Children – Page 5 – Angel Wheeler

The best magic show ever

Over the Christmas break my family was treated to the performance of a lifetime by my nephew ~~Harley~~, I mean Hobo Joe the Magician.

Move over David Copperfield.

Hand over your wand Harry Houdini because Hobo Joe is in da’ house.

Hobo Joe began with humble beginnings living in a cardboard box that was discarded after Christmas of 2013. But as fate would have it, his wonderful auntie (that would be me) bought him a magic show kit for Christmas and encouraged him to put on a show for the family.

Hobo Joe diligently learned his tricks and was ready for performing the very next day.

Admission was reasonable and well thought out for a 10 year old lad.
General admission—-$1.00
Kids under 4 (his brother and Emma)—free
His grandmother was free, ‘since she’s a senior citizen’, he added.
His dad was free because he owed him four dollars. Now his debt is only $3.
Teenage girls were $5 each. (He had 3 cousins in this category).

He lost his magic wand before the show and even after offering an award for free admission to the person who found it, with no success, he carried on without.

Hobo Joe will not be stopped by something so trivial as a lost wand. The show must go on.

Hobo Joe turned his cardboard box upside down for his table, threw a table cloth over the top, and began the show.

We all assembled to watch his debut performance.

The audience was wowed by illusions, coin tricks, and sleight of hand. We laughed and cheered and oohed and ahhhhed. And when Hobo Joe got frustrated and threw his trick and said he quit, the audience chanted Hobo Joe, Hobo Joe, Hobo Joe, Hobo Joe till he mustered enough courage to carry on.

It was the best magic show ever and I honestly can’t remember a time where my family laughed together so much. Truly an experience I treasure.

On a side note, Hobo Joe is no longer living in a box and is saving up for a tuxedo.

Here Hobo Joe is thinking of a number or a color or something that Emma picked.

Hobo Joe poses with a picture with his dad, whose been there for him since the beginning (taken before he lost his wand, obviously).

The Top 10 Funniest Things EK says

EK is 21 and a half months old now.

It’s a fun age.

She is a talker, y’all.

She can say anything she wants. The other day she told me “Ozzie chews on Emma’s hair clip”.

It’s good and it’s bad.

It’s good because she can express herself and answer questions and ask them.

It’s bad because even though she has this vast vocabulary, she still chooses to kick and scream and stomp at times.

But, hey, don’t we all?

I’m sure none of the things she says will be funny to my readers, but I wanted to get them down so I didn’t forget them. Time is flying so fast.

So, here we go……the top 10 funniest things EK says.

number 10) No, I not. (This means I don’t want to. I hear it ALOT!)

number 9) What da heck? (Remember, we also have a 14 year old in the house)

number 8) Hi durls (girls) {When addressing the chickens accompanied by a sweet little wave}

number 7) Aw, so toot. (meaning cute) This is said in the sweetest high pitched voice, usually when she sees a picture of herself.

number 6) I love you much (melts my heart, but I rarely hear it addressed to me)

number 5) Whose tripping over my bidge (bridge) asks the troll. (This is her newest favorite story. Move over Rapunzel)

number 4) I love my hair (A Sesame Street song)

number 3) Mama needs to poop! (What she actually means is Mama, I need to poop)

number 2) What’s going on? (We read this in a book and she finds the best times to ask)

And the number one funniest thing EK says:

I so funny.

Yes, you are a bushel of laughs, darling.

And so toot too!

This is how she gives two thumbs up. I love it!

Fingerprint

I have a new item to add to my most prized possession list. On second thought, it’s more like the only item on my most prized possession list.

I’m in love.

It’s a necklace and it deserves an explanation.

It was a gift to me from my darling, dear, precious friend Mrs. Z when EK was born.

At first I was baffled by it.

It was a brown cardboard box labeled Priceless Prints. Inside was a ball of clay with a page of instructions.

The idea is to press a fingerprint from your loved one in the clay and then return it to the company and they will turn it into a silver pendant.

A keepsake treasure of a loved ones fingerprint.

I waited a while to do this, simply because her finger was just so tiny.

You can see that the whole pendant is the size of my pinky, her little fingerprint only claiming a small part of the silver.

Recently, I felt it was time to capture it forever.

That small indention is the fingerprint of my daughter. At close inspection, you can make out the wavy lines.

The gem is her birthstone. A garnet for January.

The back is stamped with her initials EKW.

I will carry a piece of her with me for the rest of my life.

When I leave her at school for the first time in a few years, and then return to an empty home, no doubt I will touch this necklace, thinking of her and hoping she’s doing alright. And I will check the clock a hundred times before 3:00.

When she packs her bag for her first overnight sleepover, the first time away from me for the night, I will still have her near me, secretly hoping the phone will ring and she’ll ask me to come get her. I’ll jump up in my pajamas, not bothering to dress myself and rush right over.

When I drive away from her dormitory, tears streaming down my cheeks, continually looking in my rearview mirror, I will think back to the day I pressed her tiny forefinger into the clay to make this necklace.

I will wear it around my age spotted neck, through all the days, weeks, months, and years to come.

I love her little hands, her little fingers, the tiny fingernails with chipped red polish. I think of her fingerprints. Their uniqueness to her and no one else. They are her mark. I wonder where her little hands will go, what they will do. And I pray that she will leave her fingerprints on this world in a good way. That she will do good with her hands, that she will touch people’s lives and make a mark. A one of kind, unique touch that only she is capable of.

As far as I’m concerned though, she already has.

Moment Dwelling

Last night a physical sickness hit me and I couldn’t sleep because of it.

I crept out of the bedroom leaving my husband and EK snoozing soundly, grabbed a down comforter, my robe, and headed to the couch where I still couldn’t sleep.

I got my laptop and for a reason unknown, I began looking at pictures I had stored on it. For three hours, I looked at my baby’s pictures and videos from way back.

Oh my heart.

My cheeks began to hurt and I realized I’d been wearing a smile for a very long time.

You tried to tell me how precious, beautiful, adorable, etc., etc. she was and boy, were you right.

Now that I’m a bit removed from that baby-baby stage, I can’t hardly believe how wonderful she was. And she still is, just bigger.

It’s just that when you’re in the big middle of it, sometimes you see through a glass darkly. Or as J-Dub would say, your tail lights are brighter than your headlights.

But last night, everything carried a new light. The way her hair grew. The dimples on her hands, her budding teeth, the way her rolls of fat lay upon one another, her grins and her frowns.

I sat and watched each little video from before she was born where I videoed her kicking in the womb, to her cooing, to rolling, to her wounded soldier crawl, to sitting, and all the beautiful steps in between.

After breakfast this morning, I sat her in my lap with the computer and continued my nostalgic trip. She knew that was baby Emma on the screen and her face wore the most proud expression as she watched herself growing up and doing this little things that we praised.

Our movie watching didn’t last long. She wanted to read a Monkey book, and color on the TV with a blue marker, get in the clothes I was folding, eat fish and peaches, then play with the dogs and chickens.

Now she stomps around in too big play shoes, puts Cheerios in her ears, and throws a mean temper tantrum.

We’re just doing life over here.

I have to remind myself that these mundane, day-to-day chores are the little things that become the big things. In another year, I’ll be watching the videos and studying the pictures from this season of our life together and realizing how precious, beautiful, adorable etc., etc., she was.

Then……

And now….

I must tell myself to live in the moment.

I’m trying.

18 months old

Dear Emma Kate,

Today you are 18 months old. One and a half. You are a delight to this world. You make it a better place to live already, in just 18 short months you’ve truly made a difference in many people’s lives. Remember to always strive to add beauty and make this world a better place.

Let’s see……there is so much to say about you. First off, you are talker! You aren’t easily understood except by those close to you, but you talk up a storm, and I don’t just mean you babble.

You like to pray, and that makes my heart so happy. When we sit down to eat, you remind us to “pay” and you reach for our hands. You bow your little head, but still peek out from under your hair (we know that because we’re peeking at you too). When we’re finished, you say Amen and squeeze three times. It is so precious.

You love books as always and want us to read to you all the time.

You are so smart. I know I’ve told you that since you were born, but you were born smarter than most adults ever manage to become! You love to write your letters. You call them all E, A, and O’s.

You sing songs. Your favorite is Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star and you have these sweet hand motions that go with it that you learned from play group. You also sing If You’re Happy and You Know it, B-I-N-G-O, You are my sunshine and lots more!

If you had a choice, you’d be outside! You are not a prissy pants, although you do like dressing up in necklaces and grown up shoes and calling yourself “toot” (cute), but you also eat dog food, waller in dirt, and don’t mind a little grit under your fingernails.

You love our dogs Drew and Grace and it is so funny to hear you talk to them. If you’re not giving them hugs and kisses, then you’re telling them “Go, Move, and No”! You also love the chickens and you hug their butts all the time.

You are just a little thing. We’ll be going to the doctor soon for a check up but I bet you weigh just barely over twenty pounds. You can still wear 12 month clothes and the 18 months are just a little roomy for you. You are super healthy and have never been too sick!!! I’m so happy about that.

As far as your personality goes, you are adorable! You like familiar people, and it takes you a good while to warm up to others that you aren’t around much. It hurts their feelings sometimes I think, but they’re grown ups and can deal with it. So you keep on being careful around others and be choosy in your friends. You are a watcher and an observer. You don’t just jump in and do things, but you analyze situations and sit back rather than dive right in.

You are a mommy’s girl! And you’ve even started being jealous if someone else touches me or tries to love on me. You yell “no no no” and wring your little hands. It’s so cute. I know you won’t always be a mommy’s girl, and there will be times that you, dare I say, will even think you hate me. But I will love you no matter what. Through all the highs and lows and ups and downs. You are my baby girl. You’re growing up and I am so proud to have you! Always know how much you are loved!

I love you!!!!!

xoxo

Mommy

Breast Weaning Woes

I’m categorizing this blog under the Public Service category because somethings just need to be said, that no one said to me. And also because I feel the need to vent.

I’m a little bit peeved at the female race right now. Yes, women, you. Don’t point at yourself with your eyebrows raised in surprise like that. Yes, you. I’m feeling a bit uninformed, a bit left out in the cold, and a whole LOT OF shocked at the fact that nobody told me how painful weaning my baby from breast-feeding would be.

To my male readers: don’t check out quite yet, I have something for you too.

To the mothers out there: you told me how much pregnancy sucks, you told me how painful labor would be, you warned me of the pain of beginning breast-feeding, how badly it hurt when they latched on. You told me about the hard recovery from a c-section, the hormonal swings, the postpartum depression. But no one, I mean NO ONE mentioned how painful weaning would be.

I chose to breast feed because I believe in it. I believe in its goodness. I never expected to last 6 months, never mind last a year and onward. My little EK loves to nurse. She asks for it all the time. “muck”. It has been beneficial to her, to her health, to our bonding, etc., etc., etc. I could go on.

I must be honest, I felt a little weird nursing a toddler, even though deep down I knew I shouldn’t. But Western Society sexualizes the breast, rather than embracing its intended function and breast feeding a toddler or older is frowned upon. Dare I even say stigmatized.

I slowly began to wean the baby around 12 months. First we night weaned, then we began dropping a feeding here and there. Finally we were down to 2 feedings a day. I kept it like this for several weeks. And then the tantrums began. When I had to postpone her desire for “muck”, she got mad. She cried. She pouted. She hit whatever was closest, sometimes me.

This past Thursday, after a hitting episode, I just said. “no more, there’s no more milk”. I’ve stuck to it, but it’s a lie. It’s one big whopper of a lie, because let me tell you folks, there’s still milk. There’s a lot milk. And my bosoms are engorged! The pain is almost unbearable. They’re hard, and hot, and lumpy and leaky. Originally XS, they’ve expanded to a size XXX. It’s not fun.

To my male readers: I think I now know how it feels to have testicles. You know how you guys are always protecting yours? I get that now. If something comes near you; a ball, a small child, you instinctively put your hands up to guard your jewels. I get that now. Because they hurt. And especially when they get bumped. I get that. You have no idea how much I get that now. I cry out like a little girl. And feel like hitting back whoever or whatever has bumped them.

You have no idea how badly I want to allow my girl to nurse again to relieve the pain and discomfort, but I feel like I would really be taking 300 steps backward. She still asks for her “muck” but the fits have stopped and she seems to be happy with substitute nourishment and comfort. It’s not really her suffering from weaning. It’s me.

I think I did this the smart way. I weaned gradually. There was no “cold turkey” . And yet, I still have an overabundance of supply. I’ve pumped a little just to grant myself an ounce (pun intended) of relief. And now I have cabbage leaves in my bra as a home remedy to help drain and dry up. So guess what? Not only do I hurt, I am uncomfortable, I am downright grouchy, but now……I smell like slaw. All I lack is fried chicken. Just add that to my woes.

Which brings me to my advice. To all you young mothers or ladies thinking of becoming a mother or thinking of breast-feeding. Do it, it is a wonderful thing, don’t get me wrong, the benefits are astounding.

But for me it has not been a piece of cake to wean, I’m here to tell you.

Since no one else will.

But can anyone bring me some fried chicken?

Dreaming Like a Baby

Our local library launched its summer reading program this week with the theme Blazing the Trails. It is phenomenal and the librarians have put an immense amount of work into this.

On opening day for the Tiny Tots, we dug for pennies in sand, panned for gold, lassoed ponies, raced stick horses and sat real ponies. EK loves the library and loves the books. She wouldn’t put her book down before getting on the pony. She walked around with her book open like she was reading it.

The next day at the library, a trick roper entertained us with his horse, his rope, and his dog.

Understandably, EK’s new favorite word is “hosh”.

Early this morning, still sleeping but stirring, eyes shut, she rolled over in bed and let out a soft “neigh”.

Ah, the sweet dreams of babes.

Day In, Day Out

I never awaken on my own. I’m usually smack dab in the middle of some amazing dream when a little person whose feet are in my ribs begins to stir and repeatedly request “muck”, the translation of milk in baby talk. Staggering out of bed with my daughter in my arms, leaving my dream of lottery winning or beach lying behind forever, I put aside all my needs, never considering even a trip to the bathroom, to satisfy hers instead. Because that’s what mothers do.

Eventually, I manage a cup of coffee or two, breakfast consists of oatmeal with brown sugar and milk, while a well-worn DVD of Sesame Street or Barney provides the background noise. I sing along and speak the lines by memory knowing I could recite the entire episode better than a 7th grader reciting the Preamble to the Constitution in History class. Repetition will do that.

Our outdoor surroundings are breathtakingly relaxing and outside time is a must even on cooler days. We’re surrounded by trees, pines, hummingbirds, deer, and birds of all colors. So Emma and I spend our time in the backyard with our dogs, chickens, slide, and sandbox soaking up Vitamin D. My girl toddles around exploring the ins and outs of pine needles, rocks, dog water, and sticks and I use this opportunity to read a short story or a chapter in a book. I might take my notebook and colored pen out and attempt a little short story of my own. But my mind gets weighed down with my character or the conflict that needs to surround him, the voice of inadequateness drowns out the voice of creativeness until I seek refuge in facebook or a round of Words with Friends on my phone. Eventually I become distracted enough with technology that I don’t even notice when my fictional character sneaks away and drowns in the river next to our house.

Lunchtime comes and goes, a cuisine suited to a toddler palette: noodles, goldfish crackers, bananas and the like. A yawn or sometimes a one year old frenzy indicates naptime so we shake the sand from our shoes and climb into an unmade bed for an afternoon nap. She wallers and hums. I pat and sing, and eventually she dozes off. I then sneak out of bed and quietly bottle around the house doing odds and ends; housework, exercise, more reading or occasionally I may be so bold as to nap with her.

During late afternoon, we pack up and head to the Middle School to pick up my niece Ash from school, then it’s back home for more of the same. Usually after it’s too late, I realize I didn’t plan anything for supper. This realization throws me into a maddening search on the internet for a recipe consisting of tomato sauce and salmon.

My husband returns from work, and the evening passes as all other evenings in American households. Supper, dishes, baths, and bed.

Once a week we join a playgroup and two days later we visit the library where I engage in adult conversation, usually about kids.

I spend most of my day on a toddler level. I sing The Itsy Bitsy Spider, I read Goodnight Moon, I blow bubbles, mold homemade play dough, hold hands while climbing steps, clean noses, wipe butts, give hugs and kisses and receive as many back, wash high chairs, cook spaghetti, step on hair clips abandoned on the ground, wipe crayon off the wooden floor, wash sticky hands and faces, and wipe tears.

Through it all, I dream of writing.

Some days I wonder if this is all there is. I am in the trenches of motherhood. Stay at home motherhood. There are times I feel very purposeless, unimportant. Cooking and cleaning is my existence. But deep in my soul, I know there is no greater purpose for me than this girl named Emma, whose hair hangs in her eyes, whose nose wrinkles when she grins. I am the most important person to her right now. I won’t always be. This time is numbered, and I’m doing my best to make it count. For both of us.

This entry is #12 on the list of 30 things. Describe a typical day.

The Hummers

I overheard them talking in the doctor’s office a few weeks ago.

You need to get ready for them.

They’re here.

We saw some at our place yesterday.

Hummingbirds.

So I heeded their advice and went to The Walmarts to buy a couple of feeders. I googled how to make sugar water (4 parts water to 1 part sugar), and I filled my feeders and hung them on the patio.

I doubted they would come. Just because I doubt most good things will come in my life. It’s a huge weakness in my character. But lo and behold, as Emma Kate and I were outside enjoying the day, the dogs, and the chickens, they came. They did! Two of them hummed their way over to the feeders and got a drink.

I was thrilled. Absolutely thrilled. I ran to get my camera and of course, as in the way things happen, they flitted away to the trees. I could still hear them tweeting and buzzing around, but they wouldn’t come to the feeders again.

I waited and waited and waited. Some might find waiting on the hummingbirds tedious and boring, their minds filled with a laundry list of to-do’s that they would rather be doing, but the simplicity of the afternoon overtook me and as I waited on the hummingbirds, I sat in the sun and let it warm me all the way to my insides. There’s something healing about a little sunshine warming the innermost.

I watched my darling daughter play in the animal’s drinking water. We have a waterer for the chickens and a big bowl for the dogs, but they don’t seem to understand the distinction, so the dogs drink after the chickens and the chickens drink after the dogs, and Emma Kate drinks after both. It’s good for the immune system I say.

She got pine needles and dunked them through the water and sucked the moisture off, she splashed, and she laughed. And the laughter from a little child on a sunshiny spring day is music to the ears.

She herded chickens and hugged them from behind and Grace, our heeler dog, herded right along with her. Ever vigilant to protect Emma from chicken danger. Meanwhile, Drew, who’s a couple milkbones short of a full box, chewed on a pink bone and didn’t ever once feel his manhood threatened. Real dogs chew pink bones.

And finally as the day drew to a close, and the sun dipped behind the house, and the shadows grew longer, I got a halfway decent picture of a hummingbird. But my true treasure is the several decent pictures I got of a simple day in the backyard that soothed and healed my soul.

Just the beginning

She’s barely one.

And I’m pretty sure I’m in over my head.

When she’s sleeping, I’ve got it made. Piece of cake.

But when she’s awake, she’s really trying to run the show around here. Already. At the end of some days, I need a 3 day vacation. But alas, this is a 24/7 job I’ve signed up for. Just hand me another coffee please.

She stiffens her legs, arches her back, and throws back her head when I try to put her in her high chair. Then once I’ve wrestled her in, in order to have the advantage on me, she throws all her food off her tray. Is this typical one year old behavior? Is she just not hungry? Is she a brat?

I wonder what I’m supposed to do. Should I break her spirit? Force her to do everything that I, the all-knowing mother, think necessary? Because really. I’m kind of new at this too.

We fight tooth and nail. She usually wins right and left.

She is nineteen pounds of sheer determination.

If she had her ‘druthers, she would walk around with a naked hiney, a dirty face, eating goldfish crackers and watching Elmo all day. And then I’d be raising a wretch.

But whose to say I’m not.

Mama knows best. Well, about some things anyway, for instance children shouldn’t pee on the floor and occasionally they should eat a fruit.

I might not know much, but at least I know that.

I’m hoping she’s receiving some vitamins and nutrients from the dirt she eats, because she’s rather fond of that too.

She is a busy girl. And this is her childhood. The only one she’ll ever have. The one she’ll look back on with either fondness or dismay. The one that will shape her. The Nurture to help balance her Nature. It’s kind of a big deal when you think of it.

She’s exploring, discovering, and learning. As all children should be allowed to do. Within reason, of course.

While she’s busy growing up, I am busy watching, worrying, and trying to find the fine line between interfering or giving her the space she needs to become the independent little girl that she is becoming.

And trying desperately not to raise a wretch.