Back to the Kitchen

Neither of my parents cared to have kids underfoot in the kitchen, so I was in college before I learned how to boil water. And then I learned that you can't boil water in a glass bowl.

After graduate school, when I suddenly had time on my hands, I decided I'd learn how to cook for real. This coincided with the purchase of my condo-- with a kitchen the size of my parents' bar. No, my parents are not fabulously wealthy. It's just that my kitchen is that small. My new hobby faded. These days, cooking is on par with cleaning that bathroom.

I'm just now making the connection that kitchen size might have played a role in my abhorrence of food preparation. In my new house, the counter space on the island is equal to the counter space in my entire condo. This means I have counter space leftover for things like a food processor and cutting boards and a crock pot and mixing bowls. There's even a place to put these things when I am not using them. Best of all, there's a pantry large enough that I won't have to pile staples on top of each other.

Room to move, room to cook, room to store... I may be more Betty Crocker than I think.

Thoughts on Supernanny

Do I seem a little hard on her? I'm actually a fan. Oh, I have a few beefs with her here and there (i.e., I don't think a child in the parents' bed is necessarily a problem), but she's good at what she does. Before I had Peter, I used to marvel at her wisdom... and the idiocy of the parents, who seemed to lack any common sense.

I still marvel at her wisdom, but I'm more overcome with compassion for the parents. My heart breaks to see their struggles, because this parenting business is hard. It's one thing for an outsider to come along and whip your kids into shape (Peter is much more charming and compliant with sitters than with me), especially when that's your only job. I call that parenting in a vacuum, which I was quite good at as a babysitter.

It's another thing, though, to parent in the day-after-day-after-day reality of spouses who work long hours, pregnancy hormones, and demands on your time and attention that go beyond your child's needs.

Tantrums from the Crypt

Last night Peter had an hour-long, ear-splitting tantrum that ended when he went to bed. I proudly kept my cool.

When another one began tonight, I broke every rule. I yelled. I cried. I showed him that he had gotten to me. And before he could get out of control (I was already out of control myself), I gave in to my terrorist's demands. It was like a scene from Supernanny.

In fifteen months of tantrums, until tonight, never once had I caved. It's a parenting sin I place somewhere between giving your toddler beer and letting him operate heavy machinery.

Feeling like a failure? Yeah. Wondering how I'm ever going to raise this child to be a loving and productive citizen? Yeah.

But I'll tell you one thing: if Supernanny walked into my house, I'd come at her with sperm and a turkey baster as see how she does after two years with a child of her own.

Potty Foul

I'm not eager to lose the convenience of diapers, but if I could get my child bowel trained, that would be the best of all worlds. Since he's been poo'ing at the same time every day for the past... oh, I don't know, six months... and since he tells me when he's about to do it, I figured-- what the heck, I'm going to stick him on the toilet today.

So I pulled out the toilet seat cover I bought when Peter was 2 months old, put him on it, and read books to him for 20 minutes. While he played with himself.

And I used to wonder why boys are later potty training.

Home is Where the Car Is

Another weekend in our new town, and we've had our ups and downs.

Downs: 1) The swing set next door is for grandchildren. 2) The tricycle belongs to a 4-year-old girl with big brothers. 3) When we took Peter in the backyard to play for the first time, he cried at the fence like a caged wild animal, pointing over the fence screaming "Out! Out!"

Ups: 1) Neighbors continue to drop by introducing themselves, and they already know all about us from... I guess the other neighbors. It's a sign to me that these folks in the cul de sac really are friends. 2) One husband and wife just showed up and cut our yard. It was like a mormon commercial. 3) There is a 13-year-old girl across the street. I repeat: there is a 13-year-old girl across the street. And, yes, she babysits.

So I asked Peter if he likes his Decatur home, and he said,

"Peter like 'Burningham' home."

"Oh?" I said. "You don't like Decatur home?"

He said, "Burningham home have cars."

Well, I guess that'll be an easy fix.

Home on the Range

Once upon a time, shopping for a house meant finding the most space I could afford with the most charming exterior possible in a generally safe area of town. It was simple, really. And I would no sooner have looked at a rancher than I would have a mini-van.

Well, times have changed. How did we turn down larger houses with charming exteriors in safe areas of town in order to buy... a rancher?

1) We restricted our search to a 5-minute radius of Tom's work. With young children at home, every second in the commute is felt. By me, anyway.

2) We didn't want obstacles in getting to know our neighbors. So we nixed anything with a privacy fence-- or anything next to houses with privacy fences.

3) We wanted to be near families with young children. Were there tricycles across the street? Swing sets?

4) We wanted a house that made life with babies just a little bit easier. Stairs were a turn-off, as were master bedrooms located in a separate part of the house.

So it is that when we saw a one-story house in a cul-de-sac filled with toys, with a waist-high fence in the backyard, all the bedrooms compactly in the back, and a very happening playground 50 yards away, we knew it was The One. The house to take us through the toddlerdom of our current and future children. That's a good six years or so.

But when you throw in the elementary school 200 yards from our backyard, well... I think we may be ranching it for even longer.

At least we have hardwood floors. Some principles never change.

Simple Pleasures

It's the stuff two-year-old fantasies are made of.

We were standing outside our new house (no, we haven't moved in, but we visited it for the first time this weekend) meeting our new neighbors. Suddenly, music. Peter looked around. Where was it coming from? Ooh, a truck! Wow, a truck that plays music! And it's coming our way! And, and... it's not just coming our way, it's stopping right in front of us. A man sticks his head out of the truck and gives us ice cream. Could it be true?

So it was that the three of us walked over our threshold together for the first time, sitting on the kitchen floor to eat our treats. Peter laughed maniacally between every bite of his ice cream sandwich. What a Norman Rockwell introduction to life in a house.