Player 2

It finally happened. At five years old, Big Bro can officially pull his own weight in a video game. My player two has arrived.

This weekend, we sat down during little bro’s nap to play the new Yoshi game for the Nintendo Switch, and while on occasion he fumbled with his player facing the wrong direction or with which button was jump, for the most part he kept up. We played two levels and beat the first boss, and he was so excited he gave whole play-by-play re-cap, wide-eyed and animated, nearly falling out of his seat.

Afterwards, I did a few chores and he disappeared into the playroom. He re-emerged and grabbed my hand, leading me back to show me the “level” he’d created. I opened the playroom door and the entire floor was covered in meticulously placed Duplo blocks, cars, toy dinosaurs and more. It started on a white board where he’d drawn the entrance and buttons. There were trains, obstacles, secret compartments and bad guys. He could barely catch his breath as he explained each and every task, the premise, and the rules of the game. We played the real life level until his brother woke up. Then, we tried teaching him to play but he was more interested in pushing the trains. Or, as Big Bro phrased it, “totally ruining the game.”

I know it’s only a matter of time until Baby Bro stops “totally ruining” games and instead becomes his player 2. Some of my best memories were sitting on the playroom floor with my brothers, working together or against one another in a virtual world. That is, after I was old enough to realize when my older brother handed me a controller that wasn’t even plugged in.

To this day, I choose Luigi over Mario in Nintendo games. Player 2 has always held a special place in my heart. My new player 2 definitely does.

Look, We're All Exhausted.

This is my toddler in the middle of the floor at Target. He’s not even throwing a tantrum. No screaming, no kicking, he was cool and calculated as he bent down to the floor and rolled over to have a good rest. I turned around and saw him laying there. He was just done.

Some days I wish it were socially acceptable for a full-grown adult to do the same thing. For Arizonans, May means the end of the school year. As the mom of a preschooler, I’m slowly realizing that the end of the school year means tripling school activities, requesting parental presence in the middle of the workday, and oh- you need to squeeze in some time to generate a handmade craft or gift that shows you and your child’s appreciation. And this is just the tip of the iceberg. More seasoned moms are losing their minds baking treats for various end-of-the-year parties and toting all of their children to award ceremonies.

Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate, but do we have to cram this all into a two-week duration? Between the parent-teacher conference, preschool graduation, (because that’s a thing that actually requires more than paper hats now,) learning celebration, fundraisers, concerts, Mother’s Day celebrations, birthday parties, soccer games, and lining up summer plans, I could use a good lay down on the target floor.

I understand the school year’s end is a busy time for most, but we Arizonans have the unique added pressure of the impending doom that is our summer heat. Think of it like your worst winter storm, only instead of layering up and chattering your teeth out, we’re wrapping potholders around door handles and praying that our A.C unit can handle the pressure. It’s May and it’s a beautiful 80 degrees, but we all know what’s coming. So all the activities must get done before the thermometer hits 100. Or worse, 120.

I make lists, jot down calendars, set reminders on my phone, and live under the rule of digital assistants for a while as I hop from event, to work, to event and sneak in a grocery trip when I can, (we’ve got a few more boxes of mac and cheese in the pantry, that’ll hold them over for a day or two right?) and I look forward to that first 100-degree day, when I can curl up with a cold brew and a good book at the pool. When the tourists and half the residents have retreated to colder climates, and it’s quiet in the desert.

Splashing into Spring

Arizona weather always manages to throw me for a loop. Heck, it was 95 today but it’s only supposed to make it to 75 tomorrow. And I know that sounds like bragging, but when the difference between noon and dusk is 30 degrees, it can be difficult to pick out clothes in the morning. I’ve been bouncing between boots, tights, hoodies, tanks, tees and skirts for weeks, so when the heat index comes out and we make that switch to Spring, (which for most other states feels like summer,) I am thankful I at least know what to expect. And when it comes to my boys, I know where to go.

Splash pads are open and hours of entertainment ensue! Sunday, we had our first splash pad play date of the year at a new park and the bros played from 9am-12:30 getting soaked, sandy and sunny. After little bro’s nap, they were ready to do it all again, taking buckets to our sandbox and playing for two more hours before dinner. They did the same thing Monday and Tuesday.

It warms my heart to watch them create, imagine and play with nothing but sand and water. Those two basic earthly elements hold their attention three times as long as any screen, and I’m sure teach them much more. At the end of the day, they’re messy and so is the yard. Sand toys strewn about, along with tiny plastic farm animals in a makeshift creek or a kiddie pool serving as a large lake. Their shoes leak granules of sand for days. They’re exhausted, hungry, and happy.

Sunday evening, I cooked dinner next to an open window, listening to their banter as they narrated another scene, coordinating their efforts to wash the plastic pigs and cows. The warmth seeped in with the pink shades of another desert sunset. It’s such a simple thing, some water and sand. It’s such a simple thing, two children playing in the yard. I write it down because these are the simple moments I want to hold onto forever.

Potty Talk

Just days after Baby Bro’s second birthday, we embarked on a new adventure: potty-training! It was perfect timing. I had the flu, it was hailing outside and we had a long weekend. What better time to chase an underwear-clad toddler around the house, mopping messes every step of the way? I had nowhere else to be, and was in a perfect state to not leave the house for four days.

After that, it was time to start phase two: public places. Or as some like to call it- tour of public restrooms. Our first outing was his two-year checkup followed by a trip to the grocery store where I found myself sprinting behind a cart, yelling at other patrons as I slid toward the pharmacy section where they keep the mops, buckets and toilets. “Sorry!” I screamed with an ice-breaking smile as I nearly ran down an elderly woman holding a can of soup, “we’re potty-training!”

Once in the public restroom, the real show begins. Being a mom of boys, there are some aspects of potty-training that I just can’t seem to get a handle on. I’m lucky Big Bro learned the year iPhone came out with their first water-proof model. I had to rinse off that bad boy in a bathroom at the zoo after a detrimental misfire.

The crux of the issue is public restrooms are not built for tiny bodies. This being my second time around, I was patting myself on the back for thinking ahead and buying a foldable potty seat that fits in my backpack, making it easy to sit him on top of an adult-sized porcelain throne. I have to remove shoes and pants just to adjust him properly, which you can imagine has to be done with a great sense of urgency. I learned all of this during our second outing, where I found myself in a 2-square-foot stall in Barnes and Noble with a stroller and my toddler, trying to prop him on the stroller to stand and then sitting him down when that didn’t work, watching a stream of liquid shoot right over the toilet and onto our belongings.

A little trial and error, some under-the-breath curse words and a whole lot of wet wipes, and we’ve finally got it down to a science.

Baby Bro is just as excited as I am to be done with diapers.

Five and Two

Five years never happened so fast.

Big bro is smart, curious, funny, athletic, and the sweetest boy I know. He is reading at a kindergarten level though he doesn’t start kindergarten until the fall. He rides his two-wheeler with no training wheels and takes his scooter to skate parks. He loves to sing and dance, to play in his own imagination for hours on end, to run around outside with a soccer ball or dressed in a superhero costume, and he’s the best big brother anyone could ask for.

Little Bro is now two years old and is bright, silly, adventurous, lovable, and growing so fast. He can (and will) hold a conversation with anyone who will listen. He rides his tricycle even though he can’t yet reach the pedals. He loves playing on playgrounds, snuggling with mommy, telling poop jokes, and doing everything his big brother does.

These two boys are my every reason. Just when I think I have them all figured out, they blow me away with a new skill or an act of kindness, or a sideways smile and a punchline. Watching their relationship grow is something I never expected but brings me so much joy. Happy birthday to my boys. I can’t wait to see what the next year brings.

Digital Illiteracy

I was helping Big Bro write a birthday card when he asked me a simple question: “Can I watch you write it?”

Right then, I realized a pretty big revelation. My son is learning to read and write, but he has very little example to follow. He’s not learning to read and type. He sees me texting and typing and doing everything digitally from asking Alexa for a grocery list to sending email, to writing posts on this blog. I do it all on my phone or tablet or through talk features. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d picked up a pen.

As a child, I watched my mom write lists and notes and checks and address letters that she sent from a real mailbox. Children learn through imitation. From the way he sweeps the floor or throws a ball or dances in the living room, my son has subconsciously absorbed my mannerisms, my demeanor, my awesome moves. And yet I’ve overlooked one of the most important building blocks for education and expression, the very thing I’ve made a living doing. 

What's a Millennial parent to do? Ask Alexa to show my son how to write? That's ridiculous, she doesn't have arms.

I’m not about to let my preschooler down. So, if you know me personally, you can expect more hand-written notes, snail mail and maybe even a personal check. I’m taking it back, old school.

Deck the Halls... and the Bedroom and the Bathroom

The holiday season is hectic. Even though it happens every year, the pace and the plans and the lists all still seem to come as a surprise to me. We celebrate Halloween and I blink and I’m eating turkey and I blink again and it’s time to hang stockings, climb on a roof with a string of lights, and embark on a hefty home improvement project.

Isn’t that how you like to celebrate?

I guess I’m just a gluten for chaos, or maybe I forgot what it’s like to have a toddler, as my preschooler turns into a helpful, independent big boy.

On Black Friday I stood in Lowe’s with a 5-gallon bucket of paint and announced the disputed bedroom remodel brainstorm I had a few months ago would become a reality. Drew was less than thrilled.

Since then, we’ve been taping, tarping and painting between the hours of 8-10pm because I discovered it’s incredibly difficult and messy to sling rollers while a nearly two-year-old who has already decimated five Christmas ornaments is running around. That’s the toddler part I forgot about. 

One minute, I'm changing into my paint clothes and the next minute I'm finding that toddler had snuck into a paint-filled construction zone undiscovered, deciding to take "painting" into his own hands. Literally. Unfortunately, his fingerpaint masterpiece did not come out of his clothes. It's just a small dose of the level of destruction he's capable of.

I’ve un-decorated almost as much as I’ve decorated this season. Baby Bro has officially hit the dreaded boundary-testing phase. It doesn’t matter what it is, if it’s in his hand, he throws it. Especially if you tell him not to. After a handful of smashed ornaments and a plate full of decorative pine cones lobbed across my living room, I reluctantly got out the Christmas box and started putting things away.

With paper ornaments and a bucket of paint, I’m tackling this season head-on. And I’m hoping somewhere down the line Santa will bring my little guy a pitching scholarship to make up for it.

Despite the occasional destruction, these boys are definitely on the nice list.