Conversations with my children: Butterfly Thingy

I had this conversation with Samantha today.

Sam: Mommy, where is my butterfly thingy?

Me: What butterfly thingy?

Sam: The butterfly thingy with the thingy and the thingies!

Me: Sam, I have no idea what you're talking about. What thingy?

Sam: The thingy! You know, the thingy for the horse.

Me: What horse thing?

Sam: No! Not the horse, the butterfly thingy! For the horse thing with the motorcycle thingy.

Me: You mean the remote control for the pony motorcycle?

Sam: No! The butterfly thingy!

Me: The butterfly shaped remote control for the little motorcycle?

Sam: Yea! Where is it?

Me: I don't know. It was on the table this morning, is it still there?

Sam: No! Keep looking, Mom! I want it!

Me: Uh, no, you keep looking.

Sam: (rolling eyes and storming away) Ack.

Still Sick

Samantha's still sick today. Her fever was 103 last night and she didn't sleep well. I know this because she was in our bed. She's entered the whining stage where she doesn't feel well so she whines about everything and sometimes just starts crying for no reason. I'm pushing Tylenol and Ibuprofen to keep her fever down, popsicles, frozen blueberries, and water with ice. And, she's now getting old enough to be taught the correct way to be sick: on the couch, in front of the t.v., in some comfy clothes or jammies, a warm sweatshirt, hair in a ponytail, socks, and under a blanket.

I can deal with the sick child. The worst part for me is the anticipation. I'm waiting to see if anyone else is going to get sick. I figure I have about a week before I'm in the clear. Sick Ella I can handle. She gets really clingy and whiny, but she's manageable. Penny has never been sick. She's the one I worry about the most. She's only four months old, so I dread the thought of her having a high fever and feeling bad. So, I'm trying to keep Sammy away from her and am holding my breath.

Hopefully, they'll not get sick. Probably, the only one who will get sick is me.

It Never Fails To Surprise Me

Samantha woke up last night, barking like a seal. Actually, she coughing really hard that she was almost puking. Actually, she did puke. And, she wet her bed. And, she had an 102 degree fever. And, I was surprised.

I don't know why. All the warning signs that she was getting sick were there. She had been coughing a little yesterday. She had an accident at school. The last time she did that, she got sick later that day. She took a nap yesterday, something she sadly gave up completely six months ago. And, then she didn't fight bedtime. A two hour nap and easy down for bed? I should have known. I should have remembered.

I think it's a mommy trait to forget all the bad stuff and all the warning signs of bad stuff that involves our kids. Labor would be the best example. People always say they don't remember the pain. I don't remember the pain. In fact, all I really remember was the excitement of realizing I was about to have a baby, then holding a little, squirmy, squish-faced baby. There were hours of laboring, pushing, a broken tailbone

It apparently doesn't stop with childbirth. It extends to every bad thing associated with our children. I've forgotten all the times I've had to yell at them because they weren't listening, or about to hurt themselves, or were screaming for no good reason. And I forget all their illnesses. It's like it's the first time every time. I do remember, however, that it's no fun having a sick little girl curled up in front of the television all day.

Birthday Party Fun

Last night we went to a birthday party for one of our friend's four year old daughter at The Little Gym. We had never been to one before. It's a little gymnastics studio with uneven bars, parallel bars, balance beams, a little vault, and big mat space. They hold classes their, but for birthday parties the kids have free play for awhile and then they do a little program with dancing and gymnastics moves geared to little kids. It was great fun, I definitely recommend it.

For me, as a parent, it was a great to see my kids interact with other kids. It still amazes me that they have such different personalities. When Ella came along, I kind of expected an exact duplicate of Samantha. Well, that didn't happen.

Their personalities really came through during the planned program. Sammy's my shy little girl. She would run around in a circle with the other kids (who were mostly her age), but when they stopped to twirl or dance or kick or whatever, she ran to her daddy and waited until the next round of running began (she really likes to run). Ella, my bold one, on the other hand, muscled her way to the front, past kids two to three years older than she is, and tried to do whatever the instructor was doing. When she couldn't do something, she just twirled in a circle. It was really funny. She stayed in the middle of things the whole time.

Ella starts preschool in September, and I know I'm not going to have four months of tears like I did with Samantha. She'll be just fine. The teachers may want to be careful, though.

The Grasshopper

Today we were in the backyard. Samantha had her pink sun umbrella she got at the Cherry Blossom Festival last weekend, and has been carrying around to shield herself from the sun ever since. Suddenly, she screamed and threw her umbrella. A three inch long grasshopper had landed on it, apparently confusing the umbrella for the biggest flower ever.

I have to admit. I do not like grasshoppers. They fall into my arbitrary category of crunchy bugs. I do not like bugs that crunch when you step on them. (It's a childhood trauma from a firefly.) But, being Mommy, I had to take care of the situation. So I bravely shook that umbrella, carefully pointing it away from me. And shook it, and shook it. Those things can hang on tight. (Exactly like that firefly on my finger.) Finally, it flew off, over my head and into my leg. I jumped three feet in the air, threw the umbrella, and screamed like a little girl. (Not my proudest mommy moment. I really don't want three little girls who are scared of bugs.)

The grasshopper landed in front of us. The girls were fascinated by it. I thought it was injured from having an umbrella thrown on it. Eventually, we found a long bubble wand to poke it with. I prodded it's behind to try to get it to fly out of the yard. It flew a few feet. Ella took over the prodding. The darn thing wouldn't leave the yard. It just kept flying a few feet and landing.

That's when Tabby got in on the action. She pounced. The grasshopper flew straight up. Tabby jumped straight up, snaring it in her claws and began nibbling on it. I thought it was a goner, but then it jumped away. Tabby pounced. It jumped. Tabby pounced, playing with it. Ella chased Tabby away. It lay on the ground, I assumed mortally wounded.

The girls and I talked about predators and prey and why Tabby had attacked the grasshopper, and why we were going to let her kill it. Samantha planned how she would deliver the notification to the sisters, brothers, and babies of the grasshopper that she said would soon be arriving.

They egged on Tabby, cajoling her to finish the deed. She wouldn't. The grasshopper, not moving, was not any fun. Finally, Ella poked it again with the bubble wand. And lo! it flew a few feet, apparently unharmed by the cat.

Unfortunately, Missy had been watching us and decided to get in on the action. She pounced on the grasshopper, biting and jumping away repeatedly like it was a rattlesnake. When it tried to fly, she jumped, snatched it out of the air, and tossed it to the ground. At this point, Tabby rejoined the fray, batting the grasshopper. She and Missy tag teamed the grasshopper. When it was lying still, Missy would throw herself on top of it and roll to see if it would move. Watching the two of them cooperate was like watching the velicoraptors in Jurassic Park hunt, fascinating and scary. I now know what happened to my neighbor's bird.

Finally, the grasshopper stopped moving and they tired of playing with it. Ella, again went to prod it. The darn thing was alive! It grabbed onto the bubble wand like a drowning person grabs a life preserver. I quickly took the bubble wand and launched it over our side fence to the front yard, where I knew no one would bother it. As I watched it sail over the fence, I thought, that is one lucky grasshopper. Then I heard a crunch as it hit the side of our house.

Saying Sorry

Today I was doing some gardening and Samantha was helping. She helped head the petunias and I gave her a large flower stem that had broken off in the wind last night. She collected them in her umbrella and I heard her say something about making hats for her dolls. I have to fess, I wasn't paying attention. I was weeding and planting and in a hurry to get it done before the girls lost patience or it started raining.

We finished and I ushered everyone inside. Samantha proceeded to dump her collection, flowers, petals, dandelion fluff, and some dirt, on the couch. I believe the exact words that came out of my mouth were, "AAACCKK! No, no, no! We don't dump junk on the couch!"

Samantha's face dropped and she went to her room and closed the door. I cleaned up the mess and then went to find her. She was in her closet stuffed behind the stackable shelves we have in there. She looked at me with sad puppy eyes. All I could think to say was, "Sorry".

She came out and we hugged. I told her I forgot she wanted to make hats for her dolls. We're going out after lunch for some roses to put in a vase.

Sometimes we all make mistakes. I think it's important for our kids to know that, not to think Mommy and Daddy are infallible. I also feel it's important to model how to fix a mistake, and to acknowledge my girls' feelings . It's really an important life lesson I hope to impart on my kids. I just wish I didn't have to make mistakes and hurt their feelings to teach it.

What mistakes have you apologized to your kids for?

Samantha's Easter Revelations

Me: The Easter Bunny is coming tomorrow.

Sam: And he's going to hide eggs in the hammock and on the swings!

Me: He is? (Easter Bunny taking notes.) What do you think he'll bring you?

Sam: I don't know.

Me: Maybe some candy?

Sam: Nah, that's not healthy.

Me: Then what's he bringing?

Sam: Maybe chocolate covered raisins? They're healthy because they're raisins.

A Little Sisterly Love

One of the most enjoyable parts of being home with my kids is watching them develop their relationship as sisters. As Ella becomes more verbal, they're interactions are becoming more complex.

The fighting started first and it was cute (at first) when they would argue over toys. Now, they have all out screaming, hitting, biting fights and it's not so cute. Then they started to play together. At first, Samantha would include Ella in her pretend games, instructing her what to do. Now, they both join in, although it's still usually Sam's idea. It's not unusual for me to see them both sneaking around the couch, then one will scream, "Bear!", and they run, screaming through the house.

Then, my favorite, the love, began. They hug each other, are concerned when the other one is hurt. Last night, Ella woke up crying. I went into her room, to try to calm her down. Half awake, she cried, "Sammy? Sammy?"

"Sammy's asleep in her bed, right over there, Ella," I said.

She quieted and rolled over, "O.K., night Mommy."

Right back to sleep, comforted by the presence of her big sister.

Barbie World

As the group, Aqua, so eloquently put it: "I'm a Barbie girl in this Barbie world. Life in plastic, it's fantastic. You can brush my hair, undress me everywhere. Imagination, life is your creation. Come on Barbie, let's go party, ah ah ah yeah."

Growing up, I loved Barbies. I had seventeen Barbies, and I played with every one. My sister and I built a Barbie town in our basement, using blocks, boxes, and doll houses. We spent hours drawing and cutting out little paper money for our Barbies to use. Each of our Barbies had their own job. Of course, we always had one favorite Barbie, usually the newest, and she and Ken lived in the mansion in town (we each had a Ken and a mansion), and that couple was the center of whatever plot we were playing that day.

We even had a convalescent home for Barbies that might have special needs. The one who had a skiing accident off our banister and lost a leg (Ken left her shortly thereafter). We built her a wheelchair out of cardboard. The one that wasn't a real Barbie and her scalp could swivel making her blonde or brunette. She had an unfortunate hair cut that necessitated her stay in the home. And the one who, on the same ski trip, broke her neck (the kind with the little ball on the end). We could put her head back on, but she had no neck afterwards and was shorter than the other Barbies. (The other Ken left her too. Our Kens were real bastards.)

Samantha, has already discovered the wonders of Barbie. She also loves them. Her collection is starting to approach the vastness of mine, that took years for me to accumulate. This is mostly due to the addition of the Disney Princess Barbies she got for Christmas from her Nana. (I don't think they're Mattel, but close enough.) She loves them. She sleeps with all seven of them and they must always be in whatever room she is in.

Today, we won a silent auction bid at her school for a basket entitled "Barbie Explosion". In addition to three new Barbies (she got one, her sister got one, and I'm saving one for a birthday present, probably), there were Barbie stickers, Barbie jewelery, Barbie coloring pad, and other Barbie things I'm not even sure what to do with.

All this new Barbie stuff made me realize how far Barbie has come since my days. I'm not just talking about her new, "more realistic" figure. I'm talking about the sheer volume of Barbies out there. Barbie was always an active gal, but now, my God, she must be exhausted. You can get veterinarian Barbie, Doctor Barbie, astronaut Barbie, Bride Barbie, surfer Barbie, and mermaid Barbie. Samantha's win today was a Rapunzel like barbie with hair extensions you can snap in and out.

Barbie also varies her size and shape to fit her profession. The new surfer Barbie we got today has wide, flat feet. No perma-high heel feet for her. And, I was shocked to discover the seven princesses cannot interchange their clothes. They are different sizes. Jasmine, Ariel, and Snow White are petite little things whose clothes do not fit easily on more average sized Tianna and Belle. And, apparently, Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty are gargantuan Nordic women, because you can't even get Jasmine's genie pants over their thighs.

With all these new Barbie developments, I am having a hard time pacing myself. I find myself browsing the Barbie aisle in stores, looking for something Samantha may like. I can't wait until she and I can go to the aisle and dream of all the Barbie dolls we she can have. I can't wait until she starts wanting new clothes to put on them so I can buy a case with hangars like I had.

I know a lot of moms dislike Barbie because she sets up an unrealistic body image. Not me. To me, she's just a doll---the best doll in the whole world!

(Sorry for getting that annoying song stuck in your head. I felt this post needed a sound track. And if you don't know the song, whatever you do, don't go looking for it. You'll never get it out of your head.

My Sensitive Girl

Samantha is my sensitive little girl. By that, I mean she cries over just about everything. In the last couple months it has escalated to almost daily tears over pretty silly things.

I've already written about her ant heartbreak. She also has a proclivity for snails, apparently. We regularly find snails in our yard, in our sandboxes, in our playhouses, in our garden, everywhere. The girls are really fascinated by them and their slimy little bodies. Samantha learned last month that when a snail's shell breaks, it dies. This has not stopped her from screaming when she sees one and having me chuck it over the fence or anywhere out of her sensitive sight.

However, on the rare occasion she is interested in touching a snail, it becomes a sacred creature worthy of deep empathy. One day last week, some snail caught her fancy and she proceeded to hold it and examine it. Ella, ever the copycat, wanted to hold it also, so Samantha placed it with great care into her little sister's hands. Little sister, startled by the cool sliminess, dropped the snail and it landed on the concrete patio with an echoing crunch. Samantha's lower lip quivered and tears began to spill from her eyes as she turned, running to my arms to be comforted for the loss of her beloved snail, what's-his-name. She talked of the snail often that day, reminiscing what a good snail he had been, and how sad it was that Ella had killed him by cracking his shell.

Today, yet another tear producing event occurred: the sea monkeys all died. Sean and I had both suspected a complete die off of the tank this weekend, but this morning, for sure, there was nothing swimming around in the tank. (I believe it to be a poor aeration issue, as in, I haven't been aerating the tank with my straw.)

Samantha asked to see them, so I said, "Oh, Honey, I think they're all dead." Her face dropped and she turned back to her oatmeal, hunched over. I noticed drops splattering off the table.

"Samantha?" I asked.

She turned to me, unable to contain her sadness, and jumped into my arms, burying her face in my shoulder as she sobbed for her poor sea monkeys who had such a short life.

I now see all the disappointments and death that surround a four year old's world. I try to shield her from it, but it's all around, and if it isn't, Samantha finds something to cry over. She is my sensitive little artist.

And, although I hate seeing her so upset over what I consider silly little things, every time she mourns an insignificant little creature, I smile. She has learned empathy. We've done something right.

P.S. We will be ordering more sea monkey eggs, and an aerator. (And maybe some food that makes them red, because that's just cool.)

Me First

This morning at the breakfast table, Ella noticed Penny's bouncy seat had turned off. It has a fish mobile on it that plays music and the two fish inside blow bubbles and kiss each other. Penny likes to watch it and I frequently put her in it when I'm trying to take care of the other two.

"More, Mommy," Ella said.

"More what, Ella? More juice?"

"Nope."

"More toast?"

"Nope."

"More what?"

"More fish."

"More fish? You can't have goldfish for breakfast, Ella."

"No, more baby fish."

"Baby fish? What are you talking about?"

Samantha figured out the interpretation first, and quickly jumped off her chair. Ella started to get down, too, but Sammy was faster and closer. She turned on the bouncy seat fish mobile.

"I got it, Mommy," she said proudly, climbing back on her chair before Ella managed to get off hers.

This promptly started screaming from Ella, "NO! ME! ME DO!"

She ran over to the bouncy seat and turned it off, which started Penny, who had indeed wanted to see more fish blowing bubbles, whining and fussing.

Ella put her hands on her hips and squared off to Sammy.

"Me do, Sammy," she said. "Me do."

Ella then turned back on the fish mobile.

"Me do first, Sammy," she said.

"No you didn't. I did it first. You did it second," corrected Samantha.

"No, me first," insisted Ella.

"No, me first," said Samantha.

This continued for five, yes five whole minutes before I thought to distract them with the Sea Monkeys. I was not on top of my game this morning.

Adventures in La Quinta

Last week, the girls and I took a little vacation to my parents house. Once we arrived, we had a fantastic time. The girls behaved themselves and, due to days of extreme excitement leading to extreme exhaustion, all slept through the night in their own beds. We had many adventures in La Quinta, but I believe the girls' two favorites were The Children's Museum of the Desert and the swimming pool.

We went to the children's museum on Friday morning. It really is a fantastic place for kids to explore. Upon entering, there are floor to ceiling windows on two sides of the wall, letting in bright, natural light. There were exhibits all over the place.



The girls were buckled into seats attached to pulleys that we grown-ups pulled to raise them off the ground.









They dressed up as archeologists and excavated some rubber things.

There was a veterinary clinic where the girls examined stuffed animals in lab coats. They had some really good information about choosing a pet and the pet overpopulation problem posted in the area.










There was an attic designed area upstairs full of dress up clothes. (Samantha was in heaven.)

And, there was an art area with an actual VW bug to paint. The girls had a great time smearing paint on it (and yes, the paint does come off clothes). The employee stationed at the car, Carmine (get it, car mine, he'll tell you if you don't) was an Italian grandpa like man. He handed out paint cans and sang "That's Amore" quietly under his breath while going about cleaning and supervising. He has quite a sense of humor, although some of his jokes don't go over so well, he told me. Ella was especially thrilled with the car painting. She kept asking (and continues to ask), "Paint car?", any time an art project or trip is mentioned.

On Saturday, after playing at a local playground and a picnic, we all headed over to the pool in my parent's community.

Grandma and Grandpa took Samantha and Ella in the water, while Penny and I lounged in a cabana. (Note to self, get cabana).

We plan to go back again in the future (although we may have to wait for the grandparents to recover).

*** Extra bonus points to my parents for entertaining the two older girls and feeding them breakfast in the morning so I could sleep until eight! (Yes, eight! I can hardly believe it myself). As well as for helping Ella steer the little motorized Barbie car they have around their courtyard, again, and again, and again (and letting her ram into their legs with it, too).

A Tale of Two Car Trips

"Life is a journey, not a destination."

--Ralph Waldo Emerson

Mr. Emerson clearly did not travel with three small children. The girls and I headed down to La Quinta to my parent's for a little vacation last week, a good time was had by all (more on that later), once we got there.

I have learned in the almost four years of parenting I have under my belt, to plan my travels around sleep schedules. Things go more smoothly if I have sleeping children at least part of the time. And so, I chose to leave for my parent's home after Samantha finished school at one o'clock. That way, she and Ella would have just finished lunch, and it would be time for both Ella and Penny to take their afternoon naps. Samantha should be fine for the two and half hour car ride, as long as I made sure she used the potty before we left school. So, that's what we did.

We left the parking lot of Samantha's school at one twenty. Penny began crying immediately, because she hates the car unless we're going fifty-five miles an hour. I headed toward the freeway, stopping at the gas station right before the on ramp at one twenty-five. I pulled up to the only open pump, got out, and tried my credit card. There was a glare from the sun on the screen, I heard beeping, but couldn't see anything. I pushed the clear button and swiped my card again. Shading the screen with my hand, I still couldn't see anything on the display. I then realized the beeping was from the adjacent pump and my pump wasn't working.

I was a little annoyed, anxious to get on the freeway with the screaming baby, but I calmed myself down. No problem, I got back in the car and waited for the white van in front of me to finish. And I waited, and waited. Getting more annoyed, I realized the driver was inside the gas station. Then I looked around and noticed every pump was filled with white vans, and all the drivers were in matching grey pants and navy blue shirts. Fantastic, a fleet of some kind was filling up. They were strolling in and out of the gas station, chatting with each other, and overall dilly dallying.

Penny was screaming by this time, so I started the car and headed across the street to another gas station, apologizing to the girls for the wait and trying to hush Penny. I pulled up to the pump, got out, and then noticed this station didn't take credit cards. (Seriously? Who doesn't take credit cards?) Back in the car and back over to wait for the fleet to finish. Finally, after twenty minutes (yes, twenty) I managed to get gas. We got on the freeway at one forty-five.

Penny was in a state, screaming her head off. Soon, I assured her, soon we would hit that magic fifty-five miles per hour. I pulled onto the 105 freeway. Traffic. Going thirty miles an hour. Not fast enough for Penny. I pulled into the car pool lane, we were able to go fifty, still not fast enough. The traffic slowed to a stop as we exited to the 605. Crap, crap, crap. Screaming baby, whining Samantha, at least Ella was asleep. We finally, made it to the 60.

Still traffic, still screaming baby. Samantha started in with the "are we there yet?" every two minutes. When I repeatedly said no, she continued with the "are we almost there yet?"

Still crawling along in traffic, despite being in the carpool lane, Samantha said, "I have to go potty."

You have got to be kidding me. I was not familiar with the area. I looked to the right, we were just coming up to an exit. I was in the carpool lane, no chance to make that one. I exited and pulled over four lanes of traffic, getting off at the next exit. I noticed we just passed a strip mall. Perfect, we'll pull into the strip mall. Ella is still asleep, Penny is still screaming. We'll just pull into the parking lot, I have a portable potty in the car for just such occasions. I can feed Penny, since we've now been on the road an hour and a half, then get right back on the freeway with Ella still sleeping.

Of course, I pulled off one of those exits where the strip mall was not accessible and into a residential area that lasted a few blocks, before entering an area of heavy construction. I saw some shopping center areas up ahead. The first has no parking. I decided to get to one across the street so I could easily get back on the freeway. Bad choice. I got stuck in even worse traffic, I had to make a U-turn to enter the parking lot, and then had to wait through three traffic lights, not moving, just slightly too far to enter the driveway. All the while, Samantha was wiggling in her seat, "I have to go potty! I have to go potty!" Penny was still screaming. Finally, it became clear we weren't going to move the four feet, so I took the SUV a little off road on the sidewalk into the parking lot.

I found a nice secluded spot, situated the portable potty in the passenger seat, and got Samantha in position. Penny was still screaming.

"I don't have to go potty," said Samantha.

No kidding. No potty. I did feed Penny, Ella did wake up, crying. A full thirty minutes after we exited the freeway, we were back on. Still in traffic. Penny screaming, Ella crying, Samantha asking if we were close yet. It was now three o'clock. I estimated we had another two hours of driving. I considered turning around, but didn't. There was traffic the other way too.

After another twenty minutes, the traffic let up and we had an uneventful, yet loud, two hour drive. We arrived at five o'clock, after spending ten minutes with the security guard getting through the gates. (Did he really think I was up to no good? Really? If I were going to do something illicit, did he really think I would bring along three screaming kids? Just give me the freakin' pass already, I'm on the list.) We pulled up to my parent's house, exhausted and ready for bed (Oh, wait, that was just me. The kids were well rested and ready to tear up my parent's house).

The return trip went much more smoothly. I loaded everyone up at bedtime. By the time we hit the freeway, less than twenty minutes later, they were all asleep. I turned on some classic rock, popped open a Diet Coke, and enjoyed the silent drive.

Craft Time: Pine Cone Bird Feeder

Today we did a great project and I thought I'd share. It's not often I find a fun, easy project both older girls can do on their own with minimal assistance and that they both like. It's a very simple project: collect pine cones, have the kids use a spoon to smear peanut butter all over it, have them roll it in bird seed, tie a string to hang it with, then hang it from a tree.

Overall a fun project. I'd give it a 6/10 on the messy scale. There was birdseed on the floor, mostly from 22 month old Ella. It swept up easily, but I wouldn't do it over carpet. The dog did try to lick off Ella's peanut butter as she carried it to the tree.


Samantha after peanut butter and bird seed.




Ella applying bird seed.






Outside, ready to hang.








In the tree.

Secrets

Samantha likes to tell secrets. She understands the idea that a secret is something between some people that other people don't know. She hasn't quite mastered her technique, yet. She either tells you she has a secret and whispers so quietly and without moving her lips that you have no idea what she is saying, or she puts her hand next to her mouth to shield it from view and stage whispers loudly enough for anyone in the house to hear her secret.

We have thick, well loved Disney storybook including all the Disney movies with pictures. It no longer has a cover, the binding is torn, and many pages are torn and missing. Last night, they were fighting over who got to sleep with the book. Ella had it first, so she got it, which led to a half hour of Sammy crying. This morning, as soon as Ella let her guard down, Sammy took the book and flaunted in Ella's face, then sat down to hold it. This led to new fighting, that I promptly ended by confiscating the book and putting it on the desk.

At breakfast, Samantha covered her mouth to block my view of it, and stage whispered to Ella.

"Ella, after breakfast, you tell Mommy you need your diaper changed, and I'll get the book. Okay? Okay? You tell her you need your diaper changed. Okay?"

"Okay," came the reply.

Already, the conspiring begins.

Momma Had a Baby and It's Head Popped Off

Samantha and Ella were playing in the tub after their baths a couple nights ago. Samantha was playing with Ella's new bath doll, smashing it up against the side of the tub, when suddenly, the doll's head popped off!

Samantha gasped and looked at me, eyes wide, mouth in a large O shape, with a look that said she knew she was going to be in some BIG trouble. Ella looked at the doll, then started crying.

"Dolly, broken. My dolly broken," she said between sobs.

"I'm sorry Mommy, I didn't mean to do it. I'm sorry," Samantha began, trying to explain her way out of the situation.

I took the doll and put it's head back on. Big smiles all around. Ella grabbed the doll and hugged it.

"You fixed it!" Samantha yelled excitedly.

"Yes, I did," I said. "But play more gently with it. I might not always be able to fix things that get broken because you're playing too roughly with them."

Suddenly, Ella popped the head off the doll. She and Sammy both gasped.

"You broke it!" Samantha yelled. "Mommy can't fix it again!"

Ella gasped again, then started crying, again.

"I can fix it again, " I said, taking the doll and popping the head back on, "but this is the last time. If her head comes off again, I'm not fixing it. Got it?"

"Yes," they both said. Then they started making the doll pee on each other's head.

Boogy

My kids are obsessed with boogers. It's getting out of hand and really, a little gross.

Ella has a perpetual runny nose, so there is no shortage of boogers around here. Every morning, Ella wakes up, snot crusted under her nose, hair adhered to her face by booger glue. I gently peel her hair off her face, leaving little booger crumbs stuck in her hair all day. Then I tell her we need to go get a kleenex, to which she responds by blowing her nose without the kleenex, leaving big streams of snot running down her face towards, or sometimes into, her mouth. (I know, my mistake for broadcasting my intentions. And you would think I would learn not to do it every morning, but I'm sleep deprived, and its really early, and I'm not quite awake.) Then I go to wipe her nose and she moves her head, smearing more snot onto her face. Fantastic.

Samantha, not to be outdone, also blows her nose, without a kleenex. The snot usually hits her chin. Then she runs away as I try to wipe her nose, again smearing snot across her face to dry like snail trails around her face.

This repeats itself all day long. Every time I try to wipe or blow someone's nose, they both blow snot everywhere.

To add to the boogerfest in our house, Ella has recently discovered the use of her fingers up her nose. She can frequently be seen digging for treasure while watching television. A couple days ago, she pulled out a particularly large booger, displaying it to me with outstretched arm on her fingertip.

"Stop!" I yelled. "Don't move! That is a giant boogy. I'll be right back with a kleenex."

To which Sammy replied, "A giant boogy! Let me see!"

She moved toward her sister.

"Don't move, Ella! Don't touch, Samantha!" I exclaimed as I ran to the kitchen for a kleenex.

When I returned, I stopped in the doorway to observe my children. They sat, practically nose to nose, Ella's prize between them, staring intently at it. Entranced by a boogy. Such a proud moment.

Middle Name Trouble

When you're a child, you know you're really in trouble when you hear your mother using both your first and middle names. Even if you don't know what you did, you might as well just start apologizing, because Mom is mad, and she's not going to let you off easily.

I first started using Samantha's middle name when she was around two. I find I use it mostly when I know she knows better. Dumping her snack onto the couch, spilling her juice at breakfast because she's wiggling around in her chair too much, or getting her clothes soaked when she was supposed to be just washing her hands, will all elicit a "Samantha Keiko!" from me.

The kids learn pretty fast the extra significance to the two names usage, too. Whenever I use it, Sammy always stops what she's doing and turns toward me, hands clasped behind her back, head down, looking through her bangs with sheepish eyes.

I didn't realize quite how fast they pick up on the nuance until I started hearing Ella use Keiko. She really can't say Sammy yet, so she generally doesn't address her sister by name. But when she's mad because Samantha took a toy from her, or isn't sharing, or when she sees Samantha do something she knows she shouldn't be doing, I'll hear, "Keiko!" come out of her mouth. It makes me smile every time.

This morning, Ella dumped her cereal bowl full of milk on the table on top of her peanut butter toast after smearing the toast face down on the table while I was helping Sammy go to the potty. When I got back into the kitchen, I scolded her, and for the first time, used her middle name.

"Ella Kameko!" I said.

"Keiko," she corrected.

The Ant

Samantha does not like bugs of any sort, especially red tummy spiders. Any bug she sees she announces by running screaming from the area. She will not return to the area until the offending bug is removed and preferably squashed. Fortunately, ants are not bugs. She likes them and loves to pick them up and let them crawl up and down her arm. She loves it when they crawl upside down, and she twists and contorts to try to see them.

Today, her cousins came over to play. She found an ant and ran to show it off. I watched her carefully squat and place her hand on the ground to allow the ant to crawl off. Then she pointed, following the ant's path with her finger.

"See, Jacob? See my ant?"

Jacob looked down at the ant. Then, because he is a boy, he picked up his foot and stomped the ant and smeared it around and ground it into the pavement. He squished it good, that ant was dead.

Samantha looked up at her cousin in disbelief. Her mouth began to quiver, tears welled up in her eyes. Then she started sobbing, big, gasping, heart-broken wails escaped her throat. I was sitting under the canopy on the back patio. Our eyes met and she came running to me, throwing her shaking body into mine, wrapping her arms tightly around my neck, and buried her face in my neck, sobbing.

Her Auntie Ali asked her to go help find another ant. She shook her head no, looking with pleading eyes into mine.

"You don't want another ant, do you?" I asked.

She shook her head no.

"That was your special ant, wasn't it," I said.

She shook her head yes and began to cry harder. She cried in my arms for a few minutes, mourning her special ant, before getting over it and finding a new ant. I think the same scenario will play out in a few years, with boys instead of ants.

Doll Colors

When I was shopping with Samantha for her Barbie doll this weekend, she initially picked out a bride Barbie that was blue eyed and blonde. My gut response to the blonde Barbie was to find the same Barbie with brown skin and see if she would prefer the brown Barbie to the blonde Barbie. I did find an African American Bride Barbie and she got that one. When I look around our house, I see that most of her dolls are brown skinned: Latina, African American, Asian. The white dolls we have, when I think about it, were mostly given to her by her Japanese relatives, while the brown dolls were given to her mostly by her white relatives.

It got me thinking why it bothered me that she would pick out a blonde Barbie. Is it really a hang up I have? Does the race of the dolls really make a difference? And isn't kind of funny that her white relatives tend to buy her brown dolls and her Asian relatives tend to buy her white dolls? Why is that?

Is it, that when we see her, we pick out the differences from ourselves instead of the similarities. Her skin is darker than mine, so does my mind make her identity more Asian than white? Do her Japanese relatives look at her and see lighter skin than theirs and therefore identify her more with her white heritage? And then we all buy the dolls that we think look the most like her?

Will she, as I've read about people who are half white, half African American, not really be accepted by either race as she grows up? Too white to be Asian, too Asian to be white, and therefore be an outsider her whole life, not really fitting in anywhere?

Am I not as color blind as I thought? I married outside of my race and truly believe skin color is not important and does not make a person who they are anymore than hair color does. Or do I not believe that, deep down. Do I really believe that your identity, who you are, is somehow linked to your skin color?

In actuality, I think the color of the doll's skin bothered me because I know she chose the blonde Bride Barbie because she thought she was prettiest. I know that because that's how I chose my dolls growing up. And the Bride Barbie was pretty. She had a beautiful white gown with ruching on the bodice, spaghetti straps tied halter style around the neck, a flowing skirt with a glittered, lacy overlay, with a hot pink ribbon around her waist and matching, strappy hot pink high heels. She wore a veil over her hair, diamond earrings, and a gigantic diamond ring that gleamed from the box.

But when she came with the blonde doll, I thought, is that Samantha's idea of pretty? Does she think blue-eyed and blonde is the prettiest Barbie? Does she not think the brown Barbie is pretty? The one, that in my mind, looks the most like her. I want her to grow up with a positive self image and feel pretty and I do believe the dolls she chooses can be a reflection of that.

When offered both dolls, she did choose the darker one. But, maybe she only chose it because she knew that was the one I was hoping she would pick. Maybe she only chose the blonde Barbie in the first place because it was displayed along the main aisle at her eye level, while the brown Barbie was in the Barbie aisle, over her head (which is a completely different issue I won't address here). Maybe, she didn't really notice the skin color, and she was just picking the most beautiful dress she saw. I hope so.