Mother’s Little Helper

Yesterday morning was “sleep in” day. Or at least it was for Josh and me. When we woke up around 7:45 we found Caleb and Camille in our bedroom playing with the train on the floor. Brilliant. Caleb was even dressed in his PE uniform because he thought it was a school day.

When we told Caleb that he didn’t have school since it was “Saturday” and he could go downstairs to have breakfast he said, “Oh! Camille and I already had breakfast.”
Say what now?
“Yeah, Camille woke me up a long time ago. She leaned over the edge of her crib and pulled my hair to wake me up. Then we played for a little while and then we went downstairs and ate yogurt. Then we played downstairs for a while and then we came up here.”

I can just see it now. Caleb staggering from the weight of carrying a baby that weighs half of his body weight, fumbling with the baby gate, blindly walking down two sets of marble stairs, lifting her in and out of the high chair, feeding her . . . any number of things could have gone horribly wrong in that scenario. Add in unsupervised play with a baby that loves to poke at electrical outlets and put things in her mouth and it seems like a miracle that they both came out of it unscathed.

Of course, I didn’t say any of that. “Thanks for being such a good big brother. I bet she loved that. Next time just ask me before you take her downstairs or feed her, OK?”

Caleb has always been one to see a need and act on it. A real do-er. I better make sure he knows that he’s not allowed to give her a bath until she can at least get in and out of the tub by herself.


 

***I’m surprised they didn’t break out the ice shaver and have sno-cones for breakfast

Chicken every Wednesday

I didn’t have anything in mind for dinner tonight so Lucy suggested I get a chicken and she would cook it in white wine. “It’s very nice, Madame.” Hmm, chicken in white wine sounds very nice. So off I went to the store in search of a chicken, celery, and parsley.

The difficult ingredient to get, the white wine, comes from a small stash that Josh bought from the embassy soon after we arrived. Yes, we can only buy alcohol at the embassy. There are a few unmarked stores around town that sell alcohol (when I say “unmarked” I mean the glass on the windows is covered with brown paper and there is no signage — they look abandoned), but you need a special permit saying you aren’t Muslim to in order to buy alcohol there.

Anyway, back to the chicken. I brought the groceries home to Lucy and she chopped away, cut the whole chicken into pieces like a professional and then worked her magic. She had things browning and simmering and when it was done the whole house smelled like something I wanted to eat. She left the pot on the stove to cool so I could put it in the fridge to heat up for dinner.

Before I put it away I had to try it, you know, to make sure it was good. Then I had to try some more and Camille needed a few bites and before you knew it we were huddled around the pot like a couple of hobos around a campfire. The white wine with the mushrooms and the chopped parsley and onions and celery . . . I think I’m going to have to make this a regular fixture on our menu. It’s a foodie version of heroin. I hope I left enough for everyone else for dinner tonight.

***Josh and I managed to polish off the rest of the Meth Chicken by 4:33. I guess we’ll have to figure out “plan B” for dinner.

afternoon delight

This afternoon I was dragging — I think these early mornings are catching up with me — and I drove past Caleb’s favorite, the “yellow M.” Living in Oman is kind of like being in the twilight zone because in America it would never occur to me to stop at McDonald’s on purpose (the only time we went in the last 4 years is when one of the boys had an end of season party there), but here it doesn’t seem as bad for you. I take that back, it does seem just as bad, but I don’t care. Or I’ve given up. Something like that.

Anyway, I needed a Coke because I had a headache all morning and the McDonald’s drive through was preferable to taking Camille out of her car seat and going into the grocery store. And as long as I was there, I was of course going to buy McJoy On A Cone for 25 cents. And since I didn’t want to share mine with Camille (in my defense they are pretty small), I bought her her own. To eat by herself. In the backseat. By herself. 
I don’t know what the guy thought as he saw me drive off with my drink held between my knees and a cone in each hand (probably nothing since that’s not even close to the craziest thing I’ve seen while driving this week), but I pulled over and “fixed” Camille’s cone for her (taking a few bites off the top since it was already starting to melt in the heat) and then blindly handed it back as I drove off. She has had her own cone before, but one of the boys has always held it for her and given her bites. All I could hear were happy smacking sounds coming from her carseat as I headed home. 
At one point, deciding that her cone must need a little “touch up” I reached back, felt around for it and took it away from her. She was not a big fan of that. She started screaming and didn’t stop until the cone was safely back in her possession. When we pulled in the driveway I was treated to this beautiful face.

With those kinds of smiles as a reward, it’s a wonder I don’t buy ice cream for her every day. 

“Ugh, if only it were a Groundhog kind of day,” I thought as I stood in our driveway with the bus parked in front of our house and Carter hiding and sulking under the Jeep. I decided to wave the bus on and take him to school myself if he ever decided to crawl out from under the car.

The morning didn’t start out with any hint that things were going to blow up right as the bus pulled up. Everyone was up and dressed and eating breakfast without much fuss. I actually remembered to check the calendar and saw that Caleb needed to bring his library books back. Lucy packed up the lunches I had prepped the night before. Winning.

But then Carter learned that he would have to wear something other than his beloved barefoot shoes to school because I had washed them the night before and they weren’t fully dry. Normally I would have let him wear them wet, but they had become so funkified that I was having to store them outside every night. So I washed them twice in vinegar and they smell good again. I knew that in order to have a chance of them staying tolerable for more than a day or two that they needed to be bone dry before he started wearing them again.

This common sense was meaningless to Carter. He started sulking and saying that if he couldn’t wear his barefoot shoes then he wasn’t wearing any shoes at all. I gave him his flip flops and he said he hated all of his other shoes and that I couldn’t make him wear them. Totally true. He stomped outside to wait for the bus barefoot.

Josh and I had a quick whispered conference debating the merits of the logical consequences of going to school without shoes, but decided that since it had to be against school policy to be shoeless that we wouldn’t let him get on the bus. If he had been willing to tuck his flips in his bag I would have counted on peer pressure or another adult pointing out that he needed to put them on once he arrived, but he wouldn’t even look at them.

Once we told him that he had to wear some sort of footwear in order to go to school, that’s when he yelled something about hating all his other shoes and crawled under the Jeep. I guess the ridiculousness of the entire situation kept me from getting angry. I am so relaxed about what they wear and give them so much freedom in this area, but this was a hill I decided I was willing to die on. He keeps threatening that he won’t go to school if he doesn’t get his way about things, but he has always turned it around before the bus comes. This time I decided to call his bluff and the bus drove away.

Josh went ahead to the gym without me and I ignored Carter (who had moved to hiding in the side yard). He started following me around saying things like, “I’m not going to school if I can’t wear my barefoot shoes.” I told him that he wasn’t wearing them today for sure and if he didn’t figure out a different pair that he was willing to wear then he might not have them to wear at all. Then I heard lots of talk about “never going to school again,” but I simply replied, “Oh, that’s too bad.” and happily checked my email, facebook, etc while he flopped on the couch. After about 10 minutes of quiet he comes up to me and says, “I was thinking and I remembered that I have music today and last time we did the limbo and I also have World Languages (Arabic) and I really like that too . . . so I’m sorry, will you please take me to school?”

And then it was as if a switch flipped and he happily raced off to find socks and put on some shoes and I drove him to school and we made it in plenty of time. He apologized many times (sorry I messed up your workout, sorry you had to make an extra trip to drive me, sorry I was being a butthead) but I explained that he was more important than any of those other things and that it was more important that he learn that sometimes we have to do things that we don’t want to do or wear things that we don’t want to wear.

I guess we could have spanked him (except we don’t), but what good would that have done? He would have changed his behavior based on fear and/or resentment and when the threat of spanking was removed there would be no incentive to change. This way he made the decision for himself and felt sincere remorse for being a pain in my behind this morning. He learned he doesn’t always get his way and that the world doesn’t end just because he has to wear a different pair of shoes. And he came to those conclusions all on his own, with no punishment from me. The best part for me was finding out that he actually likes school. Win. Win. Win.

***yes, I know my blog is turning into “The Carter Show,” but he’s the squeaky wheel at the moment. And how could I not share a story that involves a 10 year old hiding under a car? He better grow up to do something great so someday I can say it was all worth it. 😉

Another first

I was able to bring cupcakes to school to celebrate Carter’s birthday. They aren’t the amazing cake creations that my friend SuperMom Heather makes, but I was pretty proud of my sour gummy “10s.” (peechy rings and worms cut to size)

It was my ace in the hole that day (Wednesday) because Carter didn’t want to get out of bed and when he finally got up he put on regular clothes and said he wasn’t going to go to school. Until Josh pointed out the cupcakes on the counter. (I made them as a surprise the night before). Before you could say, “buttercream frosting” he shot out of the room and was back in a flash with renewed excitement about the day. Too bad every day isn’t cupcake day.