Me and My Swiffer

I'm not sure what possessed me to buy a Swiffer sweeper, but I did. About a year ago. A year of me looking at the darn thing and wishing I hadn't bought the Costco-sized box of Swiffer refills (wet and dry!)

The thing is useless to me.

In my mind, when I was purchasing the thing, I thought it was the answer to all my problems.

Of course, my house will always be clean. I just needed a swiffer!

Not really.

It doesn't take the place of the mopping I never do.
It does a shabby job of sweeping. It just moves stuff around.
After about 3 wipes, I have to remove the black, lint-filled swiffer refill and throw it away.

Every time I throw it away, I feel guilty for making garbage.

Immediately after I had bought the thing, I saw a Method version.

Oooh... I should have bought that! Compost-able? Less harsh ingredients in the wet refill?

Darn.

Every once in a while I bring the thing out. For instance, just now, I tried swiffing my front room since after removing an area rug, the tiles were covered with a fine sheen of sand/dust.

I thought the Swiffer could help with that.

But all it did was remind me of what a waste of money it is and what a shame that I still have a giant box of swiffer wipes that will be thrown away.

It hurts me to even type this. I'm the kind of person who washes her babywipes for goodness sake. The swiffer wipes seem a bit too genteel for the washing machine, but who knows?

I will continue to drag the swiffer out once a month. Go on a swiffing spree on my floors. Put it back in the garage next to the boxes of refill pads and continue to feel guilty until I've used up every last swiffer wipe. And some-how my floor will still feel dirty.

A place to put your bear bottom

Finally! A solution to all the stuffed animals in our house!!!
Do you think 2B would go for it?
Apparently, according to the post on Apartment Therapy, the chair is very comfortable and the bears are attached with long twist-ties.
I even have a chair frame I could use.
What do you think? Too strange even for our Craigslist style decor?
To see the rest of this person's house, go here

Dear Boys,

This started as a post about your broken arm, my quiet little second born. I was going to write about getting a call from the school nurse, hearing about your stoic teary-ness, telling you on the phone that I'd be right there.

I started looking for pictures of you doing your dare devil acts. The tree climbing, the jumping, the running. I found lots of pictures, but they all took me on a detour away from the broken arm.

I sat at the computer staring at all these pictures of the two of you playing together and having fun.

You are both asleep now. My brave second born, you are sleeping on the pull-out couch in the living room. I read you three stories that you have heard before. Tracks, Broom-Mates, and our latest favorite, The Boy Who Was Raised by Librarians. You, my 2B, related to this little boy who collected bugs (and tripped one day, spilling them everywhere), you ask me the same questions about the story each time we read it.

"How old is he in this picture, mommy?" "Which librarian is named Betty?"

You fell asleep fast with your splint. The swelling has to go down before you get your cast.

My first born, well, you are not really asleep. You are reading in my bed next to your dad. You'll probably fall asleep there and stay there all night.
When I told 1B about 2B's arm, he got big interested eyes. Really? A broken arm?
When 2B came home from the doctor, he held out his arm for 1B to look at.
See? Look what happened to me today.

I hope you boys always stay as close as you are today. I hope you always remember how you rely on each other. One of you runs into the water, the other follows. One of you jumps in with his whole body, the other does the same.


You can not wait to tell each other about your new discoveries, or show each other your newest drawings.

And I really love how you both are such different kids. Even down to your looks. I love how you remind me of your aunt and I as little girls.

And how you can be so different from each other yet be so connected.


Here you are, 5 and 7, last spring. Looking out at the Grand Canyon. Our family road trip before little girl was born. I see the seeds of many road trips. Road trips as teenagers without your parents, but just the two of you.
Amigos

Brothers

You are my sunshine

My baby girl laughs at anything. She rolls with the punches.

My boys have surprised me with their sense of security and independence.

My little brother taught my oldest son how to come up with a cool signature for when he signs his baseball cards.

My mom moves the furniture around in her house about once a week.

I moved my furniture around... again.... thanks mom

My neighbor sets her table for dinner with tiny porcelain dishes at each person's place; a dish for each little condiment or sauce. She usually has flowers or some sort of child-centered art as the centerpiece.

My friend passes along great seeds of religion and philosophy my way. Her children are thoughtful and fun.

My teaching partner has quiet control over our class. I watch her teach and I want to be one of her students.

My husband jokes with our kids, plays HORSE with them on the basketball court, stays up late reading aloud to them.

I read blogs, books, newspaper articles that inspire me to write. That give me ideas on how to be a better wife. Or ideas on how to improve on my house.

Here's a view of my house from today, it will surely look different next time someone stops by.

I am surrounded by positive role models. Surrounded by inspiration to be a better mom, better friend, better partner, better aunt, better cook, better teacher.....

just plain better.

Books, books, and more books

I get a little evangelical about books.

When I read a book I enjoy, I want to shout it from the rooftops and hope that someone else will read the same book and feel the same way about it that I do.

A friend suggested I read, The Midwife by Jennifer Worth

from the Penguin website:

An unforgettable story of the joy of motherhood, the bravery of a community, and the hope of one extraordinary woman

At the age of twenty-two, Jennifer Worth leaves her comfortable home to move into a convent and become a midwife in post war London’s East End slums. The colorful characters she meets while delivering babies all over London—from the plucky, warm-hearted nuns with whom she lives to the woman with twenty-four children who can’t speak English to the prostitutes and dockers of the city’s seedier side—illuminate a fascinating time in history. Beautifully written and utterly moving, The Midwife will touch the hearts of anyone who is, and everyone who has, a mother.

But that doesn't tell you how I stayed up all night reading when I knew I should have been sleeping. How I cried. How I was brought back to moments in my life of mothering an infant, to moments of my baby's birth.

Also, I found it amazing that this is a true story. I would read a chapter and then marvel at the fact that this is one woman's memoir.

You will love it.

Now I'm reading, The Abstinence Teacher by Tom Perrotta

Best Books Reviews says: Perrotta’s greatest weapon is irony, and he waves it with facility and wittiness. You can read more about the book here.

It is funny, it has some great truths to it, and it is written so well...... it is another book that I just can not put down.

Happy Reading.

We have lots more books to review on Messy Art Desk, just haven't had a chance to get our art done. Promise we'll post several childrens book reviews soon.

In a world without budget cuts

My classroom at school would look like that.
Tall ceilings, lots of room for mess, lots of wallspace for our creations.
I'd have a matching one in my house too.

And I'd build this room off of our existing kitchen (I'd put it where my garage currently is)

Can you just see the boys frolicking in the front yard as I look through my giant always clean windows? I can watch them catch bugs and bounce basketballs.

I would be setting the table for dinner and spy my little girl bathed in sunlight, playing in the sandbox.

Ahhh... life would be perfect.

gentle

First of all....
My mom rocked the cute outfits for me, didn't she? Look at this cute dress! I bet she even sewed it herself.
Second of all....
I'm being hugged in my dad's arms.

I like to imagine how I must have felt.
Happy, protected, loved.
Clearly a quiet thoughtful little tyke.

I like to look at pictures of my husband when he was little.
I get all ga-ga over how cute and lovable he was as a baby/child/even teenager.

I like to stare at pictures of 1B and 2B as babies. I want to eat up their images. How fast time flies.

And when I see myself as a little girl. I just want to whisper to the photo. I want to let her know that I know that little girl is still inside of me and that I'm doing my best to be as kind to her as I can possibly be... because really... it is sometimes far too easy to beat yourself up over little things.

But it makes me be just a little more gentle on myself when I glimpse the picture of the little girl that really is still hiding out inside of me.

my second born

2B likes putting sunblock on.

He likes for me to rub it on his nose and cheeks.

He likes put on his arms and legs.

This past weekend, the sun was shining. Big brother had a baseball game. Little sister was sleeping on me.

I knelt down to massage the lotion on him. Up and down his muscly. always-moving, brown arms. Arms that can not even possibly be from my genetic pool.

I get to look into his eyes and we wink at each other. His eyes are so incredibly dark brown, I can not recognize myself in him.

Is it all rubbed in? He asks me, pressing his face into mine.

He asks to help carry our supplies to the ball field. One shoulder carries the purple PCC grocery bag full of water, hats, a diaper, snacks. He holds my hand with his free arm as we walk in the dusty parking lot, heading over to brother's game.

Rubbing lotion on his arm reminded me of when he was one day old. He was put in a little incubator in the hospital's ICU because he wasn't breathing quite right. I wasn't allowed to hold him, so I just stood there rubbing his little hand, back and forth, back and forth. I would not be moved.

I picked him up as soon as I could. As soon as it seemed reasonable. A nurse told me that my baby needed to rest and I was disturbing him by holding him. I ignored her. What kind of nurse gives this advice to a new mom?

I needed to touch his skin. I needed to let him know that I was there and that I'd always be there.

Putting sunblock on that little guy lets me wordlessly tell him again, how I will always be there. How I love every inch of his skin. Every inch of him.

And how I think it is by some strange accident that this amazing kid is mine and that I get to be the mom who rubs sunblock on him and marvel at who he is growing up to be.

This is just to say

I am a big fan of this new little creature you've added to the house.
After 10 months, I'm glad you are finally letting me get my way.

You usually shut the door and keep me away from the sleeping princess, but can't you see how much I love snuggling up near her while she naps?

I don't mean to wake her, I just like to put my furry body right next to her warm soft one.

I apologize profusely for batting at her face the other day while she was practicing her standing techniques. You see, I'm still a kitten and I thought she was playing. I did not expect the scream that she produced after I swiped at her.

I think she and I will become great friends. As long as she stops grabbing at my tail and trying to eat my cat food, that is.

xoxo,
Tiger, the kitty cat

luke warm

Some things are just not okay luke warm.

Coffee for one.

Make it freezing cold on a hot day or boiling hot pretty much anytime.

A nice super hot cup of coffee while my baby is still asleep this morning is heavenly.

I thought I had boiled the water for my Americano this morning.
The espresso machine hissed and foamy coffee came out.

I poured what I thought was hot water into my mug.

Took a giant sip

Yuck. Luke warm.

We don't own a microwave

(because one of my perhaps irrational fears is of what microwaves do to my house and my food - the secret is out)

So now I'm stuck with either drinking luke warm coffee, pouring it into a pot to heat up, or tossing it and making a new one.

Options B and C take too long, so I'm stuck with luke warm coffee

SYLA

See You Later Alligator

I'm off to explore.

I'm done being a newborn. Remember how I slept all day and you could wear me all your waking hours?

Remember how you had to hold my head for support?

Remember setting me down and staring at me?

Well, I'm on the move. Crawling around this house hasn't been enough. I'm out the back door whenever you open it.

I'm pulling myself up to standing whenever I can. This means I'm walking soon.

I can taste the freedom.

I can see all the fun out there ready for me.

Is that my big brother playing ball?

I want to join him.

Hold me and kiss me while you can.

I'm growing up.

the love notes I get

I found this post-it attached to the newest Target flyer.
It directs me to page 14 to see the wonderful selection.
Here's page 14:
Apparently the hubby does not find these giant billowing dresses attractive.

I get these kinds of notes quite frequently actually. Often the post-its are on a cut out newspaper or magazine ad. They always make me laugh.

Not exactly the kind of notes the teenage me hoped to get from my future husband.

Who would have thought I'd prefer this over flowery poetry about his undying love for me?

2nd Grade Shmecand Grade

When I was a full time teacher I worked at the 'upper' end of the elementary building. All older kids, all the time. 6th graders. They still seemed young to me. Still seemed like they needed a hug and someone who cared about them.

Those kindergartners and 2nd graders seemed so tiny. It seemed all about being happy and playing and accepting everyone.

Now I know better. Little things happen at school when I am not there to guide them and protect them. Little things that seem huge to them.

A stolen hat. A friend taunting that he won't be his friend anymore. An accidentally ripped art project.

Things happen that make them feel vulnerable, sad, confused. And they have to handle it on their own.

And then there's that
@#$@ boy code.

1B, my second grader has let me know in no uncertain terms that I am not to kiss him in the school building.

What?

The last time I tried, he looked at me horrified. He glanced around. He shuffled away from me.

What?

Dude, you are 8 years old! I love you. I will kiss you when and where I want to.

I had a little chat with my little man. Apparently you get teased when you are kissed by your mom in 2nd grade. He was trying to hold back tears. I could see an inner struggle. He didn't want to hurt my feelings but her really really really did not want me to kiss him in school.

I told him it didn't matter what other kids thought. All boys get kissed by their mom. I told him I'd kiss him anyway.

He looked like he was going to die. Seriously, tears building up behind the eyes, trying sooooo hard not to let them loose.

What about in the parking lot when I say goodbye? I asked him.

That was okay.

Just not in the building. It is not allowed.

My kindergartner was listening to this interchange. My kindergartner who still holds my hand and slathers me with kisses when I enter his classroom.

We made some jokes about pulling him up in front of the next assembly and kissing him. We made jokes about me kissing hubby at school.

Still. He would not relent.

No kisses in the building. Parking lot is okay.... no building.

What is a mom to do?

Better luck next time

Pretty much every time I sit down to blog something happens.

This morning I woke up at 6AM, got myself all settled by the computer and who should I see but my husband holding my smiling baby. Guess she woke up.

Better luck next time.

Today, I set her in a high chair by me so I could type.

Better luck next time.

She just fell asleep in my lap.

Hurray, I can write!

No, it is suddenly time to get in the car to help in 1B's class.

I enjoy writing. I don't care if anyone reads it. I just enjoy doing it.

Mothers of 10 months old have pretty much no time to write.

"Home made" cookies

I can not seem to get it right when making cookies from scratch.

They seem to ooze all over the cookie tray, are completely flat and hard to peel off the tray, and crumble like crazy.

I can make scones and muffins no problem. Just these darn cookies that stimy me.

Enter Trader Joe's. I happened to be looking in the frozen area for ice-cream snacks and found frozen cookie dough.

Just pop these babies on a cookie sheet, bake, and you have warm, beautiful, delicious semi-home-made cookies.

Today I went to a memorial service for my friend who died from breast cancer. One of the many things I loved about her was that she taught from her heart and did what she thought was best for the kids (rules be darned). One way she did this, was to make home-made cookies for her students. She'd bring them in often. Sometimes a student of the week would be selected to receive a bag of cookies.

Inspired by Sally, I plan on bringing my 1st graders home-made (wink wink... trader joes) cookies on Monday.

The cookie thing is just a minor way I admired Sally. She made teaching look like fun - you'd spend time with her and you'd realize that there is no reason to get stressed out. She had fun with her kids. She was relaxed.

You'd think, 'What's so hard about all this? Let's just have a cookie and a cup of coffee and relax"

If she had seen my home-made cookie mess, she would not have sighed in frustration (like I sometimes do). She would have laughed. She would have shown me how to make cookies the right way. She would have held my hand as I made another batch. And we would have eaten all of those cookies and not felt bad about any of it.

Sometimes I can not seem to get it right when making cookies by scratch, or when parenting, or when being a partner to my husband, but I can relax, smile, and realize that it is no big deal to make mistakes, I just have to keep trying or find an easier (Trader Joe's style) way to get things done.

I have a lot to learn from her example.

Also, following the cookie theme. Check out our book review of Tough Cookie