Bad Photo, Good Subject

This horse's name is Deuce, but Beep says it "Juice."  When she tries to say juice (as in apple), it comes out "Deuce."

Ask her what horses eat, and she'll tell you "Hay."
Ask her what deer eat, and she'll tell you "Corn."
Ask her what cows eat, and she'll tell you "Cows."

Deuce is juice, juice is deuce, and cows are cannibals.

Life is a mystery.

These Little Bruises

I learned a phrase in high school French class that means "these little bruises."  I remember it as les onges petits.  Except it turns out that may not mean what I think it means (or anything at all) because I can't verify it online.

And anything not verifiable online is definitely not true.

The phrase came to mind a few weeks ago while I held my crying baby. I had just firmly told her no to something little- a small misbehavior, a whiny demand, or some such little thing.  It was the kind of misdemeanor I can't even remember anymore just a short time later.  I won't soon forget, though, the way her eyes cast down, her lip turned out, and those small, almond-shaped eyes filled with tears.

One look told me she wasn't playing the situation, she was genuinely hurt.  My baby is an old soul, and a kind one, and she is gentle to those around her and sensitive to small things.  I love that about her.

I'm relatively new to motherhood, but not to discipline or judgment calls.  Consistency comes easily to me and Cabbage, and our child and our animals live with clear behavioral boundaries and expectations they are taught to understand.  With my child, as with the many horses in my life, I've learned that sometimes I need to hold the line, force the issue, and harden my heart.  Winning the small battles means there may not be a war.  Other times, though, there is no battle; there is just another soul to understand, another method that should be tried, another path that would be better to take.

These judgment calls are never-ending with my baby, and they're the most important ones I've ever made.  I want to be her parent, her guide, and eventually her friend.  I need to be her disciplinarian, her rule-setter, and her enforcer.  I don't want her to someday face an addiction, a bad relationship, or a dangerous situation without knowing what she can do and to whom she can turn.  And yes, I think all these little daily interactions absolutely lay the foundation for those larger life decisions.

I weigh all those things every time I make a decision affecting her, and I do my best to make them mindfully.  That's why I looked down at Beep, her tears spilling over, and my breath caught in my throat.  I picked her up, held her close, and soothed her.  I didn't need to make my point that time, I needed to love her sensitive, generous, big, wide-open heart. 

"Les onges petits?" I asked her.  These little bruises?

"Yeah," she sniffed in her little voice.

"I love you, Baby.  Hold Mama." 

Driving Under the Influence (of babies)

While I am buried up to my eyeballs in work, this is a guest post courtesy of my friend, Kirsten, who gave birth to twin girls last year, and has two teenagers as well.  Thanks, Kirsten!

As I write this, my 16 year old son is taking his driving test. Be afraid, be very afraid.

With two teenage sons, I applaud the changes in the driving laws that have come into effect since I got my driver’s license back in 19diggity2, such as, for the first year you are not permitted to drive with any other people in the car unless there is someone over 20 among them. However, in the interest of keeping our roads safe for everyone, there is another change in the law that I would like to propose: Screw drinking and driving or texting and driving! No parent with a child at home (or in my case twins) under the age of one should be allowed to operate a motor vehicle. Let me explain.

Like many of us, I consider myself to be a responsible, considerate person and an upstanding, law-abiding citizen. When I was pregnant, I hired a safety expert to help install my car seats and make my already ultra-safe Volvo, even safer for my family. Even so, the fact remains that I am perpetually exhausted from the lack of sleep and other demands of caring for 9 month old twin babies so, unfortunately, nothing she did to make my car safe could have prevented me from ALMOST KILLING A DUDE while I was driving.

Last Thursday as I’m driving out of the parking lot of Our Lady of Perpetual DoGoodery church where I attend my weekly sanity-saving mommy group, I was thinking about how long I would need to drive around to keep my babies napping (desperate measures people!).  I watched the oncoming traffic while waiting to make a left turn and as soon as there was an opening I zoomed through the intersection. Suddenly, I saw a man in the crosswalk  - having appeared from nowhere I swear! - and I slammed on my brakes, nearly hitting him. Wearing a long black trench, sunglasses and smoking a cigarette, the rather severe looking man stopped walking, and slowly, menacingly, he turned and raised in arms up in the universal “What the F**k?!” position and just stood there staring at me while I held up traffic. Then with one hand he flipped me the bird and with the other - an even greater insult - he flicked his cigarette ashes toward me and walked on. 

Not being in a position to even try to pretend I wasn’t at fault, I yelled pathetically out my window “I’M SOOOO SORRY SIR!” and drove on withering in shame. Seeing as this incident occurred right in front of the city’s police department and court house I was doubly mortified and mentally flogging myself. My thoughts were racing with visions of myself in a very unflattering prison jumpsuit doing hard time for killing Trench-Coat Guy as my twins grew up without a mother.

So the moral of the story is...oh hell I don’t know. I’m too tired to write any more.

This is the view out of my kitchen window. I can only assume I would not have nearly as nice a view from Cell Block A."