Zoo, Part 2

Tired boy checking out the pink flamingos.

A brief pose with the lions on our way out.

Cool aquarium in the toddler section.

Giant tortoise and giant boy.

Getting ready to take a dip in the wading water in the toddler section.

Two friends hangin' at the zoo.

Resting on the wall.

Rock climbing.

Taking in the sights.

Go ostrich, go ostrich, go ostrich!

A Day at the San Antonio Zoo

Elephant rides with Harper!

The real deal!

Okapi!

The saddest monkey I've ever seen.

My boy loves waterfalls.

Checking out the alligator. He looks just like Packy's bff "Rodry", the rubber alligator he adores.

Sunning and showing off those gnarly teeth.

There's an alligator in your hair!

Hippo butts.

There's nothing like becoming a parent to get you to check out the local attractions in your own backyard. Until last year, I had only been to the San Antonio Zoo once in my life, and that was when I was 16. It took twenty years and a preschooler to get me back, but it was worth the wait. It's a beautiful facility and a great spot for a playdate with Paxton's pals. And it makes for some splendid photo ops.

Super Bowl, 2009 (Paxton)

Super Bowl, 2011

Go Steelers!

This year, for the second time since I've been a mom, the Steelers went to the Super Bowl! As anyone who knows me knows, I'm a Pittsburgh gal. I was born outside of Pittsburgh in a little town called Monongahela. Most of my family still resides in and around the area. One of the things I love best about Western PA is the unique culture represented there. If you live in Pittsburgh for any length of time, you get bit by the sports' bug. You can't avoid it. You bleed black and gold. You canonize quarterbacks--even those accused of sexual assault. You wear your colors to church on game Sundays. It's a way of life. Being a nice, boring blend of Irish and English, I don't have the most exciting roots. But I have football. So now my boys do, too.

My grandparents keep my boys in Steelers garb, gracing them with cool outfits for birthdays and Christmas. Since Gibson has Paxton's hand-me-downs, he's set for life. They had no choice but to humor me on Super Bowl day as I dressed them in their black and gold best. Paxton even got lessons on how to wave the Terrible Towel. But I think he was most excited about the Steelers' snacks.

"Brrr...*cough*"

We actually got a little bit of a winter here in Texas this year. Paxton even got to experience a sprinkling of snow! Whether it relates to my roots in Pennsylvania or the fact that I'm forty-pounds overweight, I don't know, but I'm always hot. I dread summer every year because it is months of sweaty misery for me. The only thing enjoyable about summer for me is time spent in the water, and even then the joy is hampered because I have to consistently make sure that both Paxton and I are covered with gobs of sunscreen, because we both fry instantly when we're exposed to the brutal Texas sun.

Every book about Christmas, every holiday song, waxes poetic about the beautiful white blanket of snow on the ground and the sassy snowmen. To Paxton, this must be as fanstastical as unicorns and talking bugs. It just isn't real. He's seen snow in his life, but it's been so rare that he, of course, has no recollection. When he was two, we got a lovely Texas ice storm that we carried him around outside to enjoy. And the year prior, we took him to Pennsylvania in December where he tenatively touched the snow and recoiled. With the one day of light snow this year, both Chris and I took him outside for adventures. I walked with him around the neighborhood and we marveled at our footprints and those of the local deer. We tried to make snow angels, but mostly kicked up gravel. We found a patch of ice and pretended to skate in our shoes. It was the most fun I've had outside in a long time! It was fun to share it with my little guy.

Of course, since Paxton was born, winter means sickness. For as long as he's been alive, if there's a virus to catch, he does. At first I attributed it to teething and the fact that his fat little fists were always in his mouth. Now I have no idea what to blame. Bad hand-washing habits? A compromised immune system from his constant allergies? Who knows, but from the time the weather begins to bring the slightest chill, his nose starts pouring like a faucet. He's not alone in his health struggles. As we have playdates with his little friends, I hear familiar coughs and watch all the moms stand vigilant with their Kleenex. I try to tell myself that he's building up one hell of an immune system that should kick in around kindergarten, but I don't really buy it. I think once you welcome kids into the family, you just have to stock up on cold medicine and Vick's because God knows you're going to use it!

Gibson is only ten-weeks-old and he already has had three little colds. It's scary to hear a tiny baby coughing or rubbing his red little eyes. Luckily he has yet to run a fever, and we've made it through his first round of vaccinations, but it still sends a shiver down my spine when Paxton moves in to kiss him on the mouth or some random preschooler tries to hold his hands or coughs near him. I'm not the type to hide out in the house to protect my kids from illness, but I should probably be more dilligent about teaching good hand-washing skills to Paxton. God only knows what kind of germs linger in those jumpy castles and on the community toys passed around at library storytime. But my little guy is always very happy to bring them home with us and share with his family and friends. That's what you get when you've got a big heart.

He really does love his little brother.

A breakdown at a birthday party.

Three years old--let the terror begin!

Tyrannical Threes

I'm glad I was forewarned that three is the age that once sweet kids become living, breathing nightmares. At least a few mom friends let me in on this little secret when I was breezing through what was supposed to be the "terrible twos". I remember one friend's eyes growing dark as she told of her loving little girl suddenly screaming "I hate you!" when told she couldn't have dessert before dinner. Paxton had always been on the dramatic side, regularly breaking down in screaming fits when, say, a friend took the drum he was playing with in music class, or a kid stood too close to him while he played with toys during library storytime. I had long since stopped being embarrassed by these antics. I couldn't imagine that three could be any worse. I had a handle on my little one's theatrics.

Or so I thought.

Some time just before he turned three, Paxton started morping into a super villian. He took great pleasure in purposely disobeying me, even adding an evil laugh to the act. He watched Dora the Explorer regularly, and while he picked up a bit of Spanish, he was most influenced by the mischevious little fox, Swiper, who endlessly stole things from his frenemies just to make their lives a little worse. Paxton thought Swiper was the coolest thing since remote control cars. He oftentimes would run up to me, grab my car keys and throw them across the room saying, in a naughty tone, "Ha, ha, ha! You'll never find your keys now!".

Paxton's sense of humor has also gotten a little more warped. He finds it hilarious to frustrate mommy and daddy by squirming, wiggling and going boneless while we're trying to dress him. When I was pregnant, I was afraid I'd go into labor from all the struggling and contorting I had to do just to get his pants on him. Since then, I just try to guard my C-Section scar (to no avail). Lately, I've started instigating time out when he resists getting dressed. I'm not sure who suffers more when I put Paxton in time out. My life is suddenly in a holding pattern. I have to sit quietly and pay him no attention while he screams, reasons and begs for his freedom. I go into full Supernanny mode and silently lead him back to his time out spot every time he dares to get up (often) and make a run for it. Tonight he was really pulling out all the stops, shouting "Mommy, you hit me! You hit me mommy! My arm hurts!". He said that every time I led him to his spot by his arm. If he knew how to do it, I have no doubt he'd be calling CPS.

Our parrot, Bartok, gets concerned when anyone cries. While Paxton was having his meltdown, Bartok said, "Are you okay?". Paxton normally ignores the inquiry, but tonight he must have been feeling isolated while Mommy stared at the clock, ignoring the tantrum just as Jo Frost instructs. Paxton answered Bartok saying, "I'm okay, Bartok. Mommy is making me sit on the floor. I'm on the floor, Bartok!!!". I had to take his chair away, because he was trying to bend the rules, dragging the chair all over the house while in time out. Since I had to start over every time he moved from the time out spot, the three minute punishment turned into nearly 30 minutes. We were late for a going-away party for some friends. It was a high-stress time, but I knew if I backed down, he'd run all over me next time. Three-year-olds sniff out weakness and are not afraid to go for the kill.

Luckily, Paxton still has plenty of moments when he is the light of my life. He's funny, brilliant, sweet, creative and unique. I am daily awed by his wonderful personality. And in the moments when I'm wondering where my sweet boy went, I remind myself of all the books and magazines I've read that assure me that this is a normal, even positive stage in every child's development. He is testing his boundries and asserting his independence, figuring out his place in the world. It's not pretty, but it's necessary. And it can't last forever, right? Right?

Back in the Saddle

It's been over four-months since I wrote here. The busy-ness of life pulled me away for a while, but lately I've been itching to continue writing about my journey as a mom. Since I last wrote, we added another little boy to our brood. Gibson was born December 9th, 2010, exactly 10 days before Paxton turned 3-years-old. Now he is nearly seven-weeks-old and has fit into our family perfectly. I was certainly worried about how Paxton would accept sharing the spotlight with a sibling, but mostly he's been terrific. Occasionally he gets a little put out that I have to nurse Gibson instead of tending to his every whim and he vents his frustration by being 'extra-lovey' with his brother (read: crushing him). Chris reasons that since he has started working from home more since Gibson was born, Paxton actually gets more attention than he used to. He might have a point. And since Gibson doesn't do much more than eat, cry and sleep, it's not as if he's luring away the adults with his witty anecdotes and cool party tricks...yet. At school, about a week after Gibson was born, Miss Abbey asked Paxton what his baby brother did all day. In typical Paxton fashion, he bluntly answered, "He eats and he has a penis". Yep. That about says it all if you're a three-year-old boy.

I've had friends comment on how busy I am considering I just had a baby. I don't think they realize that the alternative is sitting around the house trying to entertain Paxton all day, knowing I'm failing miserably as a mother. The boy watches more television now than I ever would have anticipated. And he's broken out of his PBS gates. While once I could reason that at least he was watching somewhat educational programming--Sesame Street, Super Why, Curious George--now he has discovered Dora and Wonder Pets. On top of that, he's already become sort of sexist in that he doesn't want to watch an episode of Dora unless her cousin Diego is strongly featured in it. He watches the episodes over and over and over until he mouths the words along with them. It's become a babysitter and a sedative for my needy little boy.

I laid the groundwork for Paxton's highly-interactive personality. From the time he learned to talk, I always engaged him in conversation. I cannot bring myself to ignore him when he's telling me something. It irritates me to no end when other people tune him out when he's trying to communicate with them. Partially because of my love of talking with him, he has a great vocabulary and is great at holding conversations. So I admit that I made my bed here, and now I have to lie in it when I just want to roll out of bed in the early morning, check Facebook and come into focus in front of whatever Tivo has to suprise me with that day, and Paxton wants to teach me how to wear his stretchy snake like a necklace or asks me to pick my favorite color so he can select a Hot Wheels car to my liking. I thank God that he still has preschool two days a week, so I can be assured that he gets lots of positive attention and I get a little quiet time. And yes, I do feel a little guilty about that.

Being a mom is by far the toughest thing I've ever done. And it's not a cliche to say it's also the best. I light up when I see my boys. No one makes me laugh as much as Paxton. I live for smelling Gibson's baby hair at 3 a.m. when he's up for yet another feeding. I feel embarrassed that Paxton is three and still in diapers. I want to sink into the ground when he has a meltdown at Mima's when we're with friends enjoying Monday morning breakfast tacos. It's an adventure every day, and I'm definitely learning as I go. The best thing I can say is that my boys make me want to be a better person. They give me the motivation to be more patient, more compassionate, more organized, more whimsical. They have bettered my life in ways I never would have anticipated. All in all, motherhood is a pretty sweet gig.