Anatomy of 2 Playdates

M had a playdate at Brett's house on Tuesday.

My SIL called to see if we'd be interested in a playdate, with my 2 nieces, at our house on Tuesday.

And thus 2 playdates were born.  It was an interesting experiment for me.  I got to see first hand how innately different boys and girls are.  I will list the events that occurred at each playdate and you can decide for yourself - was it the boys' playdate or the girls' playdate?

Playdate 1, with descriptions of event, straight from the children's mouths.
1.  We played with Nerf guns and tarts. (I think this child meant darts.)
2.  We played on the swing set and saw dog poop!
3.  We played with army guys.
4.  We ate peanut butter and fluff sandwiches, lots and lots of Oreos, a Popsicle and 1 gumball.
5.  We dressed up as ninjas and Transformers, then rode on the firetruck.
6.  We played birds, and jumped off the couches.

Playdate 2, with descriptions of event, straight from the children's mouths.
1.  We ate pasta and grapes for lunch.
2.  We used makeup, but not any nail polish.
3.  We made necklaces with the squishy beads.
4.  We decorated 2 chocolate chip cookies with pink and red and white sprinkles and hearts.
5.  We played "Angelina Ballerina" and did ballet.
6.  We had a pretend birthday party.

The Dangers of Mini Golf

The first week of January was lonely for me, with R back to work and the Salad back to school.  It was like starting from scratch all over again.  I thought if I was feeling down in the dumps, the Salad must be too.  So I picked up my mom, drove to their school, scooped them up 30 minutes early and took everyone to Linvilla Orchards.  They had just opened an indoor miniature golf course that I wanted to check out, to see if it might be a fun spot for their birthday party in February.

Once again, we were the only people there*.  We took our time on the very age appropriate course and each one of us got at least 1 hole-in-one.  Though, as we played through, I heard myself saying the same things, over and over.  "Don't stand on the green when someone else is hitting their ball."  "Please stand back when someone else is swinging their club."  "Please stop swinging your club around so violently."

I realized towards the end, it's a cute way to spend an afternoon.  But a birthday party?  With 24 kids under 7?  Swinging clubs?  Golf balls flying through the air?

Accident waiting to happen, people.  Accident waiting to happen.

*However will I avoid crowds when the Salad is in school full time?   

The 13th Post on this Blog in which I talk about Poop

The weather called for the high 50s last Tuesday. I know I keep saying it, but it is January. It should be like 30. Ms. Amy and I both jumped on the chance to be outside again and brought our babes to the Zoo.

It was mostly a good day, even if the carousel, train and "Goose Floats" (A's name for the Swan Boats) were all closed for the winter. Though, there were several fights among my Salad about who got to push whom in the stroller that Ms. Amy brought along. The irony of the Salad loving strollers now that I don't need them anymore is not lost on this mama. That's off the subject though. The subject of this post is poop.

I wanted to study the polar bears, since we've been talking about animals that have blubber. I had an experiment in mind for when we got home. We were going to stick our bare hand in freezing water and see how long we could keep it there, then we'd cover our hands in Crisco and gloves and then submerge our hands again to see if our "blubber" helped keep us warm. But the bears were just laying around and the pull of poop is too strong for a 4 year old. Hence, the following excerpts from our day.

"Hahahahaha! That rhino just peed! And now it's going to walk through it's own poop! Hahahaha!"

"If we brush this goat's tail, do you think it will poop on us?"

"The tractor doesn't work 'cause of all the pigeon poop."

"Mommy, is that poop floating in the pig-nosed turtle water?"

"Once, I saw a giraffe poop right here."

See that picture up there?  It's M, most likely pointing to poop.                                                                      

The Gorge of Eternal Peril

We live in an area that, at times, has extreme weather.  July occasionally will reach the 100s.  February will see us waist deep in snowy blizzards.  Heck, we even had an earthquake this summer.  And a hurricane.  Come to think of it, maybe those Mayans are right on with the whole Apocalypse thing. 

Anyway, this is just a long introduction to our playgroup last week.  It was springtime weather here, even though it's January.  So we headed to the Tyler Arboretum.  We ran in fields, climbed trees till we got splinters in our little hands, experimented with throwing big versus small stones in the pond, ran with sticks, explored a spring house and in general, had a perfect day.  Well . . . minus the splinters.

Almost 2 years ago, the Salad and I explored the Arboretum for the first time together.  We stumbled upon a troll bridge display, complete with hidden speakers croaking out an old troll's warning about crossing the bridge.  You'd better believe me when I tell you it traumatized the Salad.  We've been to the Arboretum maybe 20 times since then and never once have ventured to that area again.  They often point to the left as soon as we enter and say "Not that way.  Not near that troll bridge."

But on this day, we had friends along who made us feel brave.  We went left, towards the bridge.  M and Peter gallantly said they would cross the bridge first, to ensure the lady folk safety.  They faltered just long enough at the foot of the bridge to allow baby Thomas (not knowing of the horrors that lay in wait) to pass.  Once he was headed across, the other 2 boys tentatively followed suit.  The girls (A, S and Lucy) acquiesced to crossing once they saw the boys had made it across unscathed, only if they were holding my hands.  We crossed slowly, with many a whimper of the bridge being "too slippery", "too troll-y" and "too grumpy."  But we made it across.

Monty Python would have been proud.

"What is your name?
What is your quest?
What is you favorite color?"

Un / Fortunately

The Salad had a short hiatus from school the week between Christmas and New Year.  Plus, R took the week off from work.  So, if the Salad were late sleepers, that week would have been the week to sleep late.  Unfortunately, M is an early riser.  "Early" as in, as soon as he sees the sky turn light in the 1/4" gap between sill and shade on his window, he's up and at 'em.  Or shall I say, up and at me? 

Since daylight savings time, we've been working on teaching him to lay quietly in bed until the small hand of his wall clock is on the 7.  He's been doing an excellent job, too.  During our "vacation" we got to sleep in until 7:02 AM every morning! 

The next week, it was back to reality.  I was out of practice though, and made the grave mistake of hitting my alarm off and rolling over on the Salad's first day back to school.  Fortunately, M is an early riser and crept into my room at 7:06 AM to quietly whisper in my ear, "Mommy, don't we have to get ready for school?"

Good thing one of us is responsible.

Tearing it up

R has torn patella tendons in both knees.  He should have had them operated on years ago.  Instead, he runs a few times a week, plays hockey, soccer and football on them.  I fear what's going to do them in though are the new scooters that Santa bought the Salad.  Every time we take a scooter ride around the block, R grabs one of the scooters and takes off, under the guise that he wants to show them "how to coast."  But each time he loses control of the scooter and winds up flat on his back with the Salad hovering around asking if he has any boo-boos and me kneeling a few feet away, trying hard not to let anyone see I'm in hysterics. 

"He ruptured his tendon in a horrific scooter accident.  Yes, Doctor, I said scooter.  A Razor scooter."

The Giant Slide of Danger!

Sculpture on Swarthmore College's campus, aptly named by S.  We had an important lesson here this day.  Art is meant to be looked at, touched, enjoyed, slid down over and over. 

Oh?  It's not? 

Well then, I guess I'll be sure to hold off on the Philadelphia Museum of Art for while.

a Brother, a Sister, a Salt Dough Maker

I gave the Salad a list of 4 ingredients, along with measuring cups and told them to work together to follow the recipe to make salt dough.  Each time one would ask me for help with a measurement or a word, I would refer them to a brother or sister.  3 heads are better than 1, I always say.  OK.  I never had said that before that day.  And I haven't said it since.  But rest assured, I said it that day many times.  After about 30 minutes, they got the proper ingredients in the proper measurements and kneaded the salt dough to death.  It  got crazy up in there.  See?

The reason for the Season?

There is a house in a neighborhood close to ours that is one of those houses. The kind that goes way overboard on the Christmas decorations.  Of course, the Salad loves that over the top holiday spirit.  I prefer the more subtle holiday decor, but I submitted to colored lights on the tree this year.  You gotta give a little to get a little, you know?

Anyway, the point of this story is not our decorations, but this other houses'.  It has at least 40 of those giant inflatable deals, you know the kind - Santa landing on the roof in a helicopter, a reindeer on a Ferris wheel, Frosty the Snowman riding on a motorcycle.  Not to mention the lights strung from the eaves of the house, the LED Christmas trees lining the walkway, the 8 foot long Happy Holidays banner strung over the driveway.  Along with gobs and gobs of super size candy canes, abominable snowmen, misfit toys and Mrs. Claus'.  They play music through speakers on the lawn.

But the thing that cracks me up is that in the very corner of the house, almost on the next door neighbor's yard, there is a small nativity scene, with a teeny tiny baby Jesus. It looks like an afterthought. 

Happy Birthday, baby Jesus!

Happy New Year!