carl in casimirland.

Taking over the world one child at a time!
I barely have time to blow my nose, but what the hell, you can post annually right? Sure.

Actually I just wish I could get a picture of him playing with his dumptrucks and all my jewelry. Or maybe decorating his trucks with my jewelry? Anyway. May as well blog bi-annually. I haven't had any work to put off, so blogger time has been limited.

Today is mid-April, so we did what you of course do in April. Stayed inside until I forced them to bundle up and go outside. Yesterday I dug the snowsuits back up and we went out and played in the snow and buried treasure (i.e. kids' shovels). I think summer went by so fast I missed it? I'll be sure to start relishing this weather and it will clear up and get toasty warm real soon.

Anyway, Casimir has been freaking us out a little lately. You never know with those three year-olds. The other day (before it snowed, it was Spring still, I think) Casimir and Paul were out clearing the patio of some old leaves and tidying up the garage. Casimir informed Paul very matter-of-factly that they had to take good care of the house for the people who used to live there. (That would be the elderly couple. The deceased ones. They built it and lived here for a few decades or centuries I think.) They told him so, he said. And they told him that he was to wash the patio and the grass with water. No, soapy water.

I think the soapy water bit kind of relieved us, because then it became more obvious how that little brain works. They say totally innocent things, stringing together all those little bits of information that they soak up like sponges, adding bits of nonsense, and then we get all wacky on them interpreting it. Actually, Paul and Casimir had just washed the car with soapy water, and Paul had to explain (because no activity comes without a hundred "Why?" and "How?" inquiries) why they used soap. Paul also later remembered explaining to Caz that someone had lived in this house before us. So Casimir was just making his fun, innocent little statements and commands and here we thought he was Sixth Sense boy, communicating with the dead. Who's the creepy one?

We're just hoping we won't find out that soapy water is some arcane remedy to keep rabbits off the grass or something. Then I might worry.

I guess I've gotten a little sick of blogging. What can I say? It seemed like a fun idea years ago when he was 10 months old and I had hours to myself every night. And I thought that was hard! One ten-month old! Ha. I've kept a jounral more or less since fifth grade (boy were those exciting entries! All about fifth grade social politics and my desire to explore the school's secret passageways, i.e. boiler room and other mysterious doors) but something about typing and computers made using a pen become so laborious and painful that I gave them up, and now here goes this too. Oh no.

Anyway, I have been very exceedingly crabby about this freezing weather. I think I used to really like all seasons, and I'd go on about really relishing all the wool sweaters, hot chocolate, long underwear, brisk snowy walks, spiced apple cider, etc. etc. I mean I went voluntarily to Vermont, of all places (why not just North Dakota? Or Labrador?) to college. But I think that was before I had to stuff two little bundled up kids into carseats to go anywhere or come up with fun things to do for an endless string of frigid, homebound days without even any snow to play in. Subzero days are kinda fun and cozy when you can skip class and decide to hole up all day and read in bed with some hot beverage. All those rainy days I claimed to like too? Well, duh, it was because I could sit on my bottom in bed and read all day.

Funny how kids don't let you do that! Granted, on some chilly Sundays I've tried, with Paul's willing cooperation. But something about children banging on the closed door for mommy really makes it hard to relax. Which is why I'm kind of fantasizing about moving somehwere really warm, where there is no chance of earthquakes or hurricanes, no serious southern drawls and not Texas. I think that leaves Arizona. I used to hate it when it was sunny all the time (so tiresome for brooding youth) because I felt like I had to be outside all the time to appreciate it. Now I miss the endless sunny days in summer when you don't even feel bad if you waste half a gorgeous day playing inside, because, hey, it's August and the sun isn't going anywhere. I want to move where I can selfishly take some good, sunny, roasting days for granted because they are so plentiful. And then I can even waste some sun time inside reading in bed, because everyone will be outside playing.

You know, make them useful. Kisses aren't enough to pay your way around here. It's great how those wasteful swiffer things allow you to detach the middle part for the purposes of child labor.

Hello, blog. Well. I'm only posting because it's 12:34 a.m. and I am procrastinating- my favorite hobby. This is how I do my work. If I get some especially boring something to fact-check, I surf, and I click and I read and I buy, and then, right at about 9:45, I start. But only for a little bit. Then I surf some more, til I really start to sweat, and get tired, and then with just one page or two left, I let it really get late. I just can't help myself! Why do it efficiently? What's the fun? This way I draaaag it out and then when it's finally done I feel like I've really completed this big project, because see how late I'm up? And now I'm done- but that requires walking to bed. So why not put that off?

Anyway. We are in the Why phase around here, which I let get to me way more than it should. I know I should shrug it off with a harmless, knowing roll of the eyes, because this is what three year-olds do. But it's more like it makes my eyes bug out and roll right out of my head in acute irritation. Sometimes I don't want to say things like, "Oh it's nice out today" because I know it will be met with "Why? Why is it nice out" and I'll say that it's sunny, and of course will hear, "Why it's sunny?" Sometimes I just keep answering and playing along until I end up saying things like, "I don't know why I don't have eyes on top of my head. I should though. Good question."

But this is following closely on the heels of our special What phase, so I am somewhat used to it. For the longest time he would follow anything you said with "What." Not "What?" but just What. It was sort of like an: I got it, I'm processing, okay. But before I figured this out I would repeat it, and hear what, and repeat it again, and ask if he heard me, which of course he did. I finally realized one day when he was talking and I heard myself say it flatly: what. Some days he talks and talks, and talks! and has so much to say even while I'm driving or cooking that I inevitably miss some of it (apparently a lot) and say (apparently a lot) what. For the record I also say "yes, Casimir? " sometimes, but that hasn't rubbed off yet.

I also take a little secret pleasure in making people uncomfortable because I let Carl just sit there and cup my boobie under my shirt while I hold or sling him in public. It's like his little safety grip. I hold the boobie and it's all OK. We should all have such a crutch.

Looks like it's time for my semi-annual blog. The last couple times I tried I was unable to post pics for whatever reason, so, I mean, why bother then? Anyway I'm knee deep in surfing for playmobil on the net because Casimir has his little three year-old-heart set on a street sweeper for Christmas. He wanted a DHL truck more- every time he'd see a real one cruising the streets, he'd look all downcast and say that he really, really wanted a DHL truck of his very own. To my suprise, I found one rather easily. And let me just tell you, that in case you are exceedingly stupid, like me, do not say anything along the lines of, "oh hey the UPS man brought your Christmas present! But you can't open it for weeks!" Or at least do not so if you have a three-year-old and you possess the will of gumby. All he had to do was say it could be a "winter present" and voila, now I'm looking for a streetsweeper for Christmas. And I had forgotton since my last playdate at Eric's house in around 1982 that playmobil is strangely appealing. Should I also get him this one? Or maybe something like the axeman playmobil figurine like on this page? Playmobil just rocks way more than the Fisher Price Little People, so I'm glad we're moving on up.

Thanks to Pre-K, Casimir now knows what to do should he catch on fire, and knows that he need not be afraid should a firefighter with a gas mask appear in his smoking bedroom. To think I had been so remiss as to have left these teachings out of our daily activities. What was I thinking? Now I'm sure the next time we set off the smoke detector while cooking, he will capably and efficiently dial 9-1-1 and say "We have an emergency. My name is Casimir."

And Preschool! I'm not sure if you can really call it preschool, actually, if I'm still there every day, looming in the background at Casimir's emotional behest. Yes I don't leave him alone there yet. Despite the entire universe's finger-wagging that "he has to do it someday" and "he'll stop crying as soon as you're gone" and that "it's all a show for you," I still stay until he's ready for me to go. It's just that I make enough bad parenting moves rather effortlessly, while going about my day. Intentionally and purposefully going against my gut instinct and common sense and just shaking his clinging self off of my leg and marching out seemed like it would be overkill. Why be kind of harsh on purpose when I sometimes manage to do it without even thinking after a poor night's sleep or bad day?

Thing is you have to really shop around to find a Pre-K that accepts this radically insurgent approach though. We had a rather distasteful experience before we found our Preschool Jesus in the form of Miss Laurie, the savior who encourages Mommy to stay. At our first preschool, the free one two blocks away with the big room and all the new wooden toys, things did not go so smoothly. Every question I asked about this impending moment of separation was brushed off with Don't worry, Mom! as if my apprehension was really about my own complete inability to leave him at preschool all alone. Yes I know moms are inherently bags of stupid nostalgia and rush home from pre-K to scrapbook, but mostly I knew he wouldn't take well to the whole Mommy-leaves-idea because I take care of him every day. You know, it kinda comes with the territory. You get to know them while wiping their bottom and playing cars and what not for three years. And I knew he was not big on being left alone with anyone but us and grandmas. We've been through this at the YMCA daycare and this is the reason I use for why I'm not working out daily.

I'll never forget our second and last day at the bad preschool though. Poor little Caz sniffed the whole way there: "I'm not big enough." Once we got there he just refused to budge from me and refused to part with his backpack, sunglasses, or anything that he'd need when he got the hell out of there. The teacher came over chirping "Okay, Mom!" which I understood to mean : Leave, Dumbass. I knew there was no way I was going to repeat the first day, in which I brainlessly did as told and left him crying and went home feeling like a pile of misery. So this time when I left, I took Casimir with me. Hell if I couldn't stay, why should he? I know some kids fuss and whine and then are fine, but some are not so fine. And wet their pants later. And so we marched right on out of Pre-K feeling very deliciously defiant.

We stuck it to the man! In the form of the nursery school teacher!

And we had the most jubilant afternoon, playing cars on the front lawn for hours while Carl slept. So now we head off to preschool together- me, Casimir, and Carl. I've had dreams in the past about restarting grammar school, but never thought I'd really get the opportunity! And now after just four classes I think he is almost ready for me to leave the room. To take a bathroom break anyway. He went from clinging to practically ignoring me today as he learned about catching on fire and gas masks. And all without trauma! Unless you count the gas mask lesson.