The Neglect of John

Oh baby John. You poor thing. Pretty much every thing your sister did was documented on this blog. I think I even documented the very first real tear she shed. Then you came along, and she got older, and well...blah. I am sorry. And the events described in this post happened almost five weeks ago. I know.

Horrible.

And I swear your lack of a real first hair cut wasn't because we were not tending to your basic hygiene needs, you just have such awesome hair and I never wanted to cut it. And I was also worried that no matter where we went, they would judge me for wanting to keep your hair long, so I trimmed it myself and we made our way through the days.

But when I noticed you started to cock your head back to see past/under your long bangs, I realized we should probably bring in a professional, lest your sweet baby spine develop a reverse hunch and we spend countless hours trying to reverse damage that could have been avoided by a single haircut.

To quell my fears regarding the judgment of your long hair, I choose a fairly progressive (read: hippy) place to get your hair cut. It was fully equipped with a wide array of earth-friendly toys and a breast milk donation box. Yes, that's a thing. I knew we were in the right spot when the hair dresser promptly strapped her 10 month old to her back before setting you up for the cut. It was impressive.

Aunt Shisha (Liza) came with us for moral support, and I am so thankful she did, or we would have no pictures of the event.

Pre-cut. Cautious, but comforted by the tools/trucks you are hoarding.

Note the tartan plaid wrap around the hair-cutter. That's holding her baby onto her back. No judgment about John's hair length here. He's free to be whatever he wants to be.

Ruh-roh. You realized there's a strange woman with a child strapped to her back holding a sharp object by your neck. Fear is probably a reasonable response.

Mom to the rescue! Or at least to hold him still while the remainder of the cut was rushed through.

I should also add here, this is when I realized you were warmer than normal and had a diaper full of poop. So, not ideal hair cutting conditions. You went on to develop a full blown fever later that night.

Finished product.

So, despite some emotional and physical hurdles, we both survived your first "real" haircut. And they left enough hair so you still look like my little man. And thankfully, it appears your super hero powers are still intact.

Baby John is Two, aka, THE RECKONING

Dear Baby John,

Yes. I still call you Baby John. I will call you that until the end of time because you are just that. My baby.

But.

You aren't really a baby any more. According to your stats at the doctor yesterday (height 37.75 inches and 34 pounds), you are the size of a 3.5 year old. You still love "baby" things like your cow lovie Mimi, and your binkie, which you call "see-see" or "he-see". Your Dad is hot to trot to get you to ditch the binkie, but I am holding on to these last little baby items for dear life.

You are such a spectacular kid. You are both quiet and sweet, but also loud and crazy. When your sister would pick on you when you were small, we would warn her there would come a time when you would be bigger and be able to fight back. Well, that day has come. You are no longer afraid to grab her hair and throw alarmingly heavy toy cars at her.

Your aim is impressive.

You appear to be left-handed. You love the movies Cars and Planes. You will flex and yell "VROOOM! Ka-CHOW!" (Lightening McQueen's tag line) and like to call yourself "Keen", short for Lightening McQueen. You love Nilla Wafers, bananas, meatballs, and fish sticks. You are a questionable sleeper and I am sure one of these days you will shake the cold you have seemingly had since birth.

You are all boy.

You love Captain America, though you have never, to my knowledge, seen a TV show or movie with this character. I think you just seem to know he's very manly. You love tools and trucks and cars and heavy equipment. You are a real man's man at the ripe age of 2.

You are very charming and have pretty much every person in this family wrapped around your finger. You cry when Annie is hurt because it makes you sad to see her sad. You cuddle up and touch the side of my face when you think I am sad or mad. Your favorite place is on your Dad's lap.

You two love to take baths together, but when I say it is getting CRAZY, that's an understatement. How there is any water left in the tub at the end of each bathing session is beyond me. Wine consumption is up on bath nights.

This face. Ugh.

It is not uncommon to walk in and find you two snuggling and holding hands. Lord, please let them stay this close forever. I understand there will be a few breaks when they are teenagers and want to kill each other, but for now, they are truly best buds. Except for when there's throwing of cars and pulling of hair....but nothing's perfect.

You are so wonderfully weird and fun. I love every day we have with you.

And your Dad. Oh how you love your Dad. He's the only one allowed to put you to bed at night or retrieve you in the morning. He's your go-to guy for all things parenting, and he loves it so much. Now, were I a more sensitive person, I might get my feelings hurt by you yelling "NO! Gaga!" (your word for "dad" right now) at me when I come in to check on you when you are crying in the night. Or when you yank your hand away when you realize it's my hand you are holding and not your dad's. But no worries, my little man. I know your Dad is awesome and I know, or hope, there comes a time when you are looking for your mom just as much. And when you do, I will be right there.

I love you, sweet boy. Happy birthday.

~Mom

Of Loves and Fishes

Annie received a fish for her fourth birthday from the Hagemann family. The fish's name was Linda. Linda was a Betta fish and lived on our fireplace mantle for six months. She was a good fish. Since I am referring to Linda in the past tense, I am sure you see where this is going.

One morning last week, I hear a shrill cry from the downstairs, followed by some sort of moaning and I assume Annie has fallen and hurt herself. In my long three step journey to the top of the stairs to assess, I hear Rick say, "Kaly (it's never good when he uses my real name), Linda is dead."

Ok, so Linda and I were never that close. One of my stipulations for getting a fish was that I never wanted to change the water. I can handle a lot of grossness but I draw the line at slimy fish water. Rick was on board for the roll of fish-carer and dutifully changed Linda's water every week. So needless to say, I was not expecting to feel much when Linda made her departure.

But Annie was sad. So, so sad. So then I was sad and the next thing I knew, I was crying over the dead fish. Annie went to school that morning and promptly drew this picture, forever memorializing Linda:

Linda's poor fish body probably wasn't halfway to the sewage treatment plant when there was already talk of a replacement. But, the show goes on, as they say, and Annie and I headed out yesterday to get a new fish. Also named....Linda.

In an effort to give Linda 2.0 (actually 3.0, because the original Linda, the namesake of all these fish, was Linda the gelato lady in Miami. Turns out if you give a 4 year old a cup of sprinkles five days in a row, it buys you naming rights for all future fish purchases) the best life possible, we purchased a betta specific tank that was on sale that day. It was fancy with a pump and filter, touch lights and a little feeding hole. We even got her a cute pink castle she could swim through. This Linda was SET and I imagined us all growing old together.

Imagine my surprise when, a short three hours later, I walked by to see poor Linda stuck to the side of the pump filter. I used a nearby chopstick to dislodge her and she kind of limped away, but was still alive. I informed Annie (because she was right there) that Linda had a bit of an incident, but she should be ok. Again, Annie busted out the drawing materials to narrate the happenings of Linda.

This is Linda being sad that her evil fish tank hurt her, but apparently crying happy tears to be alive.

Ok, so we brush ourselves off, because we are Erwins and we don't let this stuff get us down! But secretly, I informed Rick that Linda did not appear to be doing so well and we needed to keep an eye on her. A quick trick to pick up a "backup Linda" was discussed. Well, approximately four minutes later, Linda was gone. And by "gone", I mean DEAD. Sleeping with the fishes. Or dead with the dead fishes. I have no idea. I thought that since we had this fish for approximately 1/5,000 the time we had the first, that Annie's reaction would be directly in proportion to the amount of time with Linda.

Wrong. Apparently there's an inverse relationship at work. The shorter the time, the more dramatic the response. I, however, was fine. Until I saw.....this:



Oh, why yes, that's Linda, in her new tank, with her new castle, crying endless tears because she DIED. I can only imagine that's her fish soul floating up to fish heaven.

So, now Annie and I are bawling and I am realizing this is really the first time Annie has seen me cry like that. I mean, if you don't look at that picture and feel real emotions, then you might want to either start taking/stop taking mood stabilizing drugs.

Presently, we are fishless. Annie has decided her heart can no longer take the emotional strain of another fish. I will return to Petsmart and try to return the fancy fish tank of death and we will try to move along with our lives. If they even try to give me any push back on the return, I WILL bust out that picture.

Now Annie wants a cat.



A Memory

Alternate Title: Why I Love Taylor Swift


There's lots of discussion of Ms. Swift out there today, as her album titled "1989" was covered by indie-rocker Ryan Adams and it was released today. Hipsters everywhere are confused by event, not knowing if they can love Ryan Adams while singing the lyrics of T-Swift. To me (and Rick), this is a big day. While those who know us know we love Ryan Adams, not many know that we BOTH love Taylor Swift.


Like, really like her.


As in, there's one particular song of hers that can, if I am in the right mood, make me cry.


Here's the story of my love affair with TS:


I can't remember the occasion, but I was hugely pregnant with Annie. We were at my parent's house and my nieces, Parker and Chloe, were there. I can't remember the details, but for some reason their friends were also at the house. The girls were young. I think around 7 and 9, and they were singing karaoke.


Rick and I were standing in the doorway watching the girls goof off and sing songs we knew nothing about, because we were previously hip people and listened to people like Ryan Adams and lord knows who else because I am so tragically unhip now I can't think of anyone else that makes music other than Kenny Rogers...but you get the point.


Then Taylor Swift's "Love Story" song comes on the karaoke machine and the girls were all apparently so nutzo over this girl that they all start screaming this song, in unison, at the top of their lungs.


It was this moment where I kind of both went forward and backward in time at once. I went backwards to when I was 7 and I listened to songs about love and sang them with all my heart at the top of my lungs, even though I knew nothing of the topic. It was fun and innocent and my friends were everything.


And I also flashed forward, thinking the baby girl in my belly would one day be a 7 year old girl, who loves music and her friends and songs about falling in love, and daydreams of one day meeting her person. It was a glimpse into our futures and I remember this overwhelming emotion. I am pretty sure I even cried (Rick can confirm this, though the way my pregnancy hormones were, crying wasn't exactly an exceptional thing for me).


The thing is, even now when I hear that song, I am instantly taken back to that moment. Not because of the words of the song; it's about Romeo and Juliet and love against all odds and all of that. I can't relate to the words themselves, because Rick's not from the wrong side of the tracks and I was never one for sneaking out at night.


But that feeling I had, watching those girls, thinking of my own girl and what she would be like and all the experiences she will have and people she will love, and that will love her, still chokes me up every time I hear that song.


So that's when I started loving her. And I will never stop.


Like, ever.

So Polite

I am a big stickler for how we talk to each other in our house. Rick can vouch for this. I believe the way we speak to people is a choice and I am REALLY trying to teach the kids how to "use nice words".


BUT, we aren't always "nice talkers", and our kids aren't with us all the time, so who knows what they hear (both when they are and are not with us). We have avoided our kids dropping the f-bomb in church, so I will consider that a parenting win for now.


I did find this exchange with Annie entertaining:


Annie got in the car after an evening with family.
A: for no good reason, really "Shuuuuttt UP!"
Me: We don't say that. It's not nice.
A: What does it mean?
Me. It's a not nice way of telling someone to be quiet.
A: So can I say "Shut up, please"?

Potty Talk

Note: Because we live in a tiny little home with only one bathroom, it is completely natural for all four of us to be crammed into this space at once. One in the tub, one on the potty, one at the sink and one on the floor. Any one of us could be assuming any of these four positions depending on the time of day this little tableau is unfolding. Here is one from last night after Annie apparently learned about making wishes on eyelashes at her new school:


SCENE: Annie on the potty pre-bedtime, me sitting on the tub facing her, and Rick in the bathroom doorway (John blessedly asleep because he's an angel):
Annie: I have an eyewash (eyelash), I'm gonna make a wish.
Rick: I have a wish.
Annie: What's your wish, Daddy?
Rick: That you go to bed quickly.
Annie: Well you aren't gonna get your wish.


At least she's honest. And she was 100% right.

A Chilling Short Story

Annie is on her game all day. Right up until the bitter end of the day as I sit with her and we talk before bedtime. Two nights ago this exchange happened:


Annie (with a REALLY mischievous grin on her face): Do you know where my gum is, Mom?
Me: No....I thought you put it in the trash?
Annie, after a dramatic pause for effect: I put it somewhere in your ROOM!!!!


So, I was laughing so hard at her delivery that I forgot to follow up on exactly where in our room the gum was hidden. I completely forgot about it until yesterday at work, when I found two of my work reports stuck together with watermelon gum.


Well played, Annie.