right now," I was told. "She says her stomach hurts."

I told the nurse that I would investigate the situation in exactly eleven minutes. School lets out at 3pm and we are the first bus stop.

"I actually need you to come to school to pick her up," the nurse continued. "It's against school policy to send sick children home on the bus."

I arrived at the infirmary to find my daughter giggling on an army cot. My daughter's equally sick friend Natasha was sitting next to her, braiding my daughter's hair.

"You look very ill," I observed.

"I think I am just hungry," my daughter replied.

The next day, the symptoms returned during recess.

"Camber says she doesn't feel good," the nurse reported. The nurse went on to tell me that she suspected a virus. That was the only way to explain how five girls from Camber's class came down with the exact set of symptoms at the exact same time.

"Are they all in your office right now?" I wanted to know.

The nurse confirmed that the demand for cots exceeded her supply.

I offered up my daughter's bed to one of the more seriously afflicted.

"Unless she has a gaping head wound or a fever," I told the nurse, "Send her back to class."

On Friday, I screened my calls, knowing that if I didn't pick up the phone, the nurse would call my husband at work.

Over the weekend as a family we listed the pros and cons of going to the nurse's office every day. Included on the "pros" list was the luxury of drinking water out of Snoopy-themed paper cups. At the top of the "cons" list was the loss of trust and television privileges.

Yesterday, Camber managed to stay healthy for the entire day. Today, however, was gym class. After running around the cafeteria for an hour, the lure of an icy beverage served in a Snoopy cup was too great for several first graders, including my daughter, to resist.

****
Are any of your kids frequent fliers at the nurse's office?

Pants

There is much to envy about my life. Tops among my good fortunes are my TWO studly mail carriers.

Jimmy is our Tuesday/Thursday/Saturday guy. He has hair down to his shoulder blades and went to high school with half of the neighborhood. He also has a spit cup attached to his dashboard with duct tape and is missing his left pointer finger. I desperately want to ask Jimmy about his missing finger, but my husband says that it's more important that we get all of our mail.

Our Monday/Wednesday/Friday mailman is named Dave. Compared to the competition, Dave is a supermodel. From what I can tell, Dave has all of his original teeth and two distinct eyebrows. He also wears short shorts year round. Asking Dave why he wears shorts in subfreezing temperatures is also high on my list of things to do this winter. In exchange for two boxes of Girl Scout cookies, however, I promised my husband that I would not engage Dave in direct conversation about his Daisy Dukes for at least three months.

Usually I am good for my word, but some circumstances make promises impossible to keep. This afternoon, I watched Dave run his mail truck into the snow embankment next to our mailbox for the second time in three weeks. After a few minutes of spinning his wheels, screaming obscenities into the sky, and kicking his hubcaps, Dave marched up my driveway and pounded on my front door.

"Can I borrow your snow shovel again?" he asked through gritted teeth.

By the time Dave finished digging himself out of the knee-high snow bank, his bare thighs were purple.

"Don't do it," begged Cortlen. I promised my son $5 if he gets me through March.

"Can I get you anything else?" I asked Dave when he returned the shovel. Dave was half way back to his truck before I added, "Maybe some pants?"

Without turning around, Dave snorted and shouted back, "You're one to talk!"



For the record, pajama bottoms are pants. In some countries. And on most college campuses.

The Storm

Maybe I'll go for run today. Or take the kids to the park. Or powerwash the deck.

Or not.

The Kids' Bathroom

It is done. It only took us 5 months and 3,246 trips to Home Depot, but we finished it. When I say "we" I mean my husband. I retrieved hammers and drill bits upon request.

Five minutes after the big unveiling ceremony, I caught Cortlen licking the wall.

"I accidentally flicked some toothpaste on there," he explained. "I'm just getting it off."

Later that night, my daughter flooded the floor.

"How am I supposed to know when the water in the bathtub is 'too high'? she complained.

Cameron capped off the evening by throwing a spoon in toilet. Not surprisingly, Kellen flushed it.

The next morning I declared the kids' bathroom off limits for persons under the age of 18.

In a few months, I can hose them down in the back yard. Until then, they can clean themselves with baby wipes.

The Purple Boots

The groundhog hurt my feelings this year. Six more weeks of winter! I put on my sweatpants and washed off my makeup when I heard the news.

Two nights ago, it snowed enough to justify building a snowman. Camber and Cortlen were up and out on the front lawn by 7:15am. Kellen sat under the kitchen table with his arms folded across his chest until he realized that I was not going to cave; it was oatmeal or nothing for breakfast.

At the same time that he announced that he was ready to go outside, I remembered that two weeks earlier, I had donated his snow boots to the Salvation Army. Something had taken up residence in them and whatever it was, it wasn't good.

"Here you go," I said, dropping a pair of boots at his feet. "Let me know if you need help getting them on."

My son's mouth gaped open in horror. "I'm not wearing those!" he screamed, pointing at the offensive objects.

The snow boots were purple. And happened to belong to my daughter.

"I'm super sorry," I explained, "But that's all I have right now. You can wear them or wait until Cortlen is done with his."

Instead, Kellen choose Option C, which involved throwing the purple boots into the trash and stomping up to his room in a huff.

I leaned my head out the front door. "Would someone be willing to trade boots with Kellen and wear these instead for a little while?" I asked, holding up the shoes.

Thankfully, Camber volunteered. "I will!" she replied cheerfully.

Kellen was summoned from self-exile.

"You can wear these," I said, holding up the purple boots, "Or those," I said, pointing to Camber's boots.

My gesture of kindness was not well received. Kellen threw himself off the front stoop and into a large snow-covered bush.

I'm not sure, but I suspect that his response may have had something to do with the fact that the boots that his sister was wearing were hot pink.

Savviest Mom Mock Facebook Page

Check out this mock Facebook page which is featured in the current print issue of Parent & Child Magazine! (double click on the below image to make it larger)

The page was a blast to create and the peeps at Scholastic are always fun to work with; they have a great sense of humor in large part because they are, after all, parents of young children themselves.




To understand the humor behind the Facebook page, you'll need to A) know what Facebook is B) read THIS SERIES OF 'Savvy Mom 2010'ARTICLES. FYI: One of the articles is written by my favorite self-help financial guru: Suze Orman. I like her teeth. And her bangle bracelets.

Happy Holidays!

Christmas lingers a little longer in my neighborhood.

Now that I think about it, so do all the holidays.

The Master's Touch

Every January, my husband's employer partners with a large national charity. No one is forced to donate a portion of their monthly paycheck of course, but employees in departments with 100% participation are given gold stars and entered into an end of the month raffle. Employees who ignore the posters and 3,000 reminder emails are put on probation and forced to pass out juice and cookies at February's blood drive.

The raffle is a big deal and always involves balloons, chips and salsa and at least one big wig from the corporate office to draw the names out of a hat. Last year, my husband's boss won a 60" flat screen television set. Tim won a $5 gift card to Dunkin' Donuts. This year, one my husband's college interns won two tickets to the Superbowl. My husband won a Webkinz cat.

The sight of the object caused all three of its potential owners to pant and drool.

"Can I have it?" everyone asked at once.

After a brief huddle, it was decided that the only fair solution was to award the treasure to the child who responded to his/her father's requests with the phrase "Yes, my Master" for the longest interval of time.

"Pick up your shoes please," I told Kellen, pointing to the piles of sneakers scattered across the kitchen floor.

I watched carefully for any movement. My husband confirmed that there wasn't any.

"Put your shoes away like your mom asked," Tim commanded a few seconds later.

Senses miraculously restored, my son hopped to his feet and scurried around the floor, collecting his belongings.

There is no justice in this world. Only overpriced stuffed animals.

"You need the Master's touch," my husband explained.