How to eat a gingerbread man

I told K I had brought home a gingerbread man for him. I wasn't sure if he would know what it was, but apparently this is something every kid knows. "I can't wait to see the gingerbread man!" he exclaimed, hopping out of the tub.

When I gave it to him, he took a big bite out of the head. "What are these?" he asked. "His buttons." "I will eat those buttons!" he declared. "Next, I will eat this." (The scarf.) "Next, I will eat these." (The eyes.) "Next, I will eat this." (The smile.) And he proceeded to do just that, eating all the decorations and only incidentally taking bites of the cookie.

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Sitting around

There are dishes in the sink and toys all over the floor.

There are a few last holiday cards that need to be sent.

There are cookies to be baked.

There are gifts I still need to buy that need to be delivered on Wednesday.

I have a work assignment that I could easily do from home.

I should pack for the holiday weekend at the in-laws'.

And yet, I spent the evening sitting around with my laptop after K went to bed. I didn't even do something mildly useful like go to bed early.

I keep thinking that I'll have time to do all this stuff tomorrow. As if Future Me is any less lazy than Present Me.

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Talking about God

I don't believe in God. It's not that I don't believe in anything. I just don't think there's some supernatural being who created everything, or is in charge of everything, or is watching over you to make sure you're being good. And I certainly don't believe that you need a book or a God to teach you right from wrong.

Before we got married, I agreed that we could raise our kids in the Catholic church because JW felt strongly about it and I didn't. My one requirement, which JW agreed with, was that I wanted them to learn about different religions and learn to respect everyone's beliefs. (Which is a little un-Catholic -- I still remember a mass I went to where every few sentences, the priest intoned, "This is The Truth.")

K was baptized but has rarely been to church since. I tried taking him to the local Unitarian Universalist church a few times, but he made such a fuss each time that I gave up. Maybe when he's older.

K has this book called In Every Tiny Grain of Sand: A Child's Book of Prayers and Praise. It was a very appropriate gift from his godmother, and it has lovely illustrations and prayers and poetry from all sorts of different traditions. I just can't bring myself to read it to him. When he was a baby we used to just look at the pictures and talk about them, but now he points to the words and says, "Read that." And reading out loud to him, "Praise to thee, O Lord," or "We open our hearts to Brahma" just feels weird.

A friend recently told me that her husband talks to their kids about God the same way he talks about Santa: "Some people believe in him." I guess I'll end up using the same approach.

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Free!

Even though I like my job, I feel this sense of euphoria when I leave the building. At the end of the day, I take a few steps out the door and then break into a sprint. I know it looks silly, so I restrain myself when I'm leaving at a reasonable hour and there are other people around. But today, lateish on a Friday night, I ran as fast as I could all the way to the car.

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Winter boots

I bought K some green snow boots off Craigslist a few weeks ago.

"They're BEAUTIFUL," he exclaimed. The rest of the day, he said to everyone we met, "Look at my boots! Aren't they BEAUTIFUL?"

He's worn them every day since. He refuses to wear any other shoes.

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Rugelach

I've always loved rugelach, but found it too intimidating to attempt myself... until this year, when I decided to make it my main Christmas cookie. I looked up a bunch of recipes and realized it sounded easy -- make a simple cream cheese, butter, and flour dough in the food processor, chill it, then roll it out, sprinkle on toppings, and roll up and cut the cookies.

As they say on the Island of Sodor, "Disaster lay ahead." My dinky food processor couldn't handle the dough. After choking on the first cup of flour, the blade came loose and I ended up with goo on the bottom and flour on top. Then I decided to dump it into a bowl and mash it up like meatloaf. (Why?) I ended up with a buttery, cheesy mess. Finally, I grabbed the pastry blender (again, why? And why did my baking instincts suddenly desert me?) and blended it up into a smooth, unctuous dough, instead of the crumbly ball I was supposed to have. I wrapped it up to put in the fridge and tasted a little that stuck to my hand. It tasted SALTY. I remembered that the store had been out of unsalted butter, and I figured I'd just compensate by omitting some salt when I baked. Oops.

Now I have a sink full of dirty dishes and a salty goo ball in the fridge. But I will persevere.

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Christmas train

K has been asking to read "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown" over and over lately. "Halloween was a long time ago," I said. "We should get you a Christmas book."
"Christmas TRAIN."
"Christmas train?"
"We saw it at the store," said K, "but we didn't buy it YET. It's for Christmas. Santa will bring it."
"Is this true?" I asked JW. "Is Santa going to bring him a Christmas train?"
"That electric train we saw at Home Depot with Santa riding on top?" he asked K. "That was two weeks ago. You still remember that?"
K nodded.
"I don't think Santa is planning to bring you that train. What if Santa brings you something different for Christmas?" I asked.
He looked dismayed. "But I LIKE trains!"
I dropped it. But now I understand why he kept asking to go to "the store" instead of going home from school.
I told this story to CT, who suggested telling K about the time Santa brought a dish sponge, or a bottle of eyedrops, or a computer adapter, to give him the idea that Santa just delivers random objects. I'm going to try it.

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Two years, nine months

Dear K,
You're nearing three. You speak in full sentences, tell us stories, and offer explanations when we don't understand. You probably won't want to hear this when you're older, but you are such a sweet little boy. When I pour your milk without spilling, you exclaim, "Good job,Mommy!" You ask for "more snuggles" when we start to leave your room at night, and no matter how upset you are, you're always ready for a hug. And you carefully pick out toys to share with your friends, thinking out loud about which ones they would like best.
You also give unsolicited compliments. My favorite was when I put on my fuzzy red sweatshirt, and you gasped and said, "You look beautiful!" (I'm pretty sure it was the resemblance to Elmo.)

Since you were a baby, I've asked you to tell me what's wrong instead of whining and crying. And it's sunk in. You are far more likely to tell me "I'm angry!" or "I feel sad," and let me know why than to yell and hit. I love that. Of course, you do yell and hit sometimes, and sometimes we yell too. Nobody's perfect.

You've always hated having your state changed (as Daddy and I, former computer science geeks, like to think of it), but lately it extends to never wanting to change your clothes. It takes a huge amount of effort to get you out of the house in the morning.

For a long time you weren't very interested in sweet stuff -- you'd get excited over a cookie, but after two bites you'd get bored and walk away. But you've discovered candy. Lollipops are your favorite. Unfortunately, they're everywhere. Every time you see one, you beg for one and throw a tantrum if we say no. (You are sweet, but you're still two.) And just last week you had your first M&M in some poorly monitored trail mix. I didn't realize there were M&Ms in there until I heard you say, "I LIKE THAT!" and smelled chocolate on your breath. You requested M&Ms for breakfast every morning for a few days, and somehow managed to identify the bag of M&Ms in the grocery store checkout and begged for that too. As you will discover, Mommy has a major sweet tooth, and I feel like a hypocrite sometimes for denying you. But it's part of my job to make sure that you don't eat candy for every meal.

Despite your burgeoning love for candy, you are such a good sharer that you only ate one lollipop out of your trick-or-treating haul and parceled out the rest to everyone in the house, warning your grandparents: "Don't eat the wrapper. Mommy will unwrap it for you."

Some of your current K-isms:
"K, you're so contrary." "I AMN'T!"
(Crash!) "What did I did??"
You tell a long story or let out a stream of gibberish. Then you ask, "What did I say?" and expect us to repeat it.
You point to characters in your books and expect me to come up with dialogues between them. "He said?" "He said... 'Hey! That's my dinner!'" "And she said?" "She said... uh... 'I will eat it all up!'"
You also point to characters and ask, "How does he feel?" on every page. It can take half an hour to read you a ten-page board book.

The rest of the family thinks it's funny when you say someone is "cross" or "pleased." (The influence of Thomas the Tank Engine.)

When you see something scary, which doesn't happen very often, you yell, "WHAT'S HAPPENING? WHAT'S HAPPENING?!" You were upset when you saw a scary scene from Scooby-Doo on the plane, but you seemed to accept my calm explanation and forget about it. I was surprised when you described the scene in detail about two days later. I didn't think you had understood what you had seen, and I had gone out of my way to tell you that the people were dressed up in costumes and were only pretending to attack. But you either didn't buy it or didn't see fit to include it in your story.

In the "be my echo" category: When I say I can't or won't do something, you say, "Try." If I'm refusing food, you say, "Try it. See if you like it." (And sometimes you add, "If you don't like it, I will eat it.") You have also incorporated several other Mommy-isms into your repertoire: "That makes sense." "That seems like a good idea."

You're getting so big. You even scrambled your own eggs this morning! I feel like I know how to be your mom right now, but we'll be entering new territory once you turn three. I hope I can keep up.

Love,
Mommy

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