Super Man

Caleb has uncovered a superpower.
He can fly.
It's marvelous. All that is required to activate this power is a cape. * Fling ordinary brown cozy-blanket around neck, fastens securely with one of mom's binder-clips, raises hand above head and preso! Off like a shot.*

I don't know why I've never made Caleb a cape before today, I feel a little like I need a red check mark on my blackboard of Mommyhood. Two more and you have to see the principal!Regardless of timing, both Caleb and I are relieved that his cape has brought him so far in life so quickly.

I need a cape.
I am still trying to uncover my own superpower —Correction, I am still trying to uncover my SUPER-superpower. Right now I have all the usual superpowers . . . Multitasking, laundry-washing, house-cleaning, child-rearing, meal-making, bottle-washing, grocery-shopping, bill-paying, etc.

My husband and I discussed superpowers one night over dinner.

Me: "If you could have any superpower what would it be?"
Him: "Hmmm, I think shooting lighting-bolts from my fingers."
Me: "Wow. Lightning bolts?"
Him: "Yep."
Me: "I'd want to be able to read peoples' minds."
Him: "Don't you already do that?"
Me: *rolls eyes and smiles thankfully* "No, I mean, like I could walk into a room and know what going on in the minds of everyone around me."
Him: "Why would you want that?"
Me: "So I would always know the right thing to say and do—especially when it comes to parenting."

If I could get into my childrens' heads I could be so much better at this incredible, emotional, exhausing, fulfilling job called being a Mom. Was that sass willful disobediance or the result of a missed nap? Is she screaming because she is tired, or hungry, or both? Does he really hate hot dogs or does he just want fruit snacks for dinner?

Caleb just ran past with his cape streaming out behind him. Now he's back and parked at my elbow as I type this.

Caleb: "Hey Mom, whatcha doin?"
Me: "Writing about your cape."
Caleb: "My cape?"
Me: "Yep."
Caleb: "How come?"
Me: "Because I think it's so cool that you can fly, and I wanted to tell my friends."
Caleb: *long pause* "You should tell them about you too." *leaves me, and flies across the room again*
Me: "About me? What should I tell them?"
Caleb: *shouts as he zooms by* "That you taught me to fly!"
Me: *Long pause as the reality of that hits her heart. Stands up, hits 'publish' on blog, flutters cape out behind her and flies across the room*

How Many of You Are There?

Hello? Are you out there?

This is me, just curious if people actually read the silly stuff I post here at Quadruple Life.

I know I have a few followers (THANK YOU!) and a few who pop in now and then (THANK YOU!), and I just wanted to say that if you like what you read, or if you have suggestions, have an idea of something you want me to write about, or just want to say 'hi," please comment! (It's kind of the thing to do on a blog). And besides, I LOVE hearing from you!

A note on comments: If you have trouble commenting, let me know! I can make a couple of changes on my end to make it easier.

While QuadrupleLife is primarily about my little family (and I know it's not always that engaging), I am considering branching out a little and doing a variety of posts—life outside of the "Quadruple" part and more on the "Life" part . . .

For those of you who read my blog from the notes on Facebook, come on over to blogspot and click "follow."
I would love to know who's out there! :)

Bravo Charlie, signing off!

—b

Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious

"HEY MOM! THAT'S YOU!"

Let me tell you, I have been personified as a lot of things as Caleb has steadily grasped the concept of language, and his imagination has grown as fast as his verbal skills—

Poop: "Mommy, you can be the big one."
Cereal: "Look Mommy, I ate you up!"
Bugs: "I just squished you!"

This morning, I have to say that I am quite pleased and even flattered by Caleb's fabulous imagination. This morning, as I stood blerry-eyed, coffee in hand, in baggy sweats—stained with spit-up from Ella's night feedings—my sweet son has personified me as the lovely Julia Andrews. No—not personified, identified! ("Hey Mom that's you").

Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!

Sweet, darling, diluted boy. Love him to death.

I'm A Big Boy Now . . .

The past couple months have been strenously focused on Caleb's shift from diapers to "unders" and I am proud to say that Caleb has leaped the gap and entered the "big boy" realm! We are SO proud of him!

We used several incentives: stickers, skittles, new "unders," and once a coveted car when he used the toilet for "poo" the first time. It was a big moment. The true and final incentive, however, occurred when we told Caleb that he could not turn three if he still wore diapers. This did it. Every successful time he used the toilet he would clap and say to me,
"Mom, my birthday will be so happy!"

All this to say, besides the success of potty training, that my little boy is no longer so little. *sniffs and looks puzzled at the calendar* Where did the time go? Furthermore, even Caleb knows it is passing!

This afternoon as I tucked him in for a nap, kissed him, and told him to have a good rest, he said to me:

"Hey Mom, guess what."
"What?"
"My birthday's coming—right around the corner!"
"That's right!"
"I'm growing up so fast."

So fast.

Cuts

Here is evidence that one must be very careful when it comes to writing authentically!

Last night, in a moment of desperation, I cut my hair. Off. Under the influence of my characters’ dialogue!
Two of my protagonists were having a rather heated conversation about things that really matter, and how our perceptions define us.

“Who are you?” MC 1 asked. “Who are you really?”
“I’m just—just me,” MC 2 replies. “At least I try to be real.”

And of course I was forced to think, who am I? Am I being real? I paused for a moment of reflection, and when I sat back down to resume the dialogue, I found neither character had anything left to say to me.

For four hours I battled a severe case of writer’s block and all the while the question rang in the back of my mind . . . Am I being real? Even to me?

Now, a girl’s hair should not have as much to do with all of this as it did. But for the past couple of months, every time I glanced in the mirror I have thought, “blech. I need a change. That doesn’t look or feel like me.” So as I got up to pace the room yet again, pushing my curly hair out of my eyes I decided, ok. I’ve had it. This bird’s nest has got to go.

I dug the sheers out of the kitchen drawer and chopped away.

When I sat back down at my computer thirty minutes later—liberated—I found my characters were finally able to continue their conversation. And I . . . I feel exactly like me.

Using the Pedals

Last night was monumental at the RedHouse.
Caleb, on his own initiative, pedaled his trike.
This is a big deal. Up until last night, the whole coordination things has been a little tough to grasp and he has preferred to motor along, simply pushing the ground with his feet. But last night he rode his trike.

*does a victory dance*

Potty Training Heroine

At my house we are well acquainted with the human ability to rid the body of it's own waste.
I am very familiar with my children's ability to do this. One in a diaper and one in the toilet. Sometimes. When I set out on this venture I never realized how nonchalant I would become about the whole matter.

My son just peed on the floor in the grocery store?
"—Clean up on aisle two!"
I am wearing poop?
"—Do you have a wet-one? Oh, never mind, here's a napkin."
My son just pooped his pants, at the library, and it's everywhere?
—"Define everywhere. Can I throw his underpants away and just let him wear his pants? Yep. Good. Story time!"
My daughter is covered in poop?
—"Oh, don't worry, I brought a change of clothes. For everyone."

This sort of thing really, really used to gross me out. This and vomit.
Now I have a toddler and a 6 month old.

I am no longer afraid.

These days, as I walk the halls of potty training adventure I carry the tools of my trade, ready to wield them should the armies of darkness show their ugly heads.

You can do almost anything with a roll of toilet paper, hand soap, and a public hand-blowdryer.

Bring it on.