Tooth Fairy Cometh

In the week after Disneyland (or maybe it was the week right before- it's blending now. That's what I get for waiting too long to post about it), Casey lost another tooth.

Now, I don't know what the going rate for the Tooth Fairy is in your neck of the woods, but around these parts, we've heard tooth rewards of as much as $20 (!). Casey's cousin recently received $5, but his parents explained that was because it was a special event (his first one), and they doubted the Tooth Fairy would ever bring that much again.

Casey's Tooth Fairy (or Tooth Fairies-- he's not sure if there is a different one for each tooth) brings him $1 bill for each tooth. It comes in a snack-sized ziplock back, as a bookmark in an easy reader style book. I'm not entirely sure how the Tooth Fairy decided on this reward-- except that it's my understanding that one of the fairies in Tooth Fairy land wanted to give books to encourage reading, but the others all told her that Casey would be disappointed to discover other children received cash. The first Tooth Fairy was not entirely convinced that was true, I imagine, because what do children spend cash on, anyway? But the fairies, like all good collaborative partnerships, must have agreed to compromise. Because Casey gets money and a book he can read.

Anyway, Casey's tooth was knocked out of his mouth at school when he was horsing around with his friends. He was not clear about the location or the context of the horseplay-- just that it went down the drain. So he had no tooth to leave the Tooth Fairy in exchange for a reward. He decided (on his own) that he should write a note, explaining what happened. And, he posited that the Tooth Fairy would respond in writing, and because fairies are small, the note would have to be tiny.

Here's Casey's note:


And here was the Tooth Fairy's reply, included in the ziplock bag, along with the dollar bill, as a book mark in a new League of Justice book.

She Asked The Question

Sitting in the crowded (overbooked) waiting area for our flight home from North Carolina, my inquisitive, spit-fire daughter looked up at me and asked The Question:

"Mommy, how do you get the baby out of the tummy?"

Eyes all over the waiting area turned and looked at me and Jason.

But we were completely prepared.

"Marcie, we will tell you all about it. Later. Not at the airport."

And we did. Well, I did. The next day. I explained both ways. She asked if it hurt. I was honest (I don't know, but I've heard it does). But does it hurt very bad? Yes, I think so. But it's worth it. When you're 30. Because that's how old you should wait to be until you become a mom. (This is my standing answer for everything.)

Competition

Casey and Marcie participate in far more verbal jousting than I'd like. Not particularly intellectual conversations, of course (they're only 6 and 3, after all). It's irritating none the less.

Here are a couple samples of typical "discussions" I hear when I drive them to school in the morning:

***
Casey: Marcie, I'm older than you are, so I'm in first grade and you're not.
Marcie: I'm old, too. I'm in pre-K.
Casey: No you're not. You're not old. I'm just old. You're young. You're like a baby.
Marcie: No I'm not. I'm a big girl. I'm big like you. I'm not a baby.
Casey: Yes you are. You're a baby. I'm just big.
Marcie: (now whining) I'm not a baby. I'm big. I'm a big girl. MO-O-O-OM, Casey says I'm a baby, but I'm not a baby, I'm a big girl.

***
Casey: Marcie I have brown hair, like Mommy. You have black hair.
Marcie: No I don't. I have brown hair.
Casey: Nuh uh. It's dark. It's black, not brown.
Marcie: I have brown hair Ca-sey. I'm telling.
Casey: Then I'm just not going to invite you to my birthday party.
Marcie: Yes. I want to go to your birthday party.
Casey: No. You're just not invited.

***

I never said these were intellectual conversations. Mind you, no one's birthday is even for another couple months, and they discuss these imaginary parties that one or other is or is not invited to all the time.

It's not the kind of bickering to which I can just respond by telling them to work it out or I'll take away whatever it is they're fighting over. I'm not sure what it is they're fighting over. And though Casey started these two example-arguments, Marcie starts her fair share of them, too.

I'm not sure what to do about it. No, I haven't read Siblings Without Rivalry. I expected bickering. I just didn't expect it to irritate me so much. At home when they argue like that, I just separate them. And they pretty much don't do it in public. But stick them in a car together and it's a different story.

They're so competitive with each other. I don't know if it's something I've fostered. Or even if it's a bad thing. Maybe they're just figuring out their relationship. Whatever they're doing, it's irritating when I'm driving. (And music doesn't drown it out- believe me, I've tried.) Do you think they'll ever grow out of it?

Mommy, My ______ Hurts

No, I don't mean to tease you with a fun fill-in-the-blank activity.
And let's face it, we could find some pretty funny (or gross) words to fill in that blank.
And if we're honest, I've probably heard just about all of them, and my oldest child is only 6.

But this is a post devoted entirely to my Marcie.
She sort of gets short shrift on this blog, I think. Other than her initial arrival, it feels to me like I spend a lot more time obsessing about Casey than Marcie. But I digress.
Back to Marcie.

Marcie is pretty smart. Especially when it comes to manipulating situations to get what she wants. Like how she pretends not to know the letters of the alphabet, just so we'll spend more time quizzing her. Or how she'll ask questions she already knows the answers to. Or how she'll begin meals negotiating her vegetable quotas. She knows what she's doing. She is a pretty savvy three year old.

And one of her ploys is tell complain that she is in pain. This last time, she complained her head hurt. And she insisted she needed medicine. The purple kind. It's "gwape," you know.

But every time we asked her to point to where on her head hurt, the location changed. It was a moving target headache, of the preschool kind.

Nah, we didn't give in. I tried to tell her the story of the Boy Who Cried Wolf. But I think it was lost on her.

Ears

When we first brought home Marcie, Jason almost immediately began talking about getting her ears pierced. Like most women I know (not all women-- just those I know), I was opposed to this. Why mutilate her ear lobes unless she asks? I practically begged to get my ears pierced-- both times. The first time, when I was five, my ears got infected. Not because my parents weren't good about cleaning them, but because it turned out I was allergic to the posts. After that experience, my parents prohibited any additional piercings. And finally, when I was 18, I convinced them to let me get a second set. No infections the second time, or anything. But I pretty much never use them, either.


So I've quietly ignored Jason's gentle ear-piercing prodding. Then, a few months ago when I was getting dressed to go out, Marcie noticed my earrings and asked about them. She wanted to know when she could get some like mine. I told her I thought she should wait until she was older, and she agreed to wait until she was five.


Then last weekend, we went to the mall to visit Santa Claus. And as we passed by a Claire's, I commented to Jason that Marcie told me she wanted to wait until she was five to get her ears pierced. Honestly, I'm not sure there is much of a difference between three and five-- I mean, one isn't really all that much more rational than the other (and I say this as the mother of a five year old and a three year old). When Jason interrogated Marcie about this, she gave a distinctly different answer. Okay, interrogate is a bit strong. He just asked her how old she wanted to be when she got her ears pierced (as if it's something every girl does), and she said three. And when he asked if she wanted to do it right then, she said yes. So we did.

We had them poke her ears at the same time. She picked out the earrings (though I insisted on 24K gold posts). She did cry- but not until several minutes after it was over, and I think it was pure shock. The tears stopped within about 60 seconds.

So here is Marcie getting her ears pierced:






And, perhaps more entertaining, here is how Casey busied himself while the piercing was happening:

He was very particular in picking out the glasses and the hat only after trying on several varieties of each. Gosh, he cracks me up.

Oh. And here's a somewhat blurry close-up of the new look:

Bad Mommy - A Cautionary Tale

A couple weekends ago, the kids bounded into my bedroom one morning practically chanting, "What trip are we going on today?"

No trips planned. And I said as much. But their repetition seeped its way into my sleepy mind. It wasn't quite 6:00 a.m. yet. Through my morning haze, I calculated what I needed to accomplish and offered, "Well, we could go see Santa today. . . ." The rest of my sentence was kind of lost beneath their cheers.

Once the excitement calmed down a bit, I explained more. You see, we had to go grocery shopping. And Jason was still sleeping. And two kids grocery shopping is, well, let's just say it's not my favorite thing in the world. On my list of things I could probably live without doing, it's higher than taking the trash out in a down-pour, but lower than emptying the dish washer. So I made a fatal error. I predicated the Santa trip on good behavior grocery shopping. This was an error for two reasons: 1. I wanted to take them to see Santa and 2. I feared I was setting them up for failure-- riling them up with such an exciting promise.

To combat the potential disaster, I started our shopping excursion with a trip to Starbucks, where each child was awarded a cup of chocolate or vanilla milk and a slice of banana walnut bread. And off to the grocery store we went.

They were mostly good. But there were some issues. No one screamed bloody murder in the aisle. Marcie didn't insist we visit the restroom. No one knocked the grocery cart over on top of their sibling. No one ran down the aisle out of site requiring me to go chasing after. Sounds relatively successful, right? The thing was, they constantly whined. And fought. And provoked each other. And when Marcie climbed out of the cart, Casey threw a mini-fit because I wouldn't put him in it. But nothing that would really justify skipping a visit with Santa.

At the end of the trip, we pushed the cart to the car, and Casey began banging it against the back. I asked him to stop. He ignored me. I asked again. No response. I began counting. Still nothing. Finally, I reminded him of our pending trip to visit Santa. No good. Instead of complying, he turned in sing-songy "Nyah! Nyah! Nyah! Nyah!" voice and began imitating me, repeating everything I was saying:

"Casey, knock it off." Casey, knock it off.
"I'm serious." I'm serious.
"Get in the car." YOU get in the car.
"We won't go see Santa." We won't go see Santa.

Finally, I physically placed him in the car. At which point, Marcie immediately turned to me and told me she was being good and could she go see Santa. "We'll see," I mumbled, and stuffed her in her carseat. Where she immediately turned to Casey and said in that same sing-songy, annoying tone: "I get to see Santa and you don't."

Casey wasn't going to sit still with that. "Nuh uh," he replied. "You're not going either." And you can imagine what happened next:

"Yes I am!" Marcie shouted.
"No you're not!" Casey screamed back at her.
And so it went, back and forth, as I placed the grocery bags in the car. Until Marcie hauled off and whacked Casey.

And then Santa was no longer an option. I felt immediately sad-- like they'd robbed me of the experience of watching them with Santa.

Dejected, I climbed into the car and turned on the ignition. It was only 9:00 in the morning and I already felt defeated and beat down. And then the pummeling really began. The afternoon before, when Casey and Marcie were arguing and hitting each other, I confiscated television-watching and Wii-playing privileges for the evening. Casey responded by telling me he wanted to move out, and when he got old enough could he please have a car so he could leave us? It was hard not to laugh, but I admired his attempt at problem-solving anyway.

But that morning, Casey wasn't going to be so easy on me. From the back seat, I heard:
"You're a bad mommy."
I ignored it.
"Are you listening?" Casey asked.
Still ignoring him.
"You're just a bad mommy and you're not nice and you're just gonna die and then Daddy is going to find us a new mommy and she's going to be nice and we're going to love her."

The tears began. Slowly trickling down my face. Then Marcie chimed in:
"Yeah. Bad Mommy," she called out.

We live less than 2 miles from the grocery store. When I pulled into the garage, I turned off the car, and landed pretty much immediately in Jason's arms. Where I told him we had awful kids and I couldn't be around them. Then I slipped into our bedroom, closed the door behind me and began sobbing.

Of course that was an over-reaction. It's just that I wasn't expecting such strong words from my five year old. Or three year old. I was expecting them when the kids were 12, perhaps. But there they were-- a cold, hard slap across the face.

Someone later pointed out to me that when a five year old tells you that you're being a "bad mommy," that is obviously code for "good mommy"-- as in someone who sets boundaries and sticks to them. And of course that's true.

In the end, it turned out Casey was reading Hansel and Gretel at school. He claims it's a story about a bad mommy who sends the kids to the bushes. But then she dies, and the dad who is a (wood) cutter (Casey leaves out the "wood" part) goes and gets them, and they are happy again. Casey never mentions the witch. He doesn't understand that the woman is a stepmother. And he doesn't blame the father for leaving them out in the woods. Of course, I didn't have this context at the time of the incident.

So what did I learn? Well, first of all, don't set unreasonable expectations for your kids. Second, don't make a fun trip contingent on good behavior-- too much pressure. And third, no matter how rude or mean your kids are, you have to stick to your guns. Even if it hurts your feelings to do so. I know our kids will be better off for it in the long run. But geesh-- these little stumbles along the way sure to leave some painful abrasions, don't they?

Forget about the terrible twos . . .

After Marcie and I dropped off Casey, she decided she wanted oranges (which Casey had for breakfast and was carrying to school in a ziplock bag) and started to cry. I told her she didn't ask for oranges, and she could have oranges tomorrow if she wants. She started screaming, "I WANT ORANGES!" So I told her that she could stay there on the playground and cry because I didn' t have any oranges, or she could come with me. I walked all the way up the stairs to leave, and then she started to follow me, all the while crying "I want oranges!"

When we got to the parking lot, I took her hand and cross in front of several idling cars. As we neared ours, she broke away and started to scream again about the oranges. So I picked her up to carry her to the car. She began hitting me on the head repeatedly, and in the process she dropped the last bite of her PB&J sandwich. While I held her down in the car seat and buckled her in, she yelled, "I WANT MY SANDWICH!" I told her she was so busy hitting me that she dropped the last bite, and it was dirty, so she couldn't have it.

She cried the entire drive to preschool, mostly wailing, "I want my sandwich!" At one point she told me she was hungry, and I said she should have thought of that before she began hitting me and dropped her sandwich. In between the wails, she repeated spat, screeched and kicked my chair. Eventually she stopped yelling about the sandwich and started yelling, "I WANT DADDY!" I just ignored her all the way to preschool.

When we got to preschool, she refused to get out of the car. I removed her and held her hand as we walked in. Her face was covered in peanut butter and jelly, so after I signed her in, we went to the bathroom, where I washed her face. She'd completely calmed down, but then the minute we went outside toward her classroom, she began crying again: "I want my sandwich!" She refused to walk with me to the classroom. I went ahead without her, and as I entered the room, everyone looked up because we could all hear her yelling outside. I put her lunch away, then told the teacher we were having a rough morning. When Marcie got in the room, she was still screaming and crying. Now she was saying, "I DON'T WANT TO GO TO SCHOOL!" I asked why, and she couldn't tell me. I picked her up and told her I was sorry she was having a hard time, that I loved her, and that she had to stay. The teacher told her she could be a special helper and pick out special stickers, and Marcie just screamed back: "I DON'T WANT TO!"

Before I left, I cradled her in my arms and told her again I knew she was mad and upset but she had to stay- and that I still loved her. I put her down, and walked out to her screams, noting the kids in the room covering their ears as we left.

It was the longest 15 minutes I've had in a very long time.

Forget about the terrible twos. Whoever made up that expression never met our kids at age three.

Magnificent Mommy Moments

This morning I overslept. And so did Casey and Marcie. Which is probably part of why I overslept. It's so hard to wake up and get dressed when it's still dark out. . .

Anyway, as we were leaving, Casey asked if he could have some milk and cereal. A few weeks ago, I realized that when we're running late, we can put milk and cereal in a sturdy ziplock bag and the kids can eat it on the way to school. Same nutrition as at home. So that's what we did.

But Casey didn't have his shoes on yet, and he set his bag of cereal on the couch to put on his (brand new Lightning McQueen) shoes (from Disneyland, which Grandma Linda bought him and he absolutely loves). The bag tipped, and the milk and cereal began dripping out. It was a mess. And even though, at that moment, we weren't technically running late to leave just yet, stopping to clean made us, well, late.

After I cleaned up, we loaded up in the car and headed off to school. After dropping off Casey (who had a gaggle of three kindergarten girls waiting for him!), Marcie and I heard the bell ring as she climbed back in her car seat, about a half a block away. So Casey wasn't late for school (which means I did better this morning than Tuesday morning, when I really overslept and Casey was so late, I actually had him walk into his classroom as his teacher was beginning the day).

But then my brain went to auto-pilot for some reason, and as I crossed over a main road toward the freeway, I heard a voice from the backseat: "Hey! Mommy, you passed my school!"

Woops. I tried to play it off: "Gosh, Marcie-- Mommy is so silly. I guess I was just hoping to take you to work with me today. But of course we can't do that because you have school and it's pajama day. "

A u-turn and 15 minutes later, I was back on the road to work.

Good thing Marcie was paying attention. Or she really might have ended up at work with me. In her pajamas. Then it'd have been a really magnificent mommy moment.

Marriage

Tonight as I tucked in Casey for bed, I went through our typical bedtime ritual, telling him how much I love him. When I went to kiss him good night, though, he had some questions for me:

Casey: Mommy, are you and Daddy gonna get married?
Me: Casey, Daddy and I are already married. Just like Aunt Megan and Uncle Timour (pronounced Tee-more).
Casey: What does it mean that you gonna married?
Me: It means that we love each other and promise to be faithful to each other until we die.
Casey: Die? You gonna die? (Jason enters the room and joins us on the bed.)
Me: (back-pedaling) Well, let's just say that it means that we promise to love each other for-ever and ever. Is that okay?
Casey: (Silent)
Me: Casey?
Casey: (holding up his stuffed ladybug, tucking its legs under) Look at me! I'm a bug with no legs!

Glad that conversation went well. . .

It turns out my nephew Sal recently had a similarly amusing conversation with my brother. This is how my sister Megan tells the story. One important tidbit is that she and Timour have been living together for two or three years now.

Bob: Sal, do you know what it means that Aunt Megan and Uncle Timour are going to get married soon?
Sal: That they're going to have babies.
Bob: No. Not for a while-- I don't think so, Sal.
Sal: Then what's the point?!?

Dinner Breakfast and Compensating

This morning I promised we could have dinner breakfast for dinner. I'm thinking I can't possibly be the only one who enjoys preparing dinner breakfast. I'm not even a huge breakfast food plan, but whipping up some pancakes, frying bacon, slicing up fruit, and scrambling eggs just seems so easy. And delicious. Casey gobbled down more pancakes than I could count. And didn't even drown them in excessive amounts of syrup. And, even better, Casey actually made the pancakes. He poured in the mix, helped measure the milk and pour it in the bowl, and cracked the eggs. And he whipped it up, and flipped the pancakes off the stove and onto our pancake plate (with a very vigilant mother breathing down his neck). De-licious.



He's been having a rough patch lately. I think it might be because he's transitioning out of naps. When he naps, he naps hard. And when he doesn't nap, he becomes a weepy mess. For multiple days. He didn't nap yesterday. And today when we went to a birthday party, he was a bit weepy. The kids at the party were all strangers to Casey, who friendily asked kids their names, said hello when they arrived, and tried to keep up with the birthday boy. But when they all began playing soccer and football together, Casey returned to me multiple time, head hung in dejected form. He complained that the kids weren't playing with him. And he was right. They weren't. But each time, I made a suggestion (ask if you can have a turn, chase after the ball, etc.) and he returned to play. And when he finally chased down the ball, he showed off his stellar spiral football throw. At least one other adult at the party was impressed.



But Casey could sense that he was on the outside of the circle during play. And so he befriended a seven-year-old girl. He chatted at her. When other kids clamored to sit next to the birthday boy, Casey quietly commented that he wanted to sit next to this little girl. And not only did he look for another sort-of-outsider, but he also turned his attention in making sure Marcie was taken care of. For example, Marcie and I missed out on the pinata because Marcie was going to the bathroom. But Casey collected some candy and gave it to Marcie. Sometimes I am so impressed with Casey. Often he impresses me. I wonder how he got to be so thoughtful. It's no wonder Casey is so popular at school. He likes everyone and plays with anyone. And at five, that's exactly how kids should be.

Near Death Experiences in Suburbia

Poor Jason. This weekend I had to go into work. This left Jason alone with the kids for a pool party Sunday. I thought this meant parents in the pool with the kids. Nope. But I'll get to that.

Jason took the kids to Walmart to pick out a present for the birthday boy. Marcie was sitting in the seat portion of the cart, but she was turned sideways in it. Casey decided to climb up the side Marcie's back was to. This is not an uncommon thing for him to do-- we let him do it while we're pushing the cart in the grocery store all the time. But apparently Walmart carts are much more flimsy because Casey was able to yank on the cart as he climbed up it and pull the cart over on its side. With Marcie in it. Casey managed to get out of the way. But not Marcie.

She landed on her back with the cart on top of her. And when it happened, the clerk screamed just before the cart rolled. Jason reached out to try and stop it, but in super slow motion, his hand just barely missed the edge of the shopping cart as it tipped. And then there was silence. Deafening, ear-splitting silence. And a single thought ran through Jason's mind: "OHMYGOD. Casey may have just killed his sister."

And then out of the deafening silence came the most beautiful and awful sound. Marcie began to scream. And in a flash, the world began moving in fast forward, with three Walmart employees on top of Jason at once, and Jason trying to calm Marcie down. Of course, I wasn't there for any of this-- this has just been relayed to me.

There's quite a knot on her head, but Marcie is fine. No dilated pupils. No sleepiness. No vomiting. And the girl is coherent and chatty as ever.

So off to the birthday party, now late, they went. By the time they arrived, swimming had ended. This didn't stop Casey from dipping his feet in the pool with enough insistence that the birthday boy's mother finally told Casey he could go in. And all the kids in their swimsuits jumped in, too. The pool was set up with sort of a shelf as a shallow section, and then a dramatic and sudden drop-off to the deep end.

Jason watched Casey as he played on the shallow shelf part of the pool. And Casey played contentedly. Until he floated toward the drop-off and, well, dropped off. Initially he began doggy-paddling and flailing. Let's call it a panic, because that's what it was. Jason watched as Casey attempted to get to safety. But went the wrong way. Soon, Casey was in the middle of the deep end, and the birthday boy's dad and Jason were just about to leap in, when in a moment's time, Casey stopped flailing, put his head under the water, and swam. To the shallow end. By himself. Safe.

It was pretty frightening, but I guess those swim lessons sort of paid off. Later, I told Casey how proud of him I was. And I asked him how he felt. "Well," he said thoughtfully, "I was scared, Mommy," he explained. Then he held out his hand and pinched his pointer finger together with his thumb. "Just a little bit scared, I think," he repeated. "Yup, just a little bit."

Whew! What a day. I think Jason deserves a medal just for surviving it.

Happy Easter

Sorry for the delayed post. I was feeling weird about downloading all the photos to my work computer. I got over it. Then I couldn't find the card reader. But I found an alternative solution (obviously). I wish the light were better in Jason's face, but I think it's a good photo. The kids picked out their own outfits. . .

We started the morning by checking out what the Easter Bunny had done:

As you can see from this photo, the Easter Bunny drank the chocolate soy milk, ate most of the carrots, and even ate the two colored, hard-boiled eggs the kids left for him. He was kind enough to leave his egg peel trash in the bowl for easy clean-up. In return, the Bunny left each kid a basket filled with goodies. Fortunately, as I explained to Casey and Marcie in advance, I wrote the Bunny a letter this year and asked him not to bring too much candy. All that sugar just isn't good for their teeth or their moods. So the kids weren't expecting much candy. What they got was better than candy. They each got a pair of shoes (Casey finally got his beloved N shoes, which I've written about before. They are yellow and black "with no ripping," just like Casey said). They both got a monkey cup with matching tumbler and four dry erase markers. They both got two peanut butter eggs (which I ate because they didn't like them!). Marcie got markers and a pad of paper. And Casey got 101 Dalmations. The Bunny obviously thinks our kids our great because he even left them stuff at Grandma and Grandpa's house, too.

After pulling everything out of their baskets, the kids posed for a photo opportunity:

I must admit, this is probably one of my all-time favorite pictures of the kids. Even though it's out of focus and blurry because of their activity. I mean, they are literally posing. How can you not find that funny? After they posed, they ran off to watch the beginning of 101 Dalmations.

Then, we went to church, where the kids were unusually well-behaved.

Marcie insisted on wearing her new, pearl pink Crocs. The kids mainly entertained themselves with Cheerios, and books, which they read out loud. It wasn't too distracting. I had to laugh, though, when they each held up the books teacher-style, as if showing the pictures to the class. The "class" was the row in front of them, the backs of people. But they didn't seem to mind, and their activities were keeping them quiet enough that I could actually hear the priest speak. Too bad what he had to say wasn't so impressive. But that's another story.

After church, we let the kids get some donuts and juice, and we headed home. I threw our ribeye roast in the oven, while the kids finished decorating our traditional Easter Bunny cake. This year, we decided on chocolate cake for a white bunny with a brown bow tie. The ears are a little lopsided. I think this bunny is just tilting its head:

The jelly beans above the bunny's eyes are hair, according to Casey. And if you're wondering, our kids don't actually eat the jelly beans. In fact, this year, they each got one piece and the remaining bunny went to my office so everyone else could enjoy the sweets.

While our roast was, uh, roasting, the kids convinced us to take them to the park. It's at the end of our street, and Casey asked to ride his bike. So we let him give it a try:

He actually did a great job using his brakes. And the most impressive part is that he actually rode the bike all the way home-- even though we live at the top of a hill! It's time to get him a real bike, and I think Marcie will be pleased when she inherits this one.

After about 40 minutes at the park, we returned home for lunch. Mmm. Ribeye roast, mashed potatoes and broccoli. Plus sparking apple cider (which I refer to as "apple soda"). The kids tried lemonade for the first time, which in retrospect was probably a mistake. But I can't undo it now.

The kids were ready to nap right after lunch. Actually, Casey asked to nap during lunch, then returned to the table saying he couldn't sleep. He didn't end up napping; he just read books to himself in bed (and I use the word "read" loosely, of course). After Marcie was finished napping, we completed our family egg hunt. The backyard is undergoing a renovation of sorts, and it's covered in black tarp instead of grass, which is why we conducted the egg hunt in the front yard:

We don't use actual eggs in our hunt, because I have this fear one will be left behind and will stink up the yard. So this year I filled the plastic eggs with dark chocolate almond MnMs (blech) and stickers. Casey got probably two or three times as many as Marcie, but it doesn't matter because we pool the Easter goods. We dumped all the candy into a quart-sized ziplock, and the kids will get 4-5 for dessert each day this week, and then we'll tell them they're all gone. Even though they will either be hidden on top of the fridge or thrown out (in which case I suppose technically they are all gone). Thankfully, they don't really have a concept of portions and amounts, so they will take us at our word and we won't have to fight with them about why we don't want them having so much candy. But I digress.


After our egg hunt, we headed off to Jason's parents, where his dad prepared a delicious ham meal. Marcie's Godmother "Aunty Tiffy" and her fiance were there, which was fun for me because I had someone to chit chat with. Mostly we talked about weddings and Jessica and Jon's baby (that's Jason's other sister and her husband). We're so excited to add another child to the family.


And that was our Easter. It was lovely. Low key. Beautiful weather. Family. What more could you ask for, really?


I hope your weekend was as relaxing and enjoyable as ours. Whether or not you celebrated Easter.

Oh. And to my friend Alison who I know reads my blog, good luck on the interview. I know you'll rock it. And to the rest of you-- please keep my friend Alison in your happy thoughts. She has a job interview Thursday for a position that she really wants. I know she doesn't need our wishes of good luck, but it always feels nice anyway, doesn't it?

Smiles All Around

This has been a week of smileyness. I don't think it's a word. But that's okay.

On Tuesday, good friends of ours who started their adoption paperwork not long after we did finally received their referral after a 27-month wait. They'll be traveling to China to pick up their daughter in April. And their daughter is from Chongqing, just like Marcie! She's also enormous, just like Marcie. And by enormous, I mean 17 pounds at 7 months. Off the Chinese charts.

On Wednesday, our kids visited the dentist. It was Casey's third time, but Marcie's first. Casey did a fantastic job letting them take x-rays and sitting still, mouth wide open for the polishing. The hygienist said he was her best behaved patient of the day! The dentist was impressed by the cleanliness of Casey's teeth, and the receptionist seemed surprised that we were walking out the door with two cavity-free children!

Marcie didn't appreciate the dentist experience as much as Casey did. She pretty much screamed tearfully the whole time he was looking in her mouth. Fortunately, screaming forces her mouth open, and that made his job relatively easy. I mean except for the noise and the wiggliness.

After we got home, I took the kids for a walk. At first I thought it was odd that so many people were smiling and laughing as they drove by. Especially male drivers. Then I remembered what Casey was wearing:

He's been wearing this costume in all his non-school time since it arrived on Tuesday (as a reward for 20 good behavior stickers). Even to bed (sans cape because we have a no-cape-to-bed rule-- too easy to get wrapped up and choked up in it). Glad I could provide the neighborhood some cheer.

And then today, we got word that our newest arrival (coming this July or August) will be a nephew. I already knew this unofficially because Jason has this uncanny knack for guessing a child's gender in utero before the 16-week ultra sound, and last week he offhandedly (and unintentionally) referred to the baby as a he. But today's phone call from Jason's sister confirmed it-- it's a boy. So that leaves Marcie with six male cousins. I think it's high time a family member produces a girl around here! Regardless of gender, we're looking forward to welcoming another S. child into the extended family fold. . .

Supermarket Club Membership

Today I joined a club I'd hoped I'd live to never, ever join. Yet, as I stood in the aisle of our local Albertsons, feeling testy, I heard myself say it: "Casey, I'm going to count to three, and if you don't get over here by the time I get to three, we will just leave. One . . . Two . . . Three. " Then complete panic.

Of course I left. I toted Marcie over to the front end manager, who I am confident recognized me. I explained that one of my kids was being difficult and that I'd left my half filled cart next to the grapes. I failed to mention that I lived less than five minutes away and that I'd be back momentarily to finish the shopping. Fortunately, he read my mind. Because after I deposited Casey into his bedroom in a five minute time out and reminded him that I placed him there, not his dad, I returned to the grocery store. Where my cart was still parked right next to the grapes, where I'd left it.

Today's supermarket meltdown was not entirely Casey's fault, of course. A series of mistakes led to it. But it was mostly his fault. Here's how the day went:

1:00 pm the kids went down for a nap after kissing Aunt Megan, Uncle Timour and Grandma good-bye and thanking them for their visit.

1:05 pm Megan, my mom and I headed to Target to get some shoes. While there, I saw some shoes I knew Marcie wanted, so I picked them off the shelf to purchase for her. But at the check stand, my mom insisted she pay. And who was I to argue.

Fast-forward to 3:00 pm, when I woke up both kids from their naps. In an attempt to give Marcie some special attention because Casey is always getting stuff, I made mistake #1:

Me: Marcie, look at these special shoes Grandma bought for you. Let's try them on and make sure they fit.
Marcie: (cooing)
Casey: What did Grandma get for me? Did she get me shoes?
Me: Uh. . . well, Casey, Grandma knows you have lots of shoes and she didn't want to pick out something you already had or wouldn't like, so she asked me to go get some shoe with you from her. Would you like to do that?

Now what was I thinking? Why did I ever mention my mom paid for them? Why promise Casey shoes anyway? But the damage had been done because Casey knew after his snack that we were going to pick out some more new shoes for him.

Then it happened. Mistake #2:

Me: Okay, Casey, let' s go see what Target has.
Casey: I want N shoes.
Me: What are N shoes?
Casey: N SHOES, MOMMY.
Jason: But what are they, Casey?
Casey: I told you already. They are N shoes.
Me: Do they have them at Target? Can you show us?
Casey nods his head yes.

WHY didn't I insist he show me on the computer or on TV before we headed to Target? Why didn't I insist that he had to pick from the Target selection no matter what before we'd even left the house?

Well, I didn't. So off to Target we went. And they didn't have the N shoes he wanted, whatever those are. And then came Mistake #3-- going to a different shoe store.

And while at the different shoe store, we found shoes with an N on them (New Balance), but I could tell it wasn't what Casey wanted. And as the minutes passed, poor Casey grew more and more desperate to find shoes-- any shoes. He just didn't want to leave empty-handed. Why didn't I see that coming?

[And as a side note, we had a weird interaction with the sales woman in the shoe store-- who first saw me with Marcie, pleasantly let me and the kids know she could help us if we needed anything, and then noticed Jason come up behind me. She commented to us: "Oh, now I see where she gets it. Wow. She looks JUST like her dad, doesn't she? That's amazing! I have four kids and two of mine look just like me and two look just like my husband. It's the same." We didn't say anything. We just smiled. Because we didn't quite know what else to do. I mean, she sounded relieved and that made me feel uncomfortable because what does she care if we all "match" or not.]

And finally came Mistake #4. After we returned home, which we were able to do only because we practically dragged a sobbing Casey out of the shoe store, I told Casey he could stay home with Jason or come grocery shopping with me. Both Casey and Marcie opted for the grocery store. But once we pulled into a parking spot at the store, Casey began to whimper that he'd wanted to go to a different shoe store. I explained that we'd have to wait on the shoes, but that he could help me put stuff in the grocery cart.

Of course the shopping wasn't enough to occupy Casey. He took control of the cart when my back was to him, pulling something off a shelf, and he rammed the cart (and consequently Marcie's hand) into the shelf. I was fuming. Marcie was wailing. And Casey was running. When I finally caught up to him and put him in a time-out near sitting on the shelf beneath all the gift cards, he began pulling cards off their little racks. An elderly man walked by and commented to Casey, "Mind your mother," which caused Casey to spit at me. And things just went down hill from there.

So in the end, the shopping got done, Casey got over his disappointment, and things have calmed down. As I type this, Casey is hanging over the arm of the chair in which I'm sitting. He just leaned in to me and said, "I'm sorry for pushing Marcie and hurting her at the store." And he gave me a kiss. And he just asked me what I'm doing because he's recognized his name twice and Marcie's, too, and he wants to know why I'm typing letters that are their names. It sure is hard to stay mad for long around here. . .

Car Horns

Each Sunday, a group of protesters collects on the corner of our local Target and Albertson's shopping center corner, holding up signs calling for the end of the war and a recall of our troops. They don't shout. They don't even disrupt traffic. They just share their thoughts on giant poster boards.

Each Sunday as we drive by, I comment to Jason that he should join them the following Sunday. He usually acknowledges my suggestion with a nod and a grunt, and that's the end of it. We both know he probably won't. Not because he doesn't feel strongly enough-- he's very well read on the war (and has actually even read the Iraq Report). But more because Sunday at noon is a time for family.

Each Sunday, while passing the group of war protesters, Jason honks the car horn in support.

But it's been a couple weeks since Casey was awake during our drive past the protesters. (And as a side note, I'm pretty impressed this small collection of people protests this way each week because San Diego generally is a very pro-military, and perhaps more significantly a very pro-defense-contractor town.) So this Sunday, as we drove past, Casey participated in our ritual. And made us laugh.

As we drove past, I made my weekly comment, and Jason grunted and nodded at me, and beep-beep-beeped the horn in support of the poster board carriers. And Casey, from the back seat, shouted out: "YOU CRAZY DRIVER! GET OFF THE ROAD! LEARN HOW TO DRIVE!"

And Jason and I burst into laughter. We talked over each other to explain to Casey that the horn was not an admonition (no, we didn't use that word with our five-year-old), but a honking of support for the people standing outside with the signs. Alas, it was lost on him. Casey looked me square in the eye, after I'd finished saying my part, and said, "Yeah, Mom. Crazy drivers," and shook his head in exasperation, as he must have seen us do a million times.

Now I'm not much of a horn-user. And I'm not much of a yeller. So where do you think he got it from? I'm not pointing fingers or anything . . .

Pay Back

When I was young, I was quite verbal. And quite direct. And neither of these traits were particularly positive. At least if you believe my mom. Apparently I had a knack for pointing out the obvious in the most inappropriate times and places, and in the rudest manner possible. Of course, when you're young-- really young-- it's not quite fair to say it's rude or inappropriate because little kids just call it as they see it. And I was the poster child for this.

For example, once in the checkout line of a grocery store, I (allegedly) asked the checker something along the lines of: "What happened to your face? You have an ugly line on it." My mom calmly told me it was a scar and it wasn't ugly, and then probably hurried me out of the store. I guess I was the kind of kid that would ask, "Why are you so fat?"

I find this odd for two reasons. First, I was attacked by a dog when I was four years old (maybe I was three, but I think I was four). It was a dog I knew. And I was completely taken by surprise when it bit a chunk out of my cheek and tore at my left eye with its paw. There was no eye damage, but there's a small scar there. And I had a giant scar running the entire height/width of my right cheek where the dog had oh-so-kindly removed a chunk. Reconstructive surgery was out of the question because the scar ran across the soft part of my face. And so I learned to live with it. The scar is pretty small now. Some people don't even know I have a scar. But mostly I think people just are too polite to mention it.

Why does this matter? Well, I was pretty sensitive about the scar, and my looks, all through elementary school. And it seems inconsistent that a child so self-consicous about her own looks would be so inconsiderate in commenting about others' looks. And yet my mom certainly has no reason to be anything but honest about it.

When I got older, she used to tease me that some day I would probably end up with a child who also had a knack for stating the obvious in the most uncomfortable situations.

And here I am. Decades later. And it's pay back time.

Today I took the kids on a walk, and they asked to go to Starbucks. As we waited for my coffee (my caffeine kick before the hike home with two tired kids and one slot in the stroller seat), a Casey noticed a young-ish woman in line. I saw her when I first came in and didn't think much of it. I thought she was with a couple standing directly behind her in line, and she initially appeared to me to have Down's syndrome.

After she ordered her beverage, she moved over to the waiting area, across from where Casey and Marcie were sitting and snacking on their banana bread and drinking their chocolate milk. And then Casey asked me loudly, "Mommy, why her have a funny face?"

Immediately, I felt panicked. "Shh, Casey, I admonished. It's not polite to comment on people's looks."

But Casey didn't get the hint, "But Mama," he insisted-- quite loudly again, "Why her have a funny face?"

"Casey," I replied in a hushed tone, "we are not going to talk about it here. Everyone is pretty in their own way. You can be friends with people who have all different faces. Go ahead and say good bye to her."

And as quickly as I could, I tried to pack up the kids and scoot out, Casey gawking at her the whole time and me trying not to notice the people around staring at us. I did look the woman in the face as we left and say, "Hey there. Have a nice day." And Casey did softly say good bye (it would figure he'd be quiet then.

Outside I asked Casey why he thought the girl looked funny. Mind you, he didn't use the word ugly, and I don't think she was. But there was something different about her. In retrospect, after I said good bye, I realized she didn't have Down's syndrome. The top part of her face was set forward-- significantly forward-- of the bottom part of her face. And that made her nose look big (though it was a sort of a button nose). And she had braces. And freckles. But heck, I had braces and freckles. Baby I had a funny face back then, too.

Casey couldn't give me an answer. I don't think he could articulate it. And I can't really blame him. She struck me as unusual looking too. And I can't really describe why. And I'd like to think my language skills are a little more advanced than my five-year-old son's are. But I was still embarrassed. I have no idea how I'll handle it the next time he says something truthful yet embarrassing about a person. And yet I have no doubt there will be a next time. Because we all know that our kids are all about pay back.

**Addendum**
After reading this post, my mom informed me that the woman in the grocery store didn't have a scar at all. What she had was a mole on her face. And I'd never seen one. And I didn't say anything to the checker; instead, I loudly asked my mom what happened to the lady's face and what was on it. So even more like my situation with Casey this morning than I'd thought. And when I asked my mom for some advice- when I asked what she did, she chuckled. She tried to shush me, and then outside the store told me it was rude to point to people and stare. So pretty much same reaction I had to Casey. But not much help.

Chocolate Milk Incident

I should know better. I do know better. I should not leave a child unattended with a lid-less cup of chocolate milk. But earlier today I did just that. And poor Marcie paid the price.


You see, I was busy doing dishes and cleaning up the mess from our Gingerbread House experiment (which I will be posting as part of my Just Blog it! Holiday Style participation, which begins on December 13th and runs through Christmas with a post a day about the season's events), and the kids were in the family room playing together. It sounded like they were playing together nicely. Until the screech.


Now, I have to interject here that I'm not actually a yeller. I can be firm. And even loud. But I don't really yell at the kids very often. I mean, one of the kids has to be hurting me, or the other one, or about to get hurt to warrant my to really yell at them. But earlier this evening, their activities initially achieved a responsive shouting. And almost immediately after I began yelling at Casey for the turn of events, I noticed the humor in it and broke into laughter. Poor Casey. I'm not sure he knew how to respond. He just kept apologizing. But in retrospect, it was funnier than it was annoying.


Anyway, after Marcie screeched, I flew around the corner of the kitchen into the family room to find Marcie more or less like this:

In the photo, she's begun taking the sweatshirt and shirt off, which is why the right arm looks so funny.

As it turns out, Casey had been giving Marcie "rides" on a green blanket, pulling her up and down the hallway. He was unaware that she carried a cup of chocolate milk sans lid, and looked awfully surprised at the turn of events.

After I calmed down and stopped laughing, the kids enjoyed a nice, warm bath-- and no one was worse for the wear. And as mad as it made me at the time-- the mess of it all-- it really was funny. . .

Grandma? Grandpa?

Marcie often impresses me. She has a pretty good memory. She puts words into sentences, like: "I see bus," and "I don't want to," and "Where is Lucas?" For a kid who's not even 2 yet, I think these things are pretty darn amazing.

Yesterday at music class Marcie played the accordion. I commented to my friend (whose son is in the class) that my dad plays the accordion. And Marcie saw my dad do this last Christmas-- almost a year ago. I snapped a couple photos of Marcie playing this accordion so I could share it with my parents. I mean, I've never met anyone other than my dad who plays the accordion-- and I didn't even know they made them in miniature size. When Marcie saw the picture below, she cried out: "JUST LIKE GRANDPA!" What a smarty pants.

She's doing other impressive things, too. Remember all those lamenting posts about how she wouldn't go to sleep unless I laid down with her? And the ones with me complaining about never getting more than 3 hours of sleep in a row? Looking back, I now realize that I wasn't ready to sleep train her. It wasn't that she wasn't ready. Because it's been more than a month now and even the disruption of the fires hasn't impacted Marcie's sleep habits. She climbs up into bed all by herself (she moved out of a crib at around 18 months, just like Casey did). She kisses me good night, rolls over, and puts herself to sleep. And sleeps all night long. It's wonderful.

And let's talk about toilet training. No, we're not potty training Marcie at the moment. Not on purpose, anyway. We didn't even start toilet training Casey until he was a little over 2 1/2 years old. Now, I know that girls toilet train earlier. But today Marcie asked to go potty twice. And did. Both times. Wow.

But the thing she does that most amuses me right now is draw connections between people. Yesterday we were waiting in a long line at a department store. Jason and I were irritated because we never should have been sent to this line in the first place, but there we were. The gentleman at the cashier station was slow as molasses, further fueling our frustration. And when he finally waved us up to his counter and peered at me over his glasses, frowning, Marcie called out lovingly, "Hi Grandpa!" Then she looked at me and said "Like Grandpa?" Now, the guy looks nothing like any of Marcie's grandfathers. All of whom are actually very young looking, and pretty young, actually. This guy was really tall, and really thin. And wore thick-framed-glasses. Sure, he looked older. And he had gray hair. And that was where the similarities ended. And for all I knew, he was prematurely gray-- I mean, you don't really want your child calling out someone as "old" (though I do recognize that grandparents are not old per se), especially if they aren't. Fortunately, he found her comment charming and he smiled and was really good with her.

Then, today in the bathroom at the Orange Empire Railway, where we were visiting Thomas the Tank Engine, Marcie nearly bumped into Asian woman. The woman's hair was relatively short, and done up, curled under. She wore bright red lipstick and had glasses on. And Marcie called out to her, when she looked up, "Hi Grandma!" Then turned to me and said "Like Grandma, Mommy." This woman was not old looking at all-- maybe in her 50s, though. And to Marcie, that is Grandma-aged, I guess. I nervously said, "She does look a little like Grandma, honey, but she's not your grandma. Tell her good-bye." And Marcie dutifully did. The woman smiled, but I couldn't tell if she was offended.

I could be worried about Marcie mis-speaking-- but anyone who knows me (and knows I'm the queen of putting my foot in my mouth) knows I'm not really all that concerned about these things. Instead, I'm just impressed that Marcie is seeing the similarities in people-- drawing connections. Feeling more comfortable in the great big world out there. I can hardly believe she'll be turning 2 this week. My baby girl is growing up.

Tenacious C

I've been musing about Casey's tenacity lately. Pernicious. Obstinate. Dogged. Yup. That's my boy. I like referring to him as Tenacious C because it rhymes with Tenacious D, and I'm not all that familiar with them, but I like Jack Black well enough.

Anyway, it all started when he pulled that chair up to the door and unlocked the high-up, hotel-like lock to escape. That was just before the fires.

But then, ever since Halloween, his tenacity has persisted. Casey is, fortunately, not a big candy-eater. But he does love MnMs. Loves might even be an understatement. Last week he absconded with packs of MnMs twice. Both times while I was in the bathroom. The first time, he found the special-edition bag of orange-flavored MnMs I purchased in New York and gave them to Marcie. Marcie brought them to me and Jason right away to show off her new-favorite breakfast food. Of course we confiscated the bag. But when I went to check and see how she got them, I noticed a kitchen chair pulled up to the counter, and a flashlight sitting on the counter top edge. The flashlight was still on, and it was pointed at the portion of the counter where the MnMs had been hidden -- behind and underneath a couple loaves of bread.

We chuckled. Did a better job of hiding the candy. And went on our merry way.

Then, a few days later, I came out of the bathroom and saw Casey sitting on the couch, eating a mini-pack of MnMs. It was morning. When I asked what he was doing, he sheepishly responded, "Eating BaNems."

A quick search of the kitchen explained how he'd found them. Again, the chair was pulled up to the counter. A pair of scissors was left open on the counter, and pieces of MnM wrapper were spread across the counter. On the other side of the kitchen, the pantry baby-proof lock had been unlocked, and the candy bag had been breached. I didn't know if I should high five him or scold him. I mean, of course candy for breakfast is a bad idea. But . . . wow. He opened the baby lock. He found the scissors and he used scissors to open the bag without even hurting himself. Of course we had a conversation about the scissors, and they have been removed from the counter. But I'm still impressed.

And the tenacity doesn't end with candy. Yesterday Casey woke up while I was in the shower and asked if he could take a shower, too. As he got in, I was shaving my legs. He asked if that was like how Daddy shaves his face, and I said it was. When I was ready to get out of the shower, I put my razor up on the top shelf of the shower tower and left him in the shower. I was right outside the shower door. I opened the glass door maybe 3 minutes later to let him know he'd have to get out in 2 minutes, and there he was-- squatting on the shower floor with a bar of soap in one hand and a disposable razor in the other.

I have no idea where he got the razor. But he was attempting to shave his legs. He'd nicked his shin in the process, and there was some blood. But he was in no pain whatsoever and he treated the band-aid like a treat.

Needless to say, I've scoured the bathroom for other signs of disposable, potential injury-inflicting items (I didn't find any). And now that I know he can open baby locks and navigate the house with a kitchen chair, I'm wondering what I can do to keep our cleaning supplies safely out of reach. I don't think Casey would eat them, but I wouldn't put it past him to leave them out where Marcie might happen upon them. As a child I was notorious for accidentally poisoning myself-- and I just don't want to risk it.

It's neat to observe Casey's problem-solving skills evolve as he becomes more tenacious. But it's scary, too.

Problem Solving Skills

A year or two ago Casey began escaping while I was in the shower. He'd just figured out how to open the front door. And he did. And he took little field trips around the neighborhood. One time, I discovered he was missing while I was in my towel and a neighbor had him back on our front stoop in the time it took me to throw on some clothes. As a result of this behavior and our acknowledgement that on occasion we'd have to leave him unattended while one of us was in the shower and the other one not around, we installed a hotel room-style safety latch. It's near the top of the door, as high up as I can reach with my arm stretched up toward the sky. This has worked like a charm. It's a little inconvenient when we have guests, because we have to remember to keep it unlocked. But for the most part it works well because we predominantly enter and exit the house through the garage door.

Today I stepped into the garage to collect some papers that had blown into the yard from the garage. The Santa Ana winds are pretty strong. And there's a brush far about 70 miles east. The high winds have picked up the smoke and dropped it squarely over our home. We did close up the windows and pump up the air purifiers to high, but the smell still permeates the house. I smell like I've been sitting at a bon fire.

I'd planned to take the kids out front with me this afternoon so we could hang up our Halloween decorations-- witch/skull streamers, a giant spider, and maybe a blow-up pumpkin with ghosts chasing each other inside. But the smoke has made that unhealthy. So instead, while I was in the garage putting away the papers I'd collected, I decided to at least hang our front door's welcome sign, replete with pumpkin costume on bear. In the box with all our seasonal welcome signs I found two wooden pumpkins that traditionally adorn our hallway table just inside the front door during October and November. Just then, the kids opened the door to the garage and poked out their heads, inquiring into my activity.

I handed each of them a pumpkin and asked them to take them inside. A minute or so later, I heard the doorbell ring. Again. And again. I thought this was strange since I'd just been outside and hadn't seen anyone approach the driveway. And the repeated rings suggested they were small hands busy at play. So I plowed into the living/play room calling for the kids, when I was stopped in my tracks. And darnit, I didn't have my camera on me.

There, in the hallway in front of the door was a kitchen chair and a little yellow playskool table chair pulled up behind it. The hotel-style lock had been unlatched, the front door unlocked, and I could hear little voices from the other side of the door.

I let the kids back in. They had misunderstood my directions and hand-carried the pumpkins through the house to the front stoop, where they lined them up in front of the door.

It was so cute, I just couldn't be mad. And even though I'm totally bummed Casey has used his problem-solving skills to figure out the hotel-style latch, I'm a tiny bit proud of him, too. And I suspect Marcie understood exactly what Casey was doing, as she had pulled up the little yellow chair so she could copy his activities.

So now I'm looking for new suggestions on how to keep my kids safely inside so that I can bathe every once in a while even if they are awake. Please share. Please.