What to do with a Wonderful One Year Old (The Sticky Gooey Art Edition)

Connell and I went to the weekly sing along at a local store called Growing Up Green.  Very cute store and he enjoyed the songs.  While I was there, I found hand made finger paints for $6.  Honestly, this had been on my agenda for this week, but clearly I hadn't had time to get around to making it.  At some point, I'm going to try the Jell-O recipe I found on Pinterest.  So decided to give it a try.  (The recipe seems to be based on one found here.)

 

After covering the high chair with an old towel, I cut a piece of finger paint paper in half and let him give it a try.  Connell was fascinated by the texture and colors.  He kept signing "more" (but I wasn't fast enough to get a picture of that.)  The paint smelled fantastic.  The cotton candy oil left me thinking a trip to the penny candy store might be a good adventure for next week.  

Everything cleaned up nicely, too!

The colors didn't dry as brightly as I had hoped, but we'll experiment with different types of paper and hope for different results.

All told, it was worth the 5 minutes of clean up and a quick bath to watch him explore colors, texture, and get over his anti-mess phase a little bit.

What to do with a Wonderful One Year Old (Sticky gooey mess edition)

(I'll save you the trouble of reading this whole thing if you're just looking for the recipe.)

I decided to make popcorn balls to add to our menagerie of bird feeders.  It's not a good day.  In fact, it's the worst day of the year.  But I don't want to write about that right now.

When I was about 6, every family got one of these popcorn poppers from my grandparents.  My parents made a ritual of getting it out every Friday.  When we cleaned out my grandparents house a few years ago, we found the one they had bought for themselves.  It's all but mint in box, so we salvaged it from the donation pile and squirreled it into the trunk of our van.  It smells like 1981 and I love it.

I broke it out today in an attempt to keep myself busy.  Connell and I had a good time measuring and pouring the kernels.  He sat there with me until the popcorn got a little feisty and we needed eye protection and maybe a hard hat... then he settled down for a nap.

So that was the easy part.  I checked the recipe more closely and realized I was missing the corn syrup. I substituted pancake syrup. Probably not the wisest idea, but in the spirit of staying busy I soldiered on. I threw shortening, brown sugar, and pancake syrup into the pot.  It bubbled up nicely and I added it to the tray of popcorn.  I threw in walnuts instead of peanuts because that's what I had on hand.  I don't think the birds or squirrels will mind.

A little scrap of ribbon made it a colorful accent to our favorite tree.  Watching the birds makes me happy and entertains Connell.  And right now, this is a good place to be.

Shorty after nap time was over, a furry friend discovered the new feeder.  Graham helped Connell watch and

What to do with a Wonderful One Year Old (Art Edition)

Charlie and Lola are playing in the background as I write.  Connell occasionally glances at them between moments of pushing his little car around and alternately running his dinosaur over with it.  Charlie and Lola is my favorite show of all times one of the few children's shows I can tolerate, probably because Lola reminds me so much of my now teenage daughters.  I miss those days.

Television is, of course, not the best way to entertain a one year old.  It's been so long since I've had an "early toddler" (who knew there was a new category?), I've forgotten exactly what I'm supposed to do with him.  I've attempted a few art projects with varying degrees of success.

First we tried sidewalk chalk because I find art soothing, but can't draw.  Blaming my lack of skills on a child is my way of coping. it seemed like a lovely way to spend a few minutes as we waited for the girls to get off the bus.  

 

As you can see, the mess was quite an issue.  He had a great time, though, so we'll try it again... right before bath time.

I ventured into Michael's today in hopes of finding fingerpaint paper.  Pinterest has been full of recipes for edible finger paint lately and I thought we might attempt it at some point this week.  While I was there, I found this kit from Crayola.  It was $9.00 and I was able to use a coupon.  It includes 15 sheets of "magic paper" and 3 ounces of "paint".  The fingerpaint lived up to its non-toxic claim and hasn't turned Connell green or sent us to the ER.  (He only licked his fingers once.)

Yes, it says 24 months+.  Yes, Connell is only 12 months.  I'm sure CPS will be at my door any second.  

 It smelled pleasant and felt like slightly watered down Vaseline.  It spread nicely and Connell didn't freak out when it stuck to his fingers.  (The boy does not like to be dirty.)  The design under the "paint" showed up quickly, making him very pleased with himself.  The finished project is cute, though not nearly as bright as the package would lead you to believe.  It held his attention for about 3 minutes.  Not really long enough to do anything super productive, but it's something.   If you figure there are 15 sheets and they each provide 3 minutes of entertainment, that's 45 minutes to rush around and clean the kitchen while the munchkin is contained.  That's worth the $9 (minus coupon) to me!

Finished project displayed with my favorite Dr. Who Mother's Day card.

It's July of 2013.  Connell popped some buttons on my keyboard the other day and made Facebook show me statuses from August 2011:

The kids and I may have missed the earthquake, but this baby is doing his/her very best to make sure I have a chance to know how it felt! S/he's already a wiggle worm... only the size of a avocado and already proving to be a soccer player!

I posted that 10 days before we lost Andrew.  When I read those words I vividly remembered the joy of those days and then quickly found myself feeling the raw emptiness I felt in the weeks after I left the hospital.

And I cried.  A lot.

I went to mass with just Connell a few weeks ago.  Katie was an alter server and Jillian was at a youth conference in Steubenville.  The guys were on their way to a soccer tournament.  A family walked in and said hello with their four beautiful little boys.  Their youngest was born on the day Andrew was due.  He was born perfect and beautiful.  He's a rolly polly happy toddler now with blue eyes and dimples that make your heart giggle.   They named their son Andrew, too.  I felt jealous and conflicted.  I want my own Andrew, but if Andrew had lived I wouldn't have Connell.  Maybe I should just take joy in watching their Andrew grow up.

I can't.  Not yet.  I'm still hurting and wondering if it will ever stop.  Part of me is missing.

I was given a lot of advice and words of wisdom in the days and weeks after our loss.  Some of it was unknowingly cruel. (Please don't tell a grieving mother it was meant to be.  Those are not comforting words.)  Some of it was extremely kind (Some people used his name... and that made him feel so real.  I appreciated that.)  But one person told me that it's okay to hurt; the hurt will never go away.  I will slowly find myself surprised at how many days I can go without tears.

I'm up to 10.

Switching Gears

I took Connell to story time at the library yesterday.  He loves other babies and he actually listens to the stories (for now), so I feel like it's an important social adventure for him every month.  However, it's not particularly easy for me to relate to the other mothers.  They're all first timers.

That's not a bad thing.  In fact, in a lot of ways I envy their enthusiasm for keeping track of how many days old their baby is or which brand of pajamas has the most durable feeties.  I admire their vigilance in reading every recall as it's published and knowing which organic baby food has the smallest carbon footprint.  16 years ago, I was that mother.  And now... I'm not.

Now I'm the mom who lives in two worlds.  I juggle college tours with fourth grade math tutors and a budding eighth grade culinary artist.  I coordinate basketball camp with theater camp and make sure summer reading is being done both out loud and independently.  I monitor internet usage and media consumption; indoor time vs. outdoor time; cookie consumption vs. fruit intake.  I say things like, "HEY.  Who didn't shower today?  I will sniff each of you until I figure it out!" (And then I hope it's not me...)

In the middle of all of that, I build block towers, whip up baby-friendly smoothies, and change a stinky little bum.  I try to make a point of having Connell-time and giving him opportunities to take part in age appropriate social activities.

I look at all the first timers and I envy their innocence.  They're still under the impression they're getting it right 100% of the time.  I feel like the outsider looking in a little bit.  I want to tell them in 5 years, feeties won't matter.  In 10 years, you'll be lucky if you can get your darling child to stop talking back to you, so please relish the beauty of baby babble.  In 15 years, you're going to suddenly be facing the reality that these children are going to leave you, regardless of how many organic veggies you've cleverly hidden in their teething biscuits.  So enjoy these days, new mommas.  Enjoy the drudgery of diapers and the sleepless nights.

I feel old and worn and cynical.

I don't say those things, though.  I sit back and feel like Connell is suffering because of my divided attention.  Maybe a big family is a disservice to all of them.  Maybe I'm letting them down because I clearly can't do it all.  And then he toddles over to me, wraps sticky hands into my curls, and with a wrinkly nosed smile, he whispers "Mama!" so only I can hear him.  I am his universe.

Maybe I'm doing okay after all.

Reluctant Reader

"Graham!  Buddy, I got you new books at the library."

"Are they audiobooks?"

"No, they're books... with pages and words and pictures."

He's not impressed.  He shuffles through the stack and walks away.  I decide not to push.  He'll hate reading even more if I continue to shove it down his throat.

An hour later, he looks at the stack again.  He grabs one book.   I offer to read it out loud while he makes block towers for his little brother to knock over.  Maybe he can have a special treat when we've finished the first chapter.

He rolls his eyes, but begins to stack blocks for his brother to demolish.

"Troublemaker," I read the title.  "Andrew Clements."

I hear the girls both say, "Frindle!" in the other room and decide they must be speaking Whovian or something else based on their sci-fi language of choice.  They slowly inch their way into the living room as I read.  The 16 year old holds up her electronic tablet as if to give the impression she's just joining us for the comfort of her favorite leather chair.  The 13 year old is less subtle and laughs out loud as I read through the first chapter.

"Woo.  That chapter few by.  Should I read another one?"

The girls suddenly find other things to look at, too cool to want their mother to read to them.

"I'll listen" sighs Katie, glancing up from her manicure.

We read on.  Blocks tumble.  Kids laugh.  I secretly pat myself on the back and add a hash mark to the "Good momma moments" column on my mental score sheet.  Lately I've struggled to feel like I deserve any marks on that side of the tally.  We predict what will happen next.  We imagine how characters feel.  We agree it's okay to use the word jackass if you're reading it as part of a story, even if you giggle so much you can't read.  We guess what would happen if the principal of our Catholic elementary school found a donkey picture that looked like her.  We wonder what Clay did with the $10 Mr. Kelling gave him.

Four chapters later and we have to move on with our day.  The book floats from one set of hands to another.  At bedtime, Graham snuggles next to me and asks if he can read to me.  Let me say that again - my 9 year old, who struggles with reading, who frequently refuses to read at all asks to read to me.  Thirty minutes later, I tell him he's done a wonderful job, but he needs to sleep.  We'll have to see what happens to Clay and Mitch in the morning.  We talk about them like they're real people.

We wake up to a gray day.  I find him curled up in bed, working his way through another chapter.  By lunchtime, he's read two chapters by himself and I have to beg him to let me have the book long enough to catch up.

The baby is napping now.  The house is quiet.  Graham has built a fort in the basement with pillows and blankets stolen borrowed from his sisters' room.  He found batteries for his Cub Scout flashlight and he's continuing to read.

Andrew Clements may have just changed our entire summer.  He may have just created a reader.  He has definitely found new fans and another grateful parent.

Facebook Status... Farewell, School Year from Hell

Dear 2012-2013 School Year: Thank you for allowing me the time to watch my children grow, take control of their own futures, and develop a greater sense of responsibility. Thank you for their increasing sense of humor, wit, and dry sarcasm (most of the time.) Thank you for offering them teachers who challenged them and teachers who gave them the opportunity to learn to respect adults even if they are difficult to relate to. Thank you for giving them a chance to learn to apologize for poor choices (Marilyn, Graham will never, ever dance on a table again, I promise!). Thank you for giving them the grace to forgive my many, many momma-flaws. But mostly thank you for letting me find moments of joy among the frustration and moments of grace in the midst of the chaos. Now, please tell 2013-2014 that we're taking it by storm and it has been put on notice! Sincerely, Momma Bear