A few videos from our weekend. My apologies for the one being 90 degrees off what it should be. I will figure out here soon how to remedy that. In the meantime, get a crick in that neck! ; )
We've got a runner!
Sit, stand, sit, stand ... tump! Waaaaaa!
Swing boy!
Monday, February 26, 2007
Sunday Scenes
Just a few shots from our Sunday:
Wilder plays on his new stepstool in his new-and-improved room.
Swingin' in the sunshine
I just liked the perspective on this shot (and the toothiness).
We're pretty surefooted these days.
Chillin' with his pop on the sidewalk
Wilder plays on his new stepstool in his new-and-improved room.
Swingin' in the sunshine
I just liked the perspective on this shot (and the toothiness).
We're pretty surefooted these days.
Chillin' with his pop on the sidewalk
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Trying to lead the simple life
I went over to my neighbor and friend Carmen's house on Friday. Her son, Owen, is about three months older than Wilder, so we got them together for some backyard play time while their mom's had some adult conversation time. It was fun.
It was also eye-opening. Carmen's house is spotless. I must have sensed that it would be. I'd had a dream a few nights before, knowing this playdate (hate that word) was coming up, that I'd gone over to her house and it was a wreck. I woke up with a strange feeling of relief and satisfaction, which evaporated when I realized it was the dream, the belief that Carmen was as big of a slob as me, that gave me that feeling, and that it was probably erroneous.
It was. Erroneous. In a big way. Her kitchen counters sparkled. There wasn't a dust bunny in sight. The whole place smelled like Fabreeze. The toys were kept to a minimum and Owen appeared to be no worse for the wear of not having his life filled with hundreds of shiny, colorful, noise-making objects.
Then I came home to my house. Which smelled like dog urine. Which had loads of dirty laundry on the floor in the living room. Random bits of kitty litter skittering about. Needing a good sweeping. Dust. Toys, toys everywhere! Agggghhhh, Calgon, take me ... wait ...
Ugh. So I decided to make some changes. We've already started, and I have to say already I feel a ton better. This isn't so much about having a spotless house (let's face it -- I'll never be THAT girl) as it is about simplification. Fewer THINGS. We moved the bed out of Wilder's room because, ahem, no one ever really comes to visit us and those that do don't mind sleeping on an air mattress. He already absolutely loves his new area. Room to play, spread stuff around, lay on the floor and dodge in and out of a sunbeam.
I still have a few weeks before I'll be satisfied. It'll take a lot more organizing, a fair amount of throwing crap away or donating it, and some paint (there are two rooms in the house I've been wanting to paint since we MOVED IN -- I am a master procrastinator).
I'll never be a clean freak. I don't think it's in my DNA. Or Wilder's ... at the end of our play time, Owen didn't have a spot on him. Wilder had stuck his head in the dog's waterbowl (AWESOME!) and ground just enough dirt into his shirt and jeans and cheeks to look like he'd had a damn good time. He smelled like dirt and sunshine and warm weather. I was proud, actually, but there's clearly something hereditary going on there in the cleanliness department.
But maybe, just maybe, I won't have to be embarrassed to have my neighbor over to our house here soon.
PS. The dog urine smell is gone. We steam cleaned the carpet this weekend. Didn't want anyone thinking we were OK living with a dog pee smell.
PPS. Up soon, a new video of Wilder playing in his new room. And then bonking his head on the floor. Whoops!
It was also eye-opening. Carmen's house is spotless. I must have sensed that it would be. I'd had a dream a few nights before, knowing this playdate (hate that word) was coming up, that I'd gone over to her house and it was a wreck. I woke up with a strange feeling of relief and satisfaction, which evaporated when I realized it was the dream, the belief that Carmen was as big of a slob as me, that gave me that feeling, and that it was probably erroneous.
It was. Erroneous. In a big way. Her kitchen counters sparkled. There wasn't a dust bunny in sight. The whole place smelled like Fabreeze. The toys were kept to a minimum and Owen appeared to be no worse for the wear of not having his life filled with hundreds of shiny, colorful, noise-making objects.
Then I came home to my house. Which smelled like dog urine. Which had loads of dirty laundry on the floor in the living room. Random bits of kitty litter skittering about. Needing a good sweeping. Dust. Toys, toys everywhere! Agggghhhh, Calgon, take me ... wait ...
Ugh. So I decided to make some changes. We've already started, and I have to say already I feel a ton better. This isn't so much about having a spotless house (let's face it -- I'll never be THAT girl) as it is about simplification. Fewer THINGS. We moved the bed out of Wilder's room because, ahem, no one ever really comes to visit us and those that do don't mind sleeping on an air mattress. He already absolutely loves his new area. Room to play, spread stuff around, lay on the floor and dodge in and out of a sunbeam.
I still have a few weeks before I'll be satisfied. It'll take a lot more organizing, a fair amount of throwing crap away or donating it, and some paint (there are two rooms in the house I've been wanting to paint since we MOVED IN -- I am a master procrastinator).
I'll never be a clean freak. I don't think it's in my DNA. Or Wilder's ... at the end of our play time, Owen didn't have a spot on him. Wilder had stuck his head in the dog's waterbowl (AWESOME!) and ground just enough dirt into his shirt and jeans and cheeks to look like he'd had a damn good time. He smelled like dirt and sunshine and warm weather. I was proud, actually, but there's clearly something hereditary going on there in the cleanliness department.
But maybe, just maybe, I won't have to be embarrassed to have my neighbor over to our house here soon.
PS. The dog urine smell is gone. We steam cleaned the carpet this weekend. Didn't want anyone thinking we were OK living with a dog pee smell.
PPS. Up soon, a new video of Wilder playing in his new room. And then bonking his head on the floor. Whoops!
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Preservation Deprivation
It's starting to look like Wilder has a true little daredevil in him. I see other toddlers cautiously approaching steps, carefully negotiating their world. Not our boy. Wilder = Full Steam Ahead. In the last couple of weeks especially, he's shown himself to be a lover of the adrenaline rush. He stands up in his rocking chair and "surfs." He's surfed wildly out of control a couple of times, but does this stop him from doing it over and over and over? Of course not.
This morning, when he was ready to go to school, Jerry opened the front door and he took of like a shot for the steps. You can see in the third photo down the beginnings of Jerry in the process of taking off after him. Nice save Papa.
This morning, when he was ready to go to school, Jerry opened the front door and he took of like a shot for the steps. You can see in the third photo down the beginnings of Jerry in the process of taking off after him. Nice save Papa.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Rough Day
How do you prove your love on Valentine's Day to your son? Apparently, if you're me, you lock him inside your car -- WITH THE KEYS -- at CVS for 45 minutes and, after he's screamed his head off and you've lost all feelings in your extremeties AND the fire department and local locksmith have treated you with great sympathy that's almost sent your tear ducts into overdrive ... yeah, well THEN you lose his red heart mylar balloon.
I suck. Sneef.
I suck. Sneef.
And, 'Cuz There Haven't Been Enough Pics Lately ...
The look that says: "Seriously ... leave me alone ..."
Rowdy in the tub
And because this picture just makes me laugh my ass off.
xoxo ... love to all,
K,J&W
Two Little Tales
Wilder had a pretty eventful day for a 1-year-old yesterday, filled with bad (story No. 1) and good (story No. 2):
1. I pick up Wilder from daycare each day around 3:30. The second I walked in the door, I was greeted by the somewhat-serious face of Miss Toni, who's one of Wilder's favorites. She handles the big kids' room, where Wilder sometimes spends time because he A) likes the big kids, and B) likes Miss Toni (and she adores him).
"I have something to tell you," she said, somewhat ominiously. Immediately, of course, my mind filled with images of Wilder having one of a myriad bad things happen to him. But then my sense kicked in and I knew if it was THAT bad they wouldn't have waited until I walked through the door to tell me.
"Uhh, OK ..." I said. "What?"
"Wilder got bit today."
My second immediate impulse was to ferret out the kid who bit him and bite his little ass back. But that's just the Mama Bear in me.
"By who?" I asked.
"J.J. They were fighting over a toy and he bit him." At this point I peered into the room at the always adorable little J.J. He's a black kid, a few months older than Wilder, and he is quite cute. He sometimes runs up to me when I get there to pick him up. On this day, he was dancing on his tippy toes with a huge grin on his face, obviously happy and oblivious to his transgressions earlier in the day. I wanted to be mad, but I know he knows no better at this point, and besides that he was looking darn adorable with his big brown gleaming eyes. And, at some point my kid will probably be the aggressor, and I don't want to be reminded of how I blew my cool when he was the victim.
He did, however, leave marks. Grrrr ...
I found Wilder and he was clearly no worse for the wear. One thing I did forget to ask was if J.J.'s parents were told. I'll ask today. If Wilder was doing that, I'd want to know. And I want them to address it at home so that Wilder doesn't become this kid's chew toy again.
This morning, as Jerry was putting W's jacket on him, he said: "Now Wilder, if J.J. wants a toy you're playing with, give it to him." I wanted to add: "And if he bites you again, bite his little butt back — HARD."
But I didn't. Because that would be, like, wrong and stuff.
2. Last night I was giving Wilder his daily bath. We were picking up animal bath toys and going over what they were and what sound they make. I.E.:
"Pig. Oink oink."
"Duck. Quack quack."
"Sheep. Baa Baa" (Incidentally, Wilder has this one DOWN. I don't even have to show him the sheep. I just say, "What does a sheep sound like?" And he says: "Baaaa," clearly delighted with his knowledge of this particular farm animal. I have to post video of it soon. It's a very impressive "baaaa.")
And so on.
At some point, Wilder found a stray animal I hadn't reviewed with him. He picked it up, held it up to me, and then this came out of his mouth:
"Wha dat?"
What the ...?
"JERRY!!!" I yelled. "Get in here!"
At which point Wilder yelled: "Daaaa! Dada! DAAAAADAAAAAA!"
It was an elephant, which he did at least try to say. And he was very amused by my elephant noises, which sounded more like some sick or birthing swamp creature.
Anyway, our boy asked his first question, said his first two word sentence, if you don't count "thank you," which he uses liberally and only sometimes appropriately; or "nite nite," which clearly doesn't count.
He. Said. "Wha dat?"
And I couldn't be prouder.
1. I pick up Wilder from daycare each day around 3:30. The second I walked in the door, I was greeted by the somewhat-serious face of Miss Toni, who's one of Wilder's favorites. She handles the big kids' room, where Wilder sometimes spends time because he A) likes the big kids, and B) likes Miss Toni (and she adores him).
"I have something to tell you," she said, somewhat ominiously. Immediately, of course, my mind filled with images of Wilder having one of a myriad bad things happen to him. But then my sense kicked in and I knew if it was THAT bad they wouldn't have waited until I walked through the door to tell me.
"Uhh, OK ..." I said. "What?"
"Wilder got bit today."
My second immediate impulse was to ferret out the kid who bit him and bite his little ass back. But that's just the Mama Bear in me.
"By who?" I asked.
"J.J. They were fighting over a toy and he bit him." At this point I peered into the room at the always adorable little J.J. He's a black kid, a few months older than Wilder, and he is quite cute. He sometimes runs up to me when I get there to pick him up. On this day, he was dancing on his tippy toes with a huge grin on his face, obviously happy and oblivious to his transgressions earlier in the day. I wanted to be mad, but I know he knows no better at this point, and besides that he was looking darn adorable with his big brown gleaming eyes. And, at some point my kid will probably be the aggressor, and I don't want to be reminded of how I blew my cool when he was the victim.
He did, however, leave marks. Grrrr ...
I found Wilder and he was clearly no worse for the wear. One thing I did forget to ask was if J.J.'s parents were told. I'll ask today. If Wilder was doing that, I'd want to know. And I want them to address it at home so that Wilder doesn't become this kid's chew toy again.
This morning, as Jerry was putting W's jacket on him, he said: "Now Wilder, if J.J. wants a toy you're playing with, give it to him." I wanted to add: "And if he bites you again, bite his little butt back — HARD."
But I didn't. Because that would be, like, wrong and stuff.
2. Last night I was giving Wilder his daily bath. We were picking up animal bath toys and going over what they were and what sound they make. I.E.:
"Pig. Oink oink."
"Duck. Quack quack."
"Sheep. Baa Baa" (Incidentally, Wilder has this one DOWN. I don't even have to show him the sheep. I just say, "What does a sheep sound like?" And he says: "Baaaa," clearly delighted with his knowledge of this particular farm animal. I have to post video of it soon. It's a very impressive "baaaa.")
And so on.
At some point, Wilder found a stray animal I hadn't reviewed with him. He picked it up, held it up to me, and then this came out of his mouth:
"Wha dat?"
What the ...?
"JERRY!!!" I yelled. "Get in here!"
At which point Wilder yelled: "Daaaa! Dada! DAAAAADAAAAAA!"
It was an elephant, which he did at least try to say. And he was very amused by my elephant noises, which sounded more like some sick or birthing swamp creature.
Anyway, our boy asked his first question, said his first two word sentence, if you don't count "thank you," which he uses liberally and only sometimes appropriately; or "nite nite," which clearly doesn't count.
He. Said. "Wha dat?"
And I couldn't be prouder.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
My Funny Valentines
Today is a day you shouldn't be afraid to wear your heart on your sleeve, right? In that spirit, I want to shout from the rooftops my love for my husband and my son:
I sit at this computer stumped on how to begin this post about the two guys in my life, Jerry and Wilder.
Not stumped because I don't have the words to describe how much I love them and how lucky I feel to have them both. Stumped because words don't seem adequate to express how much light and love and wonder and laughter and joy they bring to my daily existence.
On the one hand, you've got Jerry. I have to start by saying his mama raised him right. She is a continual inspiration to me in trying to raise Wilder to be a nice boy who treats people well, who does nice things for people, who realizes that we all need to be treated with gentleness and tenderness, no matter how hard of a front we sometimes put on.
Jerry is kind. There is no better word to describe him. He's not "nice." He doesn't put on an act. He's a genuinely good-hearted man. "I'm full-grown," he sometimes says, and it's true. He's taken what life has given him, which hasn't always been lollipops and moonbeams, and spun it into gold. His heart is pure gold. If everyone approached life like him, the world, I believe, would be an incredibly better place.
I am one lucky as hell woman to be spending my life with him.
And then there's Wilder. Wow. Wilder. My funny, crazy, rowdy, hilarious little Wild Child. Giver of great loud kisses than end in "MWAH!!" An increasingly wonderful little hugger. The boy who pats my back when I pat his. One who's not yet too cool or too timid to look at me with unabashed love in his eyes. The little guy I made together with the love of my life.
It's a funny world — full of so much hate and violence and corruption and bad, bad stuff. It's heartbreaking. But I can be sitting there wondering, quite literally, when the world's seams are going to bust apart, and Wilder walks into my view. And all my doom, gloom and worry melts away. In short, he's always there to mend my broken heart.
How I feel about Wilder reminds me of a Big Bend trip that Jerry and I took nearly three years ago. We'd driven into the park on a particularly funky day. Jerry was sick. I was hyper-emotional and sad and, for no particular reason, missing my mom greatly. I'd been crying on and off, and Jerry suggested a walk and fresh air in Texas' beautiful national park. We got out of the car, walked around, checked out the desert landscape and, out of nowhere, ran across this one beautiful flower growing in this dry, cracked, chapped expanse of land. Now I love the desert — it's beautiful in ways that lush country isn't; beautiful in a haunting, striving kind of way. But most people see ugliness in the desert. And there was this flower that you had to give some credit. It gave a little burst of color, a little ray of sunshine, a little reason to have hope amongst great adversity.
And those things are the same thing my second little Valentine, Wilder, gives to me every second of every day. He's MY little ray of sunshine, and he's given me a reason to be happy — and hopeful — in the face of great heartache in this world.
So Happy Valentine's Day to you, Jerry and Wilder. You've both made my life magical.
I sit at this computer stumped on how to begin this post about the two guys in my life, Jerry and Wilder.
Not stumped because I don't have the words to describe how much I love them and how lucky I feel to have them both. Stumped because words don't seem adequate to express how much light and love and wonder and laughter and joy they bring to my daily existence.
On the one hand, you've got Jerry. I have to start by saying his mama raised him right. She is a continual inspiration to me in trying to raise Wilder to be a nice boy who treats people well, who does nice things for people, who realizes that we all need to be treated with gentleness and tenderness, no matter how hard of a front we sometimes put on.
Jerry is kind. There is no better word to describe him. He's not "nice." He doesn't put on an act. He's a genuinely good-hearted man. "I'm full-grown," he sometimes says, and it's true. He's taken what life has given him, which hasn't always been lollipops and moonbeams, and spun it into gold. His heart is pure gold. If everyone approached life like him, the world, I believe, would be an incredibly better place.
I am one lucky as hell woman to be spending my life with him.
And then there's Wilder. Wow. Wilder. My funny, crazy, rowdy, hilarious little Wild Child. Giver of great loud kisses than end in "MWAH!!" An increasingly wonderful little hugger. The boy who pats my back when I pat his. One who's not yet too cool or too timid to look at me with unabashed love in his eyes. The little guy I made together with the love of my life.
It's a funny world — full of so much hate and violence and corruption and bad, bad stuff. It's heartbreaking. But I can be sitting there wondering, quite literally, when the world's seams are going to bust apart, and Wilder walks into my view. And all my doom, gloom and worry melts away. In short, he's always there to mend my broken heart.
How I feel about Wilder reminds me of a Big Bend trip that Jerry and I took nearly three years ago. We'd driven into the park on a particularly funky day. Jerry was sick. I was hyper-emotional and sad and, for no particular reason, missing my mom greatly. I'd been crying on and off, and Jerry suggested a walk and fresh air in Texas' beautiful national park. We got out of the car, walked around, checked out the desert landscape and, out of nowhere, ran across this one beautiful flower growing in this dry, cracked, chapped expanse of land. Now I love the desert — it's beautiful in ways that lush country isn't; beautiful in a haunting, striving kind of way. But most people see ugliness in the desert. And there was this flower that you had to give some credit. It gave a little burst of color, a little ray of sunshine, a little reason to have hope amongst great adversity.
And those things are the same thing my second little Valentine, Wilder, gives to me every second of every day. He's MY little ray of sunshine, and he's given me a reason to be happy — and hopeful — in the face of great heartache in this world.
So Happy Valentine's Day to you, Jerry and Wilder. You've both made my life magical.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
It's VIDEO SUNDAY!!!!
We haven't had enough videos here lately, and in the meantime our kiddo has grown up a lot already this year. None of these are particularly riveting, or show much in the way of milestones -- they're just everyday shots of us drinking, playing, pooping (yes, pooping -- but not graphically) and dancing. So, without further ado, I give you Wilder, in live action:
Just playing in his highchair:
Do (or don't) watch to the end of this one if you do (don't) want to see Wilder make his "err, I'm pooping" face:
Monkeys, tigers and phone calls:
Ball, ball, ball, ball, KITTY!:
Wilder plays with one of his favorite toys -- the Ball Popper!!:
Wilder and I show off our poorly executed rug-cutting moves:
Just playing in his highchair:
Do (or don't) watch to the end of this one if you do (don't) want to see Wilder make his "err, I'm pooping" face:
Monkeys, tigers and phone calls:
Ball, ball, ball, ball, KITTY!:
Wilder plays with one of his favorite toys -- the Ball Popper!!:
Wilder and I show off our poorly executed rug-cutting moves:
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