I don’t often write about the details of potty training because, no one, honestly, wants to read about the details of potty training. But I do want to share this short story today.
James followed Sophie into the bathroom this afternoon, as he often does. While Sophie did her thing on the adult toilet he took off his pants and diaper and sat on the training potty chair. Usually, nothing happens. (We haven’t really started the training process yet.) So I was surprised when Sophie started screaming “James went in the potty! James went in the potty!”
I looked.
He did.
So I joined in with Sophie, clapping my hands, giving James kisses on the cheeks, telling him what a good job he did. Owen joined in, too. James was beyond excited. I wrangled him just long enough to get a new diaper and pants on and then all four of us were being silly, running around the first floor of the house, clapping, yelling and cheering for James. He was loving it.
So much so that he threw up.
All over himself and the entry floor rug.
Apparently we all got a little too excited about this milestone.
A bath, change of clothes and carpet cleaning followed.
I know messes are to be anticipated when potty training. I just didn’t expect that kind of mess.
“I know how sobering and exhausting parenthood is. But the reality is that our children’s future depends on us as parents. Because we know that the first years truly last forever.” —Rob Reiner
Tonight Sophie and I went to get haircuts. At 6:42pm I received an e-mail on my phone with the subject line: “Dinner is going well.” I opened it and saw this:
And at 6:48pm I received another e-mail with the subject line: “Even better now.” And then there was this:
We’re having a rough week.
“Temper tantrums, however fun they may be to throw, rarely solve whatever problem is causing them.” —Lemony Snicket
Sophie’s handmade Christmas present to us, from preschool (she couldn’t wait until Christmas to give it to us).
A late night writing Christmas postcards.
Christmas at Great Grandma Gebhart’s house + handmade train whistles from my uncle Skip.
Greg
Pop Pop’s lap overflowing with grandkids.
James and Owen with their new cars from Great Grandma.
Autumn and Amanda
Opening presents.
James’s new Jake the Pirate set from my aunt Ellen and uncle Skip (he loved it).
my grandma
Suzy
Aunt Katy and sleepy Colleen
Uncle Kyle and (Great) Uncle Skip
Autumn and her mom, Lisa
Sophie getting some puzzle help from Autumn.
Andy and my uncle Roger in the kitchen.
Aunt Ellen
Christmas at my grandma’s farm, a tradition I’ve long loved.
Nini making pomegranate cosmopolitans.
Nini, Katy and me!
(They were delicious.)
Nini reading Eve Bunting’s Night Tree to the grandkids.
A Christmas gift for the birds—bagels covered in peanut butter and bird seed.
Hanging our gifts on the pine tree.
Mom and Dad (Nini and Pop Pop)
Writing letters to Santa.
Christmas around the house.
Sophie’s preschool Christmas gift to us.
The decorated mantel—Sophie wasn’t pleased with it so she added the ribbon and, if you look close, handmade snowmen hanging from it (of course, I left it).
A Christmas Eve viewing of “How the Grinch Stole Christmas.”
in my parents completely reorganized, repainted basement.
Christmas around my parents’ house.
Christmas dinner and paper crowns.
James, Owen, Sophie and Colleen
The teddy bears my mom made …
(they’re comfy).
Bliss.
Day-after-Christmas snow.
Gear. So. much. gear. (But of course, no boots. We hadn’t bought them yet.)
The kids’ first snowfall of the season—and their first snowman!
Making the traditional Uhl Family Christmas Cookies with Grandma and Paw Paw.
Owen taking a TV break from making cookies.
So good.
Christmas Eve w/ Grandma and Paw Paw.
Christmas morning—again!
Sophie opening her very special craft box, which Grandma put together.
A great craft idea as the darker nights draw closer is candle making, and you can use amazing, ecologically friendly soy wax which is sustainable and has many advantages over paraffin waxes.
Paw Paw and Grandma
Early morning sun.
Grandma made a craft box for all three kids—it’s huge and organized and labeled and filled with so many wonderful things—all three children play with it daily (thank you).
Thomas the Train tracks = love.
“The best of all gifts around any Christmas tree: The presence of a happy family all wrapped up in each other.” —Burton Hillis
I loved these cribs. In the beginning, I wished they matched. I always envisioned a twin nursery with matching twin cribs. But the white crib was free—thanks to Facebook and a friend of a friend—and that’s what our budget, at the time, allowed. In the end, I loved them. James slept in the painted white crib. Owen, in the maple one. When the boys were first born both cribs were in our bedroom. You, literally, had to suck in your stomach to move around that room—it was so tight. And so full of deep exhaustion and deep, deep love. In our new house, this house, there was more room. Room to stand between the cribs and read a bedtime story. Room to sit in a rocking chair reading a book (thanks to summer’s lengthy sun hours), waiting for Owen and James to sleep. Room for the rug that was in Sophie’s nursery. Room for fuzzy, happy, frustrating, loving memories. If you want to improve the aesthetics of your home, you may invest in vintage runner rugs.
I was worried the boys would be upset. But they were thrilled to use their tools to help take the cribs apart. This meant a much longer (and trying) process for Andy, but he was understanding.
And then, of course, they had to test them out—this time matching beds, thanks to Craigslist. Those who are also looking for new beds may contact a Murphy Bed Company. For a more comprehensive bedroom makeover, you may need the assistance of a remodeling contractor. Prestige Construction & Home Remodeling stands out among remodelers Vancouver WA, offering customized renovation solutions tailored to your needs.
Two days later, we discovered a design flaw.
This has happened several times, in part because James knows we have to come upstairs and help him, when it’s nap or bedtime—he does it on purpose.
Still, the boys love them.
We gave the white painted crib away, paying it forward, as they say. And we sold the maple crib and changing table this past weekend. To a couple so eager and already, so seemingly in love with their child-to-be. It’s right, to pass these things along. To grow older. To move on. And yet, it’s bittersweet.
As is raising children, in general.
“O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.” —Thomas Hood
Quick update: Sophie’s surgery went very well. Turns out she had three hernias (two inguinal ones, left and right, and an umbilical one) so her recovery will take a little longer. (No ballet for three weeks—we’ve yet to break this news to her.) But she’s sitting up on the couch now, coloring, watching The Last Unicorn and, I’m sure, contemplating when she’ll get her next popsicle.
Sophie’s scheduled to have surgery tomorrow. She has an inguinal hernia. It’s minor, outpatient surgery—the actual operation only lasts about 45 minutes. I had the same surgery when I was 6.
One of the biggest comforts in my life has been my dad always saying he would take on any illness, surgery or procedure for me, if he could. I always understood the love in those statements and now, I find myself repeating them.
We bought and read Sophie the book, Franklin Goes to the Hospital. She loves being read to but often she’s fidgety. However, she was perfectly still during the entire length of this book, and so quiet after—even when we tried to talk to her about it.
We took her on a tour of the hospital—Cincinnati Children’s Liberty Campus. It was wonderful. She practiced being weighed and having her blood pressure taken. She sat on the bed that she will be wheeled in from the prep room to the room in which she’s given the medicine to be put to sleep. She got to smell all the different scents she can choose from—bubble gum, grape and, her favorite, cherry. She got to practice putting the mask on a doll on a bed. She got to ride around in the wheelchair she’ll sit in when leaving the hospital. She loved it.
They sent her home with goodies, for her and the boys—gloves, masks, hospital cap, gas mask, disposable thermometer and coloring pages. Since then, every so often I’ll peek into her bedroom when she has the door closed and I’ll see this:
When I ask her the scent her baby doll chooses to go to sleep, she always says, “all of them.” She then pretends to cut, then cuddles her doll baby—her doll baby always gets through the operation just fine, as I’m sure Sophie will, too.
I get to hold her, well, one of us gets to hold but I think Andy knows I’m, selfishly, wanting to do it, while she’s put to sleep. And we get to be there when she wakes up.
She’ll be fine. They do these all the time. It’s so minor. We’ll most likely be home in time for dinner and she’ll most likely be back at school, running around, on Monday.
Still, I’d do it for her in heartbeat, if I could.
“Perhaps it takes courage to raise children.” —John Steinbeck
When we moved into our old house the previous owners left behind an old (antique?) armoire in one of the two bedrooms. I loved it. And I thought it was so kind of them to leave it for us—until we realized, while moving into our current house, that the reason they didn’t take it with them wasn’t, most likely, to be kind but because it was almost impossible to get it down the very steep and narrow staircase.
I was at my parents’ house, with our 3-month-old boys and Sophie, while Andy, Andy’s mom and my dad were with the movers at our old house. Andy called me, asking if I really wanted the armoire. It was easy to say yes, in the comfort of my parents’ home. It ended up in our new house, lifted with curse words, strained muscles and scrapes to the paint on the wall.
It didn’t fit in our bedroom so we put it in the boys’ bedroom. Given that their changing table was also a dresser with drawers, the armoire was not needed. And given that my closet has no place to hang dresses, I used the armoire for my longer-length clothes.
And then, we moved the boys to twin beds. We took the changing table out but kept the armoire—Andy refuses to move it again. With no other place to put the boys’ clothes, I had to move my dresses. If your kids need new pairs of socks they can wear at school, you may order kids angora socks online.
There was only one option. A U-Haul box, in the attic:
This should, honestly, frustrate me more than it does. But mostly, I find it humorous. We moved the boys into their beds about a month ago. I have been up to the attic zero times to retrieve a dress. I’m not in a dress-wearing stage of life right now. This was painfully obvious to me today, when the children and I met Andy for lunch. I picked him up on the side of the road, outside his office building. We went to one of the downtown Skyline restaurants. The place was filled with suits, dress shirts, heels and scarves. If you are looking for the best restaurants Roanoke, you may visit Shakers.
Our kids were the only children in the restaurant the entire time we were there. I had gone to a yoga class. I had to pick Sophie up from preschool and I didn’t have time to change. I was wearing yoga pants, a T-shirt and sweatshirt, my hair up in a messy ponytail, and I was surrounded by women who clearly blowed out their hair that morning, applied lipstick, were rocking beautiful suede boots.
It’s a life I once knew. And although I’m happy, sometimes I wish mothering and heels went more hand in hand.
I think about when this house was built. I think about the women, mothers, who lived in it. I think about where they stored their clothes—several items, I’m sure, compared to the on-clearance-having-a-bad-day-special-occasion-oh-but-it’s-so-cute gluttony of clothes currently in my closet. I think about the decades, and styles, that have passed. Where did the women store their hats? Their gloves? Their boots? And purses! Where, in this tiny closet of mine in this “master” bedroom did they store their purses?
Sophie asked why I was putting “all my pretty clothes” in the attic.
“To make room,” I said.
For Owen and James.
For the “creakings, rustlings and sighings” of this old house.
For this beautiful, exasperating life of mine.
“She lay for a long time listening to the mysterious sounds given forth by old houses at night, the undefinable creakings, rustlings, and sighings, which would have frightened Virginia had she remained awake, but which sounded to Nan like the long murmur of the past breaking on the shores of a sleeping world.” —Edith Wharton
I was 6 years old, the first time I saw The Nutcracker. I still have the program from the Cincinnati Ballet Company—I pull it out every Christmas. And I can I still remember the wonderment I felt when Mother Ginger lifted her enormous skirt and a dozen children danced out of it. So I don’t know who was more excited—Sophie or I—when my mom wondered if we would like to see The Nutcracker with her this year.
We saw a different version, de la Dance Company’s The Nutcracker Jazzed Up! My mom knew the mom of Clara—subsequently, Sophie got to meet Clara after the performance, which she was shy about but I think she loved.
Our entire family got hit with a stomach bug a couple days before this event. At one point I was in the bathroom getting sick, Andy was holding a towel up for James who was getting sick and Owen started getting sick. The whole idea of throwing up terrified Owen so much that he started running, while getting sick, around our living room and entry. When we finally got him to stop running he finished, all over Tucker. I.t w.a.s h.o.r.r.i.b.l.e. We pulled a crib mattress down into the living room so the kids could try to sleep in between getting sick episodes. All night long it was laundry, baths, tears, repeat, repeat, repeat.
I’ve since learned many friends have gone through something similar—some over the holidays. I’m so sorry.
I was worried we were going to have to cancel The Nutcracker. But Sophie was 100 percent better in less than 24 hours. I took longer to feel better, but rallied, knowing the importance of the event, and went.
I’m so glad I did. I spent as much time watching her as I watched the performance. Re-experiencing things for the first time, through your children, is one of the better aspects of mothering.
Since The Nutcracker Sophie has flipped through my childhood program from the ballet almost every day. She hums music from it often and whenever she hears it on the radio she says, “The Nutcracker!”
I’m pretty sure Andy was only humoring me the few times we’ve been to the ballet. Perhaps, now, I’ve found a new ballet partner.
Thanks, Mom, for a great gift.
“We should consider every day lost in which we don’t dance.” —Nietzsche
Sophie has reached the age where, every single day when I pick her up from school she asks, “Am I going on a play date? Can I have a play date? Is someone coming over? It’s been SO LONG (meaning three days) since I’ve had a friend come over!” and on and on. She goes on play dates now. She has friends over. She loves this.
Of course, the people coming over are her age—her friends. And while she is, honestly, very gracious and patient and sharing with Owen and James, all bets are off when she has a friend over. They scurry up the stairs and shut her bedroom door—no boys allowed. I allow her this, though. For when she plays with her pop beads, for example, with the boys, the game typically involves the beads being tossed about her room. But when she plays pop beads with her friends, for example, without the boys there, she actually gets to make things. She deserves this.
But still, I sometimes feel sorry for James and Owen, left outside a closed door, upset they can’t get in. But a couple weeks ago, they got a surprise—Sophie’s friend Madeleine’s younger brother, Jack, came for a play date, too.
The boys loved it. They loved having someone for themselves.
They also loved that this someone was younger than them (being that they’re the youngest in our house). Owen read books to Jack, over and over, and James tried to give Jack his bottle, over and over.
It almost made me wish they did have a younger sibling to interact with.
Almost.
“The most I can do for my friend is simply be his friend.” —Henry David Thoreau
This year we traveled to Baltimore for a long Thanksgiving weekend with Grandma and Paw Paw, Aunt Lizzie and Great Aunt Fran. Thanks to the help of a second portable DVD player, the kids did well on the trip and it was so nice to be surrounded by family, especially family we don’t get to see very often.
The weather was unusually warm—we spent much of Thanksgiving morning outside, at several neighborhood parks.
As usual, Thanksgiving dinner was delicious. The kids especially enjoyed their own kid table this year.
Later that weekend we went to Baltimore’s Festival of Trees—Owen and James loved the train exhibit; Sophie loved the indoor carousel and tattoos.
Andy found his old Battleship game in the basement. Sophie played a good game against him, but Daddy won.
Thankful for family, and being able to travel and spend time with family. Thankful, indeed.
“A thankful heart is not only the greatest virtue, but the parent of all the other virtues.” —Cicero
