Why do boys do that?

Howard Cosell hasn’t been on the air for a very long time, but I still remember my brother imitating the iconic sportscaster’s voice as he called the play-by-play for any game in which he was involved – be it a pick-up football game in the backyard or an imaginary game that existed only in his mind.

As I grew up, I noticed the same tendency in most of my male friends and relations. The need to do sports commentary seems to come with the package a Y-chromosome brings.

And in Kid Two, this tendency is developed to a huge degree.

“Fourth and eight. This one doesn’t look like an easy conversion at all,” Kid Two just said, playing an NCAA football game. “First down! First down Northwestern!”

He seems to alternate between play-by-play and color commentary, and he has not compunction about being evenhanded; he’s a homer for whichever team he’s controlling.

But he doesn’t just call the games he’s playing on Wii or Playstation. He calls the game as he’s putting laundry in the hamper, the game in his head at hockey practice, the game as he fields grounders off the garage wall. He even calls the games he watches on TV, even though somebody else is already getting paid to do that job.

Last year, while waiting for hockey practice after dressing, he was watching a Blackhawks game on the lobby TV. And doing the play-by-play.

“Who is he talking to?” his coach asked.

Who knows?

But if ESPN is ever looking to expand its broadcasting stable, he’ll be ready to audition.

Laundry day

It's laundry day.
Then again, it's laundry day every day, especially days I don't go to the office.
I suppose I shouldn't complain; for the last 18 years, Big T has been primarily responsible for the laundry, so I haven't had to deal with it much. And for much of that, his parents, who live downstairs, have lent a hand, throwing in a few loads if we left dirty clothes in the basement and folding what they took out of the dryer (to make room for their own laundry, or yet more of ours).
But laundry now seems harder than it was before. For one thing, there's more of it. A baby is small in sizxe but not in amount of laundry generated. Add the tween girl status of Kid One, and we have two major laundry generators. In the last year, I'd say we've gine from generating one load a day to two loads every three days (not counting bedding, etc.). 
And with Tony's parents not able to look after Baby Three right now, even for a few minutes while a put a load in the washer, she needs to come with. I suppose I could leave her in the playpen (in the kitchen to keep her safely contained while I cook or wash dishes) but I don't like leaving her there when I'm out of the room. I can't leave her loose on the floor (on the second floor) when I'm in the basement -- even if she hasn't quite figured out the crawling thing, she does get around). So to take a load down when she's awake, I throw her in the basket or hamper with the dirty clothes and go bump-bump-bump backwards down the stairs. In the basement, she goes in her baby playstation (like a walker, but doesn't move). The dog usually joins us, and she tries to grab her as the dog walks by.
Once the laundry is in, it's back up the stairs to whatever we were doing. Folding and sorting takes place upstairs, with Baby Three playing on the floor usually.
It's not like Big T doesn't ever do laundry. He often puts in a load at night, and brings it up in the morning (because somehow that's always the load with uniform items).
But he thinks he's done when the laundry is clean and upstairs. Not folded, not sorted, and not put away. If I don't do that, it will sit in a basket in the living room or dining room for days. In fact, it often does. But I'm home more, so I'm trying to take care of that.
Even the days I'm home, though, the laundry really has to get done in the morning. By the afternoon, the day gets too busy. Last Friday, Baby T was in and out of the car nine times. Today looks much the same.

Mom day

Today I am a mom. It's 11 a.m. and I haven't showered yet. I have fed three kids breakfast, nursed and had floor time with Baby T. I've shortened pants for Big T and sewn up the split seam in Kid Two's school sweatpants (using the nifty blanket stitch I learned as part of a fourth-grade art project). I've spent an hour picking up -- dirty socks from the floor to laundry hamper, books from every room back into Kid One's room, empty juice boxes from Kid One's room to the trash, six (I counted) pens and pencils from the floor to receptacles on the desk and kitchen counter. I could spend another hour without coming close to running out of things that need to be put back in place.
And for today, this is nice. But I'm glad I get to go to work some days (where I should spend an hour cleaning my desk, come to think of it), and I'm glad that most days at home I have other things to do. If I were a full-time mom, I like to think my house would be cleaner, but it probably wouldn't. The only way it would be cleaner is if I worked a lot more and hired someone to clean. Or maybe when the kids grow up and someone invents a dog that doesn't shed.
The reason they call magazines like "Real Simple" (which features a $500 pair of boots; that's simple?) aspirational is that they show things -- wardrobes, meals, home decorating -- the way we would like them to be. I know that's how they are for some people -- I've seen some lovely homes, even some inhabited by children. But I've seen more that look like mine.
So I'll go on being thankful that I can be home some days and work some days. It's kind of like living in Chicago where you get to enjoy all four seasons, occasionally all in one day. And I'm thankful for Phyllis, our godsend of a babysitter, who makes it easier to leave Baby T on the days I do work. And I'm thankful Baby T is still sleeping, so I can go take a shower.

Transitions

We had some exciting news the other day ... Baby Three has a tooth! After what seemed like months of drooling and swollen gums, it pushed through on Sunday.
The next day I got up and dropped Kid One off at a South Side high school to spend the day shadowing a student, getting a glimpse of what high school life is like. Not that the vision is very real; I expect any school would choose those students likely to give a good impression to host middle school "shadows" and warn them to be on their best behavior. And the shadow day ended at 2:25 pm, with the end of the last period, well before I usually caused any trouble in my high school years.
Still, Kid One got to see a wider academic world than she has in elementary school, and she could imagine how she'd fit into that world. She will likely check out several other high schools before we choose.
In the meantime, Baby Three is fitting herself into our world, attending plays and hockey games and cross country meets and usually finding all of it a lot of fun. I hope that doesn't end as she becomes a toddler.
Truth be told, I wish she would stay a baby for a while. Watching Kid One and Two grow up, I have an idea of how fast it happens. We're already losing that toothless grin (for one that will be equally cute, but with teeth). Next thing you know, we'll be looking at high schools for her.

Forget me not

Forget me not






Have you ever heard the phrase “she’s forgotten more than you’ll ever know about (insert topic here)” whatever, as a way of saying how much someone knows?

I think I have. I forgot who said it.

I forget a lot of stuff these days.

I forget to blog (for almost a month).

I forget to bring the stuff I need. That might be something to do with how much stuff I have to bring with me. Keys, breast pump, various breast pump parts, wallet, did I mention keys?, insulin, glucose monitor … the list goes on. When I leave for work in the morning I’m schlepping enough stuff for a short expedition to the Himalayas.

I forget to leave home the stuff that needs to stay. Like the car seat, when Big T needs to take Baby Three to the sitter.

I forget to sign school papers, and if I don’t RSVP to a party invitation as soon as I get it, I often forget that too.

I forget who has heard which stories.

I forget the names of people I’ve just met, and those who I’ve known for a long time. They usually come to me sooner or later.

So far, I haven’t forgotten anything really important, like one of my kids. I might run late, but I always know where they are and that I have to get them.

Someone did a study about why middle-aged women (and I think they would include me in that group) are so forgetful. The hypothesis seemed to be that it was hormonal. Turns out that the brains of middle aged women are no more forgetful than anyone else’s. It’s just that they have too much to remember.

Add in the sleep deprivation that comes from three widely spaced children, and it’s a recipe for forgetfulness. So I’ll keep making calendar notes and reminder lists and looking and listening for clues to the identity of the person I’m talking to. And if I’m lucky, I’ll forget everything I’ve forgotten.

What’s in a name blanket?

Kid Two is missing a blanket. Not just any blanket – his name blanket.

My aunt has given name blankets – like knitted afghans, with their names repeating on one side and a design like hearts or teddy bears on the other – to all of her great nieces and nephews, 16 of them I think – shortly after they were born. Kid Two’s had blue binding and teddy bears.

When we got Baby Three’s, I wanted to take a picture of all of them with their blankets, but we couldn’t find Kid Two’s. I didn’t really worry at first; it’s a crowded house, and things have a way of turning up when you least expect them. But it’s been months, and there has been no sign of it. We’ve searched his room, our room, the cedar chest, boxes of baby things in the basement … no luck. I know we’ve had it within the past two years -- that is, after he moved into his room – because I remember spreading it out on his bed.

So where is it? Did he take it on a trip and forget to bring it home? That’s how Kid One lost her beloved teddy bear last year. Was it in the basement during a flood, and someone tossed it because they didn’t realize its sentimental value and try to salvage it? It wouldn’t have been hard; the blanket is machine washable. Did Kid Two give it to me to put away for him, and now the memory of doing so has left the building? I don’t know.

Kid Two is disappointed that he doesn’t have what he regards as a major keepsake from his babyhood. I feel responsible. If only I were more organized, there would only be one place I would have put it, and there it would be. If only I made the big kids keep their rooms neater, with a place for everything and everything in its place, I would have noticed that it was out of place sooner, and would have had a better chance of backtracking and finding it.

My mother, I am sure, would not have lost it if it belonged to her child.

That thought crosses my mind, and I know it’s pointless. I don’t know how it got lost, so I don’t really know if I was the one responsible. Besides, I’m not my mother. I remember sometimes feeling I would never be able to live up to her standards. I wouldn’t be able to do all the things she can do, like sewing and fixing up furniture and cooking dinner from scratch every night and keeping the house just to the tolerable side of spotless.

I was right. I can’t. But there are lots of things that I do that she doesn’t, and I’ve more or less made my peace with setting my own standards. I can live with more mess and clutter, and I make use of prepared foods sometimes more than I would like, and that’s OK. Until something happens like losing Kid Two’s blanket.

Now Kid One sometimes tells me that she doesn’t know how she’ll ever grow up and do what I do. I get it, I really do, but I think she thinks I’m just trying to make her feel better when I say that she shouldn’t do what I do, she should do what she does, make her own way, and she’ll do just fine.

In the meantime, I’ll say a prayer to St. Anthony (“Tony, Tony, look around. Something’s lost that must be found.”) and hope he comes to my rescue.

Sling thing

One of the new things I have with Baby Three that did not have with the first two kids is a sling. It’s a ring sling – simply a length of cotton sewn on to two steel rings.

It was a gift from my sister, who swears by them. She’s used them with all her four kids.

I used it sometimes when Baby Three was smaller, but not as much as I use it now. When she was tiny, my arms didn’t get as tired holding her, and she just didn’t seem as comfortable.

Now that she’s a sturdy 7-month-old, I can use the sling to hold her on my hip, hands free. Depending on how I adjust the fabric, her hands can be free to reach out and grab things, or tucked in next to me. Her head bobs along just in front of my shoulder.

And I use it all the time. I use it at the skating rink when Frank has hockey practice. I use it to walk to get Caroline at her performing arts program and to walk the dog. I used it while waiting to renew my driver’s license.

I use the sling in a lot of situations where I might otherwise have used a stroller. It doesn’t completely replace a stroller; some walks get long and she gets heavy, and she’s uncomfortable in it when I sit down.

But for lots of things, it’s a lot simpler to more or less tie her to me and get on with my life.

What’s funny is the reactions I get. Store clerks talk to her, maybe because her head is up higher than most babies’. Two young mothers in line at the Secretary of State’s office asked if it really worked. People driving when I’m walking have done double-takes. I’ve heard them say, “That’s a baby in there!”

Baby Three just goes along for the ride. I tend to get a lot of compliments on how well-behaved she is. That’s a little silly; she’s an even-tempered baby (at least, as babies go) and she likes being close to me. Her contentment does not signal super self-control, just a lack of things to complain about.

So thanks to my sister for the sling – the colors she picked coordinate well with just about everything in my wardrobe – and teaching me how to use it.

Thanks to Baby Three for enjoying it. And yes, that is a baby in there.