Category Archives: Mary
Photo Update
No ER trip, no stitches.
I was not prepared to leave the house when disaster struck yesterday. Pete was still in bed. The girls had not eaten breakfast. And I hadn’t had my second cup of coffee.
By the time we were ready to go, the cut on Mary’s head looked a little better. I went to a friend’s house (that was pre-planned anyway) and, with her approval, decided stitches probably wouldn’t be necessary.
I couldn’t get her to sit still for pictures. But here is her scabby mug.
The boys are lucky they didn’t aim their projectile any lower. OT law would be enforced: an eye for an eye.
ER Trips are never on my to-do list
Bleeding head wounds that may require stitches before my second cup of coffee make for an unpleasant morning.
Bleeding head wounds on the baby that may require stitches before my second cup of coffee make for a really unpleasant morning.
Bleeding head wounds on the baby caused by her goofing around older brothers that may require stitches before my second cup of coffee make for a really really really unpleasant morning.
The only thing keeping them alive is that she isn’t crying any more and the wound isn’t still gushing. And that Bill isn’t within a hundred miles.
Blessed Naptime
Mary is officially a holy terror.
I can’t work at my desk. She wants up – not to snuggle, no. She wants to push the buttons on the printer, or remove the ball from my Trackball. Or she bounces, pointing, and saying, “Eh! Eh! Eh!” I’ll pick up Safe-Indestructible-or-Unimportant Object #1, and she’ll shake her head no. I’ll pick up Safe-Indestructible-or-Unimportant Object #2, and she’ll shake her head no. I’ll repeat, until I finally pick up something unsafe, or breakable or important, and yes, of course, that is the thing she wants.
I can’t do the laundry. She scatters clean, folded laundry faster than I can put it in the basket. She puts on the dirty clothes or tries to put them in the dryer. If the dirty clothes are hers, she runs away with them as though I was trying to steal them. And she tries to climb in the dryer.
I can’t do the dishes. She empties the dishwasher of clean or dirty dishes. She doesn’t care, on the floor they go. She did try to put away some plastic plates in the proper drawer today, but they were dirty. She climbs on the lid and starts picking up the breakable glasses and mugs from the top rack, then throws them down when she’s done looking. And she drinks whatever liquid may have collected on the lid of the washer or the bottoms of the cups.
One minute, she’ll be playing on the kitchen floor, and the next, I will turn and find she has silently climbed on top of the garbage can and is pulling at the green bananas. I told her no, but, apparently, she thinks that means, “You figure out how.”
It’s not the climbing that is so bad, it’s the premeditation, the cleverness. When Fritz was this age, I had to teach him to move a step stool to where he wanted to go. This child has needed no such instruction. The other day I caught her attempting to go from the stool to a chair in order to get to the CD player.
If she’s not playing in the sink, it’s because somebody left the toilet lid open and she’s splashing around. Today she dunked a brand new roll inside.
She empties drawers and cabinets. She climbs into the pantry and rips open boxes. Our dog has gained five pounds eating cracker crumbs. She prowls through the house just looking for trouble, dragging the spoils of her last scene of pillage with her.
If you’re laughing, it’s because you aren’t cleaning up her messes.
She’s on her third outfit today. The first got wet in the bathroom sink. When will these children learn to close the door?
The second got covered in peanut butter. Her trusty stool helped her reach the open jar.
When Fritz took her picture, she laughed, the little imp.
I can’t keep up. And her naps are simply not long enough. For me.
Not the Big Brother
Last night, Bill very generously left work “early” (before 6 pm) and got home in time for me to attend a penance service sans children. Mary was not happy at being left behind, but she would have been more unhappy to attend a reflective service past her bedtime. And I would have been most unhappy at dealing with an unhappy baby at said reflective service and might possibly have nullified any potential grace received thereby.
As toddlers, my children are not as anti Not the Momma as they are when infants. With no other choice, they will eventually find solace on daddy’s shoulder and pass out from exhaustion. Or they might resolve to hold an all-night vigil awaiting my return. Either way, a few hours every so often without me doesn’t kill them.
Bill, though, long used to playing second fiddle to me, is now finding even that slight superiority being usurped by his oldest son. Mary spends much more time with her homeschooled big brother than with her works-out-of-the-house father, and she finds Fritz to be a fun and adequate alternative to her preferred caregiver. Fritz, to his credit, loves to dote on her, carry her around, play with her (anything, anything, to avoid doing school work, right?).
So last night, as she loudly informed everyone her opinion regarding Mom-going-out-for-the-evening, Bill would reach for her to offer his comfort, and she would swat him away while turning to Fritz. It was his chest I saw draped with her sleeping body when I returned.
Poor Bill. Not only is he Not the Momma, he’s Not Fritz either.
Public Service Announcement
Lavender is NOT a boy color.She’s bald, alright? Bald is beautiful.
Stop calling her a “little guy.”
Milestones
This past week, Mary climbed up on the step stool to see what she could see on the kitchen counter. She espied a fork, stretched forth her little arm, and wrapped her pudgy fingers around it. Since she held it like she knew what she was doing, I placed a small bit of pumpkin bread on the counter. She speared it with ease and brought it to her mouth and ate.
It doesn’t matter that she is my sixth child. It doesn’t matter that I have seen five other children learn the fine motor skills required to do such a task. It doesn’t matter that it is a mundane activity. It thrills me anew every time.
I cheered. I clapped. I called out to others nearby, “Look what Mary did!” They cheered. They clapped. We all smiled for a few minutes as we returned to our previously scheduled diversions.
*******
This past week, Fritz appeared one morning after breakfast in the kitchen. He was lugging his very full clothes hamper behind him. “Hey, mom,” he said. “I put on the last clean pair of pants in my dresser, so I brought up the laundry.”
I wanted to cheer and clap. I wanted to shout to the world, “Look what my son did!” This milestone of thinking ahead, preparing for the next day, recognizing a potential problem and taking steps in advance to ensure that the problem doesn’t occur is surely a greater accomplishment than using a fork to feed yourself. Does he not deserve the highest praises?
But somehow such antics seem facetious when directed at a 10 year old. Instead I calmly, but enthusiastically, said, “Great thinking! Thanks! I’ll make sure your laundry is the next load!”
And then I smiled for a few minutes as I returned to my previously scheduled diversions.
Pre-dawn
Because 430 am is the perfect time to go through mommy’s desk drawer.
And now all my stuff is working it’s way to the floor.
Mary: getting bigger, growing up
Bill is learning to walk again. He’s about on par with Mary: they do just fine if they’re holding on to something else.
*******
Mary inches along on tippy-toe with her eyes right about at the level of the desk, her little fingers reaching out for the interesting looking objects she espies: cell phone, scotch tape, bobbin, coffee mug (full and hot), magnets, pens, Magnificat.
*******
We have these dolphin bath toys. Mary can successfully place a dolphin inside the floating ring. I’m impressed with her skill. Best yet, she’s impressed with her skill. She cackles and claps to praise herself.
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Mommy’s lap belongs to Mary. Peter is not welcome to share Mommy’s lap. She pushes at him and fusses if he dares snuggle with her mommy. It was not long ago that she smiled and happily curled up at my breast with her body on Petey’s legs and her arm patting his as we all cuddled together.
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I gave Mary some scrambled eggs for the first time the other day. “Good?” I asked her, and she smiled and clapped in response after every bite. My older boys had jarred baby food. Katie had homemade baby food. The last three have gone pretty much straight to table food. They have been my best eaters so far, although for some reason my three year olds develop weird food preferences. Peter has suddenly stopped eating tomato-based sauces (except ketchup, of course). The pasta must be plain, and he’ll only eat the crust of the pizza. Jenny, now 5, is slowly coming out of her own food issues. So, I will enjoy this baby who loves everything I put in front of her knowing that in a year or so, she will throw a fit if I cut her pancakes the wrong way, and a year after that, she’ll decide that she doesn’t “do” pancakes.
*******
Mary has never been a fan of the car, and as she’s gotten older, things haven’t improved. I’m considering going to the Saturday Vigil Mass just so that one day a week, I don’t (Mary doesn’t) have to get in the car. It’s tough being the baby in an active family.
*******
Mary likes soda cans. We don’t normally have them, but there were leftovers from our Oktoberfest. Last night, she pointed to the one next to Bill and made her “gimme” noises. Bill said no, and she gave him a look of shock: No? What do you mean, no? I’m sorry, I can’t process that. I always get what I want. I’m the baby!
She’s getting big.
Baby’s second "words"
There’s a Bill Cosby routine about dads teaching their sons football. Working with them for years, practicing the throwing and the catching. Spending hours in the cold to watch them play. The boys grow up and get on their college teams. They make a big catch on a nationally televised show, and with the camera in their face, what do they say to the world?
“Hi, Mom!”
This is payback, of course. Moms are the ones with the swollen bellies and bulging veins. Three months of vomiting, perhaps a respite, then 4 months of sciatica. Hours of labor, the pain of childbirth. Then months of leaking and sore breasts. Mounds of diapers and hundreds of wiped bottoms. And inevitably, what is a baby’s first word?
“Dada!”
Mary has been saying Dada for quite some time. I guess she sort of says Muh for me, but I refuse to accept that as a word. It’s just babble. I mean, Muh? What is Muh?
But she definitely has a second “word” now. She lifts her shirt, tickles her tummy and says, “tikki!”
It’s how I fill my days: tickling babies and laughing when they tickle themselves.
Reit This Way 