Binkytowne

Game Face

He squeezes my arm as we round the corner.

He doesn't want to let me go. I don't want to put him down, but I have to. I have to.

Keep moving. Don't show it. Don't even think about it.

Big smiles, mommy.

It's your job. Your real job. Look Happy.

The climber! I say with the false enthusiasm.

As if I've never witnessed such a grand adventure

made up of carpet and wood polished smooth and steps

and never had to hand over half my heart

to somewhere it didn't want to be 

while stuffing the other half deep, deep down

where no one, not even me

can see that it's brusied.

He doesn't bite.

His head is tucked into my shoulder.

His perfect strawberry curls peek out,

ever playful and flirtatious,

even if he refuses to be. 

Little Man Big Toys

Almost every weekend my four-year-old wakes up and asks What are we going to do today?  My answers usually range from the park to the grocery store. He always, always groans and suggests maybe the bookstore? Maybe Target? Maybe he needs a haircut? (I used to bribe him into compliance with not screaming his bloody head off in the chair with a car when he was done. I know. Not smart.)

In fact I've done a lot of things that are not smart when it comes to money. I'm not a numbers person and balancing a checkbook? I hate to do it. HATE IT. Let's just say I've learned the hard way when it comes to managing money.

I've tried to tell my son that I don't have money for haircuts or the bookstore or for toys and that worked for awhile, but his new answer? But you went to work yesterday! Um. Right. I did. How does one explain a mortgage to a little kid?

One thing we've tried to do is come up with the distinction between a little toy and a big toy. Little toys are matchbox cars or Play-do. Big toys are just that; Big toys. Bigger than a breadbasket- you've got to earn it.

We did a chart recently. It's the first time we tried it and it worked like a charm. For every night my little man fell asleep with no one laying with him, he got a sticker on the chart. Three weeks worth of stickers earned him a Big toy.

That lesson has stayed with him- and us. Now when he asks for something we ask what kind of chart we will do. No smart talking? Teeth brushing? No shouting? Let's make a chart. It's been the best way for us to drive home that things must be earned.

We're not old enough to really understand the concept of money, but something tells me this is the approach we will take when the time comes.

This is part of the Parent Bloggers Network Blog Blast. They are working with Capital One (@teachingmoney on twitter) to help them facilitate conversations about teaching your kids about money. If you'd like to play along and write a post about tips on and experiences with teaching your kids about finances, visit the Parent Bloggers Network blog for more details. (There are Big Toy giveaways..)

Stopped Short

My son has stopped playing with cars.

OH MY GOD HE HAS STOPPED PLAYING WITH CARS!

I am so not ready for this. I mean, look at my banner. Cars are my constant companions, my never-fail distractors in times in trouble, my streaming topics of conversation. My son and cars go together like peanut butter and ... well, hold on, because he doesn't actually eat jelly. Or much of anything, for that matter, but anyway, if he did like jelly, they would be squished together between two pieces of (non-grain-having) bread (with the crust ripped off) (Of course). 

In June my big little man moved into the K-4 classroom at his daycare. Yes. It's a real K-4. It's awesome. It costs more than an auto bailout, but I am grateful to be there and I give props (and all my money) to really great day care centers. Spending time with five and almost six year olds has been a mind-blowing experience for him. He's drawing pictures. Not just any old pictures, pictures that look like what they are supposed to be. We're playing Bingo nightly. He can operate my iPhone faster and more easily than I can. The other night while reminding me that I hadn't yet put his milk back in the refrigerator he pointed out that "it won't possibly get cold if you leave it sitting out." He asks for more syrup, please, and has stopped demanding I do things immediately. Rather he will say, "when you are done feeding Ro can I have another yogurt?" acknowledging that he is not the only person in the room.

(Shhh. This is top secret and it can't get out that I mentioned it, lest I get struck down by the sleeping gods but he's SLEEPING. A good 10-11 hours. IN.A.ROW. The past four weeks have been the best stretch of sleep he's ever had in his entire life and that is not hyperbole. That's a straight up fact.)

The cars have been replaced by Transformers. Transformers. Robots in disguise. Autobots and Decepticons. We have Transformer undies, tees, flip flops, books, toys and two discs of the old school cartoon on heavy rotation. One night before bedtime he sat with his dad in bed and talked for almost one and a half hours straight about the Transformers. What they did, where they came from, what kind of tools they had, what they did with the energy. It was amazing. It was like a switch had been flipped. Seemingly new pathways of his mind opened up and it was happening right before our eyes.

I suppose one could argue Transformers are sort of like cars. I mean, Ratchet is an ambulance and Optimus Prime is a Semi-Truck. So I guess we're not completely done with them, but when I see his train table littered with cars that have been untouched for days, weeks even, I can't help but want to slam on the brakes.

 

I've always planned on taking all my photos of his car creations/patterns and making them into a photo-book for him one day. He can't really be over this, can he?

That Child

I sat at a stoplight today, my mind wandering as it does when there are no children in the car screeching or whining or asking for my iPhone so they can "move the buttons".

I watched her cross the street. She was tiny. Her hips as wide as one of my thighs. She was wearing cut-off jean shorts. Short shorts, actually, and a tank. Her curls bounced with every step. Around her neck were the arms of a little guy, maybe three years old, from what I could see and his chubby legs and sandal-ed feet were wrapped around her waist. His head bounced too, as his eyes moved from the cars, the buses, the people sitting at the bus stop, hot and tired and wearing dirty baseball caps.

She wasn't carrying a diaper bag or a grocery bag or even a handbag. My guess? They were walking to the gas station for a soda. Some gum? Maybe a pack of smokes? I don't think she was quite twenty years old. I'd be surprised if she were.

Before the light turned green I flashed back to twenty and did the math, I'm thirty-eight and it's 2009 so that would make it 1990... 1990? I didn't even have my tattoo yet and I look at that thing and feel down-right ancient.

I never got pregnant before I wanted to. I have thought many, many times of what if I had and thank God I didn't. That child would be graduating from high school now. High School. My phantom not-child born in 1990. Or maybe not. I don't know if I could have done it. 

I really mean, I don't know if I could have done it well enough. Raised a child at twenty-two, twenty-four, twenty-eight. Done it and not suffered the consequences of a complete lack of wisdom and a tendency to make choices by what was deemed to be the least painful at the very last moment when those decisions needed to be made.    

That child's father would have gone on to battle addiction. Or would he? Maybe if we had stayed together I could have set him straight and he wouldn't have moved to that city with those friends during those years. That child's dad would have made a terrible husband but a childlike father who may have really shone at baby-rearing but would have used taking care of a baby as an excuse to not get a job.

That child would have been brought up shuffling between apartments and friends who would have taken care of him while I worked waitressing shifts. Slept in a bed with me in my sister's basement, indefinitely when we couldn't make rent or when watched it because she was pushing me to take those last few classes so I could finish school and get my degree. Because me and that child's dad would have never, ever, made it work.

The light turned green and I watched them.They walked entwined with each other and with the sidewalk beneath her flip-flops. She shifted him to her other hip. I drove on to buy diapers.

I wonder where she was going.

The Animals

 

I think about selling you

You might fetch me twenty bucks on Ebay

But then each night before bed I wouldn't see him

Stuff your squishy faces into his mouth

For a wet, slimy, baby kiss

I'd pay more than that

Every day if he would only

Stay little and love you

A bit longer

Estée Lauder Part II

Is over at my review blog today. Go read it. Your eyelashes will be so pleased.

http://btownereviews.blogspot.com/

Cleavage and Cameros and Leggings. Oh my!

This is me with Theresa Selvaggio, one of the Executive Vice Presidents of Estée Lauder at the Macy's event. She was wildly entertaining and wicked smart; She told us all about how Estée Lauder got her start and what a trailblazer she was back in the 1950's. She was smart, ahead of her time, a business woman, an entrepreneur. I already buy and use Estée Lauder, but if I didn't, I would have after that presentation. I also loved her because she told me I had beautiful skin and flattery will get you everywhere.

 Me, Cathy from MayberryMom, Kristen from Motherhood Uncensored and Nora from Nonlinear Girl (on a stick). Seated right next to us, out of sight, was The New Girl and I should have made her pregnant ass stand up and be in the picture because she is all kinds of awesome. She's one of those people that you meet and you feel like you've known forever and I'm pissed I didn't take a picture of her and her pretty shiny hair. Sigh.

  

Since he is car crazy and right this minute, knee-deep in a Transformers Bumblebee obsession, (he's a Camaro in case you aren't hip to that) I took this picture for my son who would have freaked the fuck out about this Camaro in the expo hall.

 

Unbeknownst to her, more than once, I stold this delicious baby because he is almost the same size as my own, just to feel squishy baby-ness in my arms when I missed mine too much. Those leggings? Seriously? SERIOUSLY? I could DIE.

 

Could I interest you in a flash drive? Or ten?

 

Carson Kresley's autograph. Guess the blogger?

The Blogess. (Picture taken at MamaPop. Even thought they wouldn't let me in because my name wasn't on the RSVP list EVEN THOUGH I TOTALLY RSVPD! I DID! I KNOW I DID. (I did, didn't I?)YES I KNOW I DID.) Catherine wouldn't even let me in to tell Mayberry that I couldn't get in, which was a wise move on her part because I totally would have stayed. Fire code be damned. They did let me in later, so we're cool now.

 So. Cool. 

Teh Cuteness

Untitled from Amy Jones on Vimeo.