So my two-year-old loves sing-song silly games. Our most popular right now is "MY mommy" and "Go Away." Either way, my son loves to start the games, "MY mah-mmmeeeee." And you echo him back in the same way, to the same ryhthm, "My Coopeeeee." Repeat -- over and over and over. He loves it.
It is the same with "Go Away." "Go-WAY-Mommeee!" "Go-WAY-CoopEEEE!" Over and over and over.
Tonight as I was changing his diaper, he smiled at me and started the "Go-WAY" game. He giggled and smiled at me the whole time we exchanged "Go-WAYs" in the familiar sing-song rhythm.
After about 6 times each, he turned his head away from me to look towards the bathroom door.
"Go-WAY ???" I couldn't make out what he said.
I asked "What?" And he looked at me momentarily, but I was interrupting him, so he turned his head back to the door and said clearly "Go-WAY Gumpa!"
Quiet. Then again, "Go-WAY Gumpa!" I was dazed by this and didn't say anything at first, then another "Go-WAY Gumpa!" he said with a big smile aimed at the door.
The empty bathroom and empty hallway through the door.
"Are you saying Go-WAY-Grandpa?"
"Uh-huh!"
"Where is Grandpa?"
"House."
"Grandpa is in our house?"
"Yep!"
Then with a big smile he said "Peeee-yeeewwww" regarding the diaper I just finished changing and he was ready to run back outside.
It was strange to say the least, but amazingly cool at the same time. Of course, he can have a very active imaginary mind at 2 . . . but I honestly think that Cooper decided "Go-WAY" is more fun to play with Grandpa Chuck, even if he isn't "here."
Friday, May 25, 2012
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Well, we tried . . . becoming a family motto
I giggled to myself in my head as I was about to hit send on my email to our team at work.
". . .will be leaving a little early so we can get on the road for a family weekend get-away."
Ha, ha. . . Tuesday my oldest had to stay home with a fever and incessant, barking cough. I had be doing nasal flushes morning and night, keeping the humidifiers going and trying to nurse her back to good enough health to be around others by weekend.
Then came an email response, "Have a great time and don't think about work for a minute." Ahhh, and there it is again. A robust laughter in my head. Not only do I not have a job that I can walk away from for an entire weekend, but little did she know that early that day I received a call from daycare saying that my youngest had thrown up a little first thing in the morning. I attributed it to his downing three cups of juice before heading to daycare and his zealous way of playing when he gets there. But I still wondered all day. Just because daycare didn't call the rest of the day didn't mean we were totally in the clear.
I was really looking forward to this weekend. My mom, all three brothers, sister-in-law and niece and nephew, two aunts and uncles and cousins. . . this just rarely happens. And I have been in need of an attitude adjustment and break.
When I picked up my kids on Thursday afternoon from daycare, there was a note that just before I got there my youngest had a really yucky diaper. But then he was fine all night. The next morning, I thought he looked a little pale, but otherwise he seemed OK. At 11 a.m. I had a message that he was at 101.6, wasn't himself and needed to go home. My husband picked him up and the debate began.
Do we cancel our trip and wait to see what happens? Do we go for the first night and see how it goes and come home the next day if we need to? Will we once again be bringing sickness to the party for everyone to share -- seems to be the case all the time.
Baby took a nap and we decided to try it. We were determined to try to have a relaxing getaway weekend since they come so seldom.
And as I type, here goes that brain laughter again, this time slightly more sarcastic.
Our weekend in fast forward:
*locked hotel door in frigid temps with 3 little ones
* baby with fever and nasty diapers (Friday only)
* a first evening of visiting with no one as we chased kids all night
* less than desirable amounts of sleep for all parties
* a daughter whose skin literally gets burned from the pool chemicals -- perpetuating a weekend of tears and pain, with some freaking out. A week of red, painful skin ensues.
* a Saturday with very limited time spent with family for the swimming and chasing of kids
* being drenched by projectile vomit by the middle child in the afternoon of Saturday, followed by hours of sitting in the room with him -- a final puke close to midnight, in the bed, so slept on towels on the bed
*arguing for husband and me because we're both tired, stressed and not communicating worth crap when you're constantly headed in different directions
* two hours of work in the car
* laundry, unpacking, organizing for the week ahead upon arrival home with very little energy to accomplish it . . .it sits half done as I type holding baby wishing for an early bedtime for all.
I love, love, love my family. I am grateful for the collective 20 minutes of talk time I got with my mom over the weekend, the few minutes I had to interact with the other little ones of the group, the hour+ with my little bros after everyone else went to bed, and the 60-second conversations with everyone else. . .
Now I think I need a few weekends to catch up from the relaxing family getaway weekend.
Insert hysterical head laughter here.
". . .will be leaving a little early so we can get on the road for a family weekend get-away."
Ha, ha. . . Tuesday my oldest had to stay home with a fever and incessant, barking cough. I had be doing nasal flushes morning and night, keeping the humidifiers going and trying to nurse her back to good enough health to be around others by weekend.
Then came an email response, "Have a great time and don't think about work for a minute." Ahhh, and there it is again. A robust laughter in my head. Not only do I not have a job that I can walk away from for an entire weekend, but little did she know that early that day I received a call from daycare saying that my youngest had thrown up a little first thing in the morning. I attributed it to his downing three cups of juice before heading to daycare and his zealous way of playing when he gets there. But I still wondered all day. Just because daycare didn't call the rest of the day didn't mean we were totally in the clear.
I was really looking forward to this weekend. My mom, all three brothers, sister-in-law and niece and nephew, two aunts and uncles and cousins. . . this just rarely happens. And I have been in need of an attitude adjustment and break.
When I picked up my kids on Thursday afternoon from daycare, there was a note that just before I got there my youngest had a really yucky diaper. But then he was fine all night. The next morning, I thought he looked a little pale, but otherwise he seemed OK. At 11 a.m. I had a message that he was at 101.6, wasn't himself and needed to go home. My husband picked him up and the debate began.
Do we cancel our trip and wait to see what happens? Do we go for the first night and see how it goes and come home the next day if we need to? Will we once again be bringing sickness to the party for everyone to share -- seems to be the case all the time.
Baby took a nap and we decided to try it. We were determined to try to have a relaxing getaway weekend since they come so seldom.
And as I type, here goes that brain laughter again, this time slightly more sarcastic.
Our weekend in fast forward:
*locked hotel door in frigid temps with 3 little ones
* baby with fever and nasty diapers (Friday only)
* a first evening of visiting with no one as we chased kids all night
* less than desirable amounts of sleep for all parties
* a daughter whose skin literally gets burned from the pool chemicals -- perpetuating a weekend of tears and pain, with some freaking out. A week of red, painful skin ensues.
* a Saturday with very limited time spent with family for the swimming and chasing of kids
* being drenched by projectile vomit by the middle child in the afternoon of Saturday, followed by hours of sitting in the room with him -- a final puke close to midnight, in the bed, so slept on towels on the bed
*arguing for husband and me because we're both tired, stressed and not communicating worth crap when you're constantly headed in different directions
* two hours of work in the car
* laundry, unpacking, organizing for the week ahead upon arrival home with very little energy to accomplish it . . .it sits half done as I type holding baby wishing for an early bedtime for all.
I love, love, love my family. I am grateful for the collective 20 minutes of talk time I got with my mom over the weekend, the few minutes I had to interact with the other little ones of the group, the hour+ with my little bros after everyone else went to bed, and the 60-second conversations with everyone else. . .
Now I think I need a few weekends to catch up from the relaxing family getaway weekend.
Insert hysterical head laughter here.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Soooooo over it
I'm going on the record.
I am sick of poop. Diapers, potty training, the like. I still have a long ways to go until I can say I'm officially done with either . . . but I am SOOOO over these items.
Few things in my life have been this exhausting, disgusting and expensive.
All the laundry, all the diapers, all the cleaning carpets, furniture, etc.
Golden will be the day when this too has passed.
I am sick of poop. Diapers, potty training, the like. I still have a long ways to go until I can say I'm officially done with either . . . but I am SOOOO over these items.
Few things in my life have been this exhausting, disgusting and expensive.
All the laundry, all the diapers, all the cleaning carpets, furniture, etc.
Golden will be the day when this too has passed.
Monday, November 7, 2011
470
I am sick. I am in the room that you dubbed, "the cave," wishing I could sleep as well right now as you always did down here.
It's kind of awful when you can't sleep so you resort to Google searches for no reason. I can't do much else as every slight move is miserable.
It's even more awful when I search your name and all I get are the obituary notices. I'm missing you.
I found a neat calculator that says that it has been 470 days since I last saw your face.
I'm in a room that I dubbed as the "Grandpa Suite" on a bed that should be in Arizona, sick with a nasty headcold, sick to my stomach with the tummy flu, and heartsick because 470 days is just so long.
It's kind of awful when you can't sleep so you resort to Google searches for no reason. I can't do much else as every slight move is miserable.
It's even more awful when I search your name and all I get are the obituary notices. I'm missing you.
I found a neat calculator that says that it has been 470 days since I last saw your face.
I'm in a room that I dubbed as the "Grandpa Suite" on a bed that should be in Arizona, sick with a nasty headcold, sick to my stomach with the tummy flu, and heartsick because 470 days is just so long.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Irony
God created me to be a communicative being.
I can do a few things well, but my one true stand-out gift is my ability to communicate in all forms. When this gift is paired with my perceptive intuition, it really is quite handy.
That is, except when dealing with my child with special needs.
I got a call this afternoon from the speech therapist at his preschool. One of his IEP goals this year is to be able to articulate. At this point he still only has a few syllable and vowel sounds, even though that has grown a little. His daycare teachers are asking the experts for help in understanding him, and giving him tools to express himself more with them and his peers.
My son is four. My 18-month old has more words than my four-year old does. It's not that he doesn't comprehend, in fact his comprehension is remarkable. His articulation, to put it mildly, leaves a lot to be desired.
I want so desperately to figure this out for him. I cannot stand seeing and hearing his frustration when no one around him gets him. I worry about his ability to bond and connect with others as they get older, and I worry about behavior issues that could stem from utter frustration on his part.
Something that comes so easily, naturally and completely without thought for me . . . and my son is on the complete opposite side of the coin.
It feels like a huge life lesson in the palm of my hand; it feels like irony sent from above.
I can do a few things well, but my one true stand-out gift is my ability to communicate in all forms. When this gift is paired with my perceptive intuition, it really is quite handy.
That is, except when dealing with my child with special needs.
I got a call this afternoon from the speech therapist at his preschool. One of his IEP goals this year is to be able to articulate. At this point he still only has a few syllable and vowel sounds, even though that has grown a little. His daycare teachers are asking the experts for help in understanding him, and giving him tools to express himself more with them and his peers.
My son is four. My 18-month old has more words than my four-year old does. It's not that he doesn't comprehend, in fact his comprehension is remarkable. His articulation, to put it mildly, leaves a lot to be desired.
I want so desperately to figure this out for him. I cannot stand seeing and hearing his frustration when no one around him gets him. I worry about his ability to bond and connect with others as they get older, and I worry about behavior issues that could stem from utter frustration on his part.
Something that comes so easily, naturally and completely without thought for me . . . and my son is on the complete opposite side of the coin.
It feels like a huge life lesson in the palm of my hand; it feels like irony sent from above.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Weirdness
My cell phone rings. It says "Dad" is calling me.
This has happened repeatedly over the past few weeks.
For less than a split second I have an energized, excited feeling of getting to talk to my dad and then reality quickly sinks in and I realize I will never have a phone conversation with him again.
I've been using my husband's old cell, so when his parents call my phone it comes up as "Dad."
It's a weird emotional state these days. It's still sadness, mixed with a constant mantra of "suck it up." I cried heavy and hard into an armful of his suits that we donated to goodwill a couple of weeks ago. I've been packing up and parting with his stuff for months now . . . but I couldn't stop hugging the armful as if I were hugging him.
And now the rocking chair that they gave Kaitlynn, that he so diligently fixed after it broke two years ago, is once again broken - this time beyond repair. He was so proud of himself for fixing it, but warned that it wasn't going to last long. The kids have been hard on that chair. It's incredibly broken. Yet I haven't parted with it yet. I took pictures of the areas that he fixed . . .knowing that it's one of the last "projects" he did for me. What in the world will I ever do with those pictures? Got me. But for some reason I need them if I'm ever going to be able to let go of the actual object.
Like I said. Weird emotional state.
It's a good sign that I recognize the weirdness, though, right?
This has happened repeatedly over the past few weeks.
For less than a split second I have an energized, excited feeling of getting to talk to my dad and then reality quickly sinks in and I realize I will never have a phone conversation with him again.
I've been using my husband's old cell, so when his parents call my phone it comes up as "Dad."
It's a weird emotional state these days. It's still sadness, mixed with a constant mantra of "suck it up." I cried heavy and hard into an armful of his suits that we donated to goodwill a couple of weeks ago. I've been packing up and parting with his stuff for months now . . . but I couldn't stop hugging the armful as if I were hugging him.
And now the rocking chair that they gave Kaitlynn, that he so diligently fixed after it broke two years ago, is once again broken - this time beyond repair. He was so proud of himself for fixing it, but warned that it wasn't going to last long. The kids have been hard on that chair. It's incredibly broken. Yet I haven't parted with it yet. I took pictures of the areas that he fixed . . .knowing that it's one of the last "projects" he did for me. What in the world will I ever do with those pictures? Got me. But for some reason I need them if I'm ever going to be able to let go of the actual object.
Like I said. Weird emotional state.
It's a good sign that I recognize the weirdness, though, right?
Saturday, July 9, 2011
It is so July
One year ago I was getting ready to return to work after maternity leave. That means one year ago was the last time I spent "real" time with my dad.
I took the baby and went to the other side of the state to see my parents' new home. My dad and I laughed as we hung stuff on mom's kitchen wall and tried to beat the young kids on TV at Jeopardy. Whether it is thanks to growing up in a funeral home, or from hearing my dad say my entire life that he wasn't going to live to be an old man, I have always had a hard time with goodbyes. I remember even with all the hormones being whacked out, that I was able to keep it together as I hugged each of them goodbye that Sunday. Of course once I drove away I allowed myself to get my sadness/anxiety over with.
July 21 was my last "real" conversation with him. I remember it like it was yesterday. He had left messages for me at all three of my phones. I called him back as I came out of an off-site meeting. I sat in my van and we laughed. He was incredibly jolly that day. I'm so incredibly thankful for that phone call. One regret I do have is the voicemail itself. I have a hard time deleting good messages from people I love -- again -- same as the goodbyes. I just want to hold onto those things. I remember sitting in that parking lot and fighting with myself about not needing to save his voicemail. It's something I've been doing for as long as I've had a cell phone. Eventually I do delete. But I usually have one saved from mom and one saved from dad. I fully understand this is weird and probably unhealthy to think like that, hence the debate in the parking lot that day. I decided to let it go as I felt I needed to stop being so anxious about that.
What do you know. The one time I win my battle with anxiety is the one time I wish I wouldn't have. He was so happy on that message. I wish I could still listen to it over and over.
July 4 was six years since my grandpa died. June was 14 years since my other grandpa died. Apparently summers aren't good for us.
July 23, shortly after 7 is when I got the call. Midnight is when I saw my dad in the hospital and communicated with him for the last times. July 25 at 6:44 p.m. is when he officially left us.
My husband asked me why I'm so fixated on all the "lasts" instead of all the happy things. He gets why anniversaries and holidays are hard, but he doesn't get the lasts. I don't have an answer. I am trying not to, but it just seems to be where my mind goes without my intention of it.
Some days it feels like it's been so long. Some days it seems like yesterday. And some days I still briefly have moments of not believing that he's gone.
I so miss him every single freaking day.
I took the baby and went to the other side of the state to see my parents' new home. My dad and I laughed as we hung stuff on mom's kitchen wall and tried to beat the young kids on TV at Jeopardy. Whether it is thanks to growing up in a funeral home, or from hearing my dad say my entire life that he wasn't going to live to be an old man, I have always had a hard time with goodbyes. I remember even with all the hormones being whacked out, that I was able to keep it together as I hugged each of them goodbye that Sunday. Of course once I drove away I allowed myself to get my sadness/anxiety over with.
July 21 was my last "real" conversation with him. I remember it like it was yesterday. He had left messages for me at all three of my phones. I called him back as I came out of an off-site meeting. I sat in my van and we laughed. He was incredibly jolly that day. I'm so incredibly thankful for that phone call. One regret I do have is the voicemail itself. I have a hard time deleting good messages from people I love -- again -- same as the goodbyes. I just want to hold onto those things. I remember sitting in that parking lot and fighting with myself about not needing to save his voicemail. It's something I've been doing for as long as I've had a cell phone. Eventually I do delete. But I usually have one saved from mom and one saved from dad. I fully understand this is weird and probably unhealthy to think like that, hence the debate in the parking lot that day. I decided to let it go as I felt I needed to stop being so anxious about that.
What do you know. The one time I win my battle with anxiety is the one time I wish I wouldn't have. He was so happy on that message. I wish I could still listen to it over and over.
July 4 was six years since my grandpa died. June was 14 years since my other grandpa died. Apparently summers aren't good for us.
July 23, shortly after 7 is when I got the call. Midnight is when I saw my dad in the hospital and communicated with him for the last times. July 25 at 6:44 p.m. is when he officially left us.
My husband asked me why I'm so fixated on all the "lasts" instead of all the happy things. He gets why anniversaries and holidays are hard, but he doesn't get the lasts. I don't have an answer. I am trying not to, but it just seems to be where my mind goes without my intention of it.
Some days it feels like it's been so long. Some days it seems like yesterday. And some days I still briefly have moments of not believing that he's gone.
I so miss him every single freaking day.
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