Meet Dalebert

It seems I'm becoming more and more of a pushover these days. At times I will do just about anything to keep Cale from fussing. From letting him play with cell phones (he's ruined 2 already), climbing in the fridge, playing with dad's dollar store reading glasses, chewing on Carl's electric toothbrush, to pulling all the pots and pans out of the cabinets...it seems sometimes I let him get away with murder. What's that I hear? You say I should discipline him? You say I should set some boundaries; let him know his limits? I totally agree, and always planned to be the super strict parent. But that was before; Before I was introduced to..."The Tantrum". It's shrill; It's nail-biting; ; It's cringe-worthy; It's something I would jump threw hoops to avoid; it's a skillset that my son has perfected and I can imagine will continue using in days to come. Did I say days? Probably years.

If you've been around my husband or I much at all, you know we have many names for Cale. Big Bert, Pooter, Cale-Bear, Bubba, Bug-burt...I don't know where they come from. Don't judge me, you do it too...right? You do...don't you? Out of all his strange nicknames, that will probably haunt him for the rest of his life, we most often we call him Calebert. But when tantrum time comes along, we like to say he's turned into his evil twin Dalebert. Trust me, Dalebert is not someone you want to meet. He's mean; He's scary; He gives me nightmares. Especially when he appears...in public. One night he showed up in Harps while I was waiting to check out, in what had to be the longest line ever. It was so bad, I started sweating and feeling a sense of panic. It was so bad that I finally got out of line and was going to put the items in my cart back because I didn't want to continue standing in line with a screaming baby, while everyone was staring at me. But, after getting out of line I decided that I couldn't let Dalebert run my life. So, I returned to the line, he continued to wail and flail, and I finally made it out with my groceries...sweaty, embarrassed, and vowing that I would never take Cale into a grocery store near his bedtime hour.

I always said I wasn't going to give Cale soda until he was a few years old. I don't really know why except for the fact that I'm addicted to caffiene and I know there's a good chance he will be too. I guess I wanted to keep him away from all that unneeded sugar/caffiene until he was a little older. But now that he's tasted Coke, thanks to his daddy, he's become a caffiene-driven monster. He has this incredible ability to know what cup has Coke in it and what cup doesn't. I don't know how, but he does.

I still try not to give Cale Coke often and I never put it in his sippy cup. But, occasionally when I have a Sonic drink and I sense the presence of Dalebert approaching, I cave...shamelessly.

No, I'm not married to a clown. Well...no, no, I guess I'm not married to a clown. (Ahem, Carl reads my blog) Can you believe Cale even let 'Casper' hold him looking like this? This is my husband after a long, hard day of spraying the ceilings at our new house. What's really funny is, my dad had to pick up my niece Abree at her preschool on Thursday because my sister was home with a sick little one. Dad had been spraying all day at our house and looked like Carl, but even worse. Needless to say, they checked dad's ID before letting him take Abree. I'm sure all the kids had nightmares that night. I bet my dad forget he even had paint on him. That's my dad.

If Dreams Mean Anything....Then I Think I Might Be Crazy.

I'm not sure if I believe in hidden meanings behind dreams. Assuming researchers can interpret what a particular dream means seems a little far-fetched to me. But, if dreams do say something about our personality or our lives, then I just may need some help! It seems I rarely remember many of my dreams. Sometimes it seems likes weeks will go by without a dream at all. Even when I do have some recollection of dreaming, the events are usually so fuzzy that I can't make sense of anything. Ever since I was little I have done strange things in my sleep. I don't know if you would call it sleep walking, because I don't think that's what it is. But, I went through a phase in my life, around junior high, where I would wake up in the middle of the night and start getting ready for school. I can remember taking a shower, drying my hair, even putting on my makeup, before realizing that it was an hour in which I should still be sleeping, not up getting ready. Now why I woke up in the middle of the night and thought it was morning is beyond my understanding. Why when I looked at the clock, was I not able to comprehend that the time displayed did not say 6:00 am, but something more like 1:00 am? It seems like I did this once every few weeks. This went on for awhile and then suddenly stopped. Are you thinking I'm strange yet?

So now I'm past the...I don't know what you would call it...not "sleep walking", but more like "sleep-showering"! Unfortunatley when one strange habit ends, it seems another begins. These days I'm still waking up in the middle of the night every few weeks. But, it seems I'm waking up from some weird kind of dream that I never remember having. A few months ago, as my husband recollects, I suddenly sat up in bed and asked him about the animals that were in the room. Being the concerned husband he is, *sarcasm*, he told me that the animal was a big bear and that I needed to go back to sleep. A few weeks after that, I did the same thing, but this time I shot out of bed and frantically told him that there were six granddaddy longlegs on me. By this point, Carl wasn't even amused and simply told me to go back to sleep. I don't know what's with these animal dreams...

Last night, I don't remember anything but hitting the floor. As Carl tells it, I suddenly jumped across him in the bed, hit the footboard with some part of my body, and fell onto the floor. As soon as I hit the floor, I jumped up and breathlessly started asking him about "flying". Too bad I don't remember that dream...It must have been good. Carl got me to go back to sleep and then enjoyed telling me the details of my nighttime insanity when we woke up.

I may seem normal, during the waking hours. (or maybe not depending on who you ask) But in the middle of the night I take showers, I see bears, I "feel" mice crawl across me (didn't tell you about that one), I see exact numbers of grand daddy longlegs, and I have the ability to fly right out of the bed. Does that qualify me as crazy?

Today in Sunday school it was our turn for nursery duty. I have a love-hate relationship with nursery duty. I love it because I love to watch Cale interacting with other babies. I love it because I get to spend a little extra time with Cale. I love it because I just love babies in general. But I hate it because at the time we work, the babies have already been in the nursery for an hour. So, our hour of work is "nap-refusing-but-needing tremendously" meltdown time. One baby starts crying and and it's like a domino effect with the others. It's actually really funny to listen to. If I worked in the nursery every Sunday, I think I would develop some pretty nice biceps from toting around multiple toddlers at once! But, we made it through our hour + of childcare and then put our own little one in the car, where he finally crashed.

Cale is changing so much lately. Physically he's getting bigger all the time. He looks like a baby-football lineman right now! But of course it's not only his looks that are changing. We're really starting to see his personality. When Cale was first born, we wondered what he would be like. We daydreamed about it constantly. At that young age it's just impossible to tell. But now he's becoming less of a mystery. He's loving, sneaky, independent, hard-headed, funny....mischevious. He also has a lot to say and he says it with force. He can say ball, book, more, bite, dog, an almost understandable form of "car", truck, nan, bop (aka pop), bot-bot (aka name for his sippy cup) and lots of gibberish that we are left wondering about. He loves to "feed" himself (if we can call it that) and gets highly insulted when we to try to hold the spoon for him. He puts his face down in a pillow, slaps the floor, and cries when told "no" or "don't do that"...even in a playful tone.

When he gets something he's not suppossed to have, like my Sonic drink for example, he runs away quickly looking over his shoulder the whole time. He knows he's not suppossed to but, of course, that just makes it all the more appealing, right? Sometimes I think we would be better off putting the stuff he's not suppossed to get, out in the open, within his reach. Then, maybe the appeal would wear off. And we could put the things that don't matter in drawers/cabinets/shelves as if they were a great mystery and of some kind of special importance. Maybe that would work...but something tells me babies are smarter than that.

You haven't really lived until you've traveled home from Conway with baby vomit on both shoulders.

We ventured out to Conway this afternoon to look at a few furniture stores. We took Cale with us, even though we knew that would instantly take the word "leisurely" out of the shopping trip. But, overall he did really well. Of course, we forgot his stroller, so he fought and fought to get down, and against our better judgement he won that battle several times. He's become a master back-bender and will bend so far back when he's wanting out of our arms, that we can barely hold him. Also, he's figured out how to make his whole body go limp when we're trying to pick him up. I'll reach down to grab him and his body will turn to a lifeless, hard-to-move blob! It's so funny...but also not so funny. I can envision many embarrassing public tantrums in our future.

Today, in Lowe's Cale was coughing a lot (he's been coughing for weeks now!) He suddenly coughed up this fruit-loop colored flem (literally, he had eaten fruit loops earlier) all over my shoulders as I was holding him. So, everytime I turned my head, my nostrils were filled with the aroma of...well, you really don't want me to describe it.

We may not have found any furniture, but we hit Sonic at happy hour. We ate way too much at Mcalisters. I managed to sneak in a few minutes of clothes shopping while Carl was in the car with a napping Cale. We had a million-calorie chocolate malt on the way home. So, all-in-all it was a productive day.

To me, Friday is the best day of the week. You would think that Saturday or Sunday would be better because those days=no work. But, there's something about the build up to the weekend that makes Friday so magical. That's one thing I like about working. In the summertime, Friday seems almost like any other day. During the school year, when the last school bell rings, as I'm scrambling to make the last minute touches on lesson plans, there is this feeling of anticipation; Thoughts of going out to dinner; Thoughts of staying up late (if you call 11:00 late) and sleeping in (if you call 7:00 sleeping in); Thoughts of breakfast at a more appropriate hour such as 9:00, instead of 6:00 am (I'm hungry for lunch by 10:30 during weekdays); Thoughts of no lesson plans, no making copies, no extremely long and drawn out meetings, no duties, no peace-making, no playground refereeing, no packing lunches, no rushing around (except on Sunday morning...that's always a mad rush), no eating lunch while grading papers. Ahhh, Friday. But maybe I'm a "half-empty" kind of person because I get up on Saturdays feeling like my weekend is already half-over! I guess that's the vicious cycle.

Last night Carl and I headed to Hector with my dad to watch the senior boys play in the District Tournament. I hadn't been to a basketball game in years, especially at my old alma mater. It was so strange to go back to my old high school. First off, Hector finally has a nice, new gym. For years and years, Hector has had this small, old, rickety gym while every other school around had new state of the art facilities. I can remember other teams making fun of how bad our gym was, locker rooms in particular. As we walked into the new gym, I immediately began seeing all the familiar "basketball" faces; People that have attended games for years and years. Die hard fans that never miss, still going. It was like taking a step back in time. But then reality hit. I began noticing all of these "kids" who were just young elementary students when I graduated. Now they were juniors and seniors. What happened? How could it be? Am I really that old? Has it really been that long? It's funny how as you get older, high school students begin looking so young to you. But, when you're the high schooler, you feel so grown-up, so mature. When in actuality, you are still very much a kid.

Last time I attended a Hector game (in 2002), I sat in the student section. I laughed with people whom I had been friends with since elementary school. I probably kept my eye out for cute boys. I probably even flirted a little. This time, 8 years and a job, a husband, and baby later,...I sat with the adults. I people watched, laughed and reminisced about old times,shared a coke with my husband, and yawned repeatedly (because these days 9:00 is late). I walked out of the gym with with my dad, as I've done a hundred times before. It was different, but fun. I can't wait until I'm one of the parents sitting in the bleachers cheering on my own child. Well, I guess I'm not ready to be that old yet and have a high schooler. But, it will only seem like a few years...

Do All Armadillos Go to Heaven?

This past Friday, before leaving for Branson I got to spend some time with Cale and one of my sweet nieces, Abree. As we were eating lunch we glanced out the window to see, much to our surprise, an armadillo digging holes in the yard. This was not exactly the animal I wanted to watch while trying to enjoy lunch, but it was actually a little interesting to see. I usually only see dead armadillos (that's the way I like them) as I drive down the road. I try not to look, but somehow it seems I always do. Abree was very enamored by the armor-clad, giant rat-looking creature. She stood at the window curiously watching as the armadillo dug hole after hole in the yard. I realized at that moment, this must be the creature that has been causing my dad such havoc and frustration with his yard.

When dad and Carl came in for lunch, the armadillo was still around. Mistake # 1: We showed dad the armadillo. Mistake # 2: We showed Carl the armadillo. Mistake # 3: Carl hasn't shot a gun in years and has been wanting to.

So, the men told me what must be done and I stood there wondering how I would break the news to Abree. Apparently it's not often you catch an armadillo in your yard during the daytime, so they couldn't pass up the chance. As any child would be, Abree was very sad and didn't understand the reasoning behind the murder. She kept trying to watch out the window and I kept trying to keep her away. At one point, while trying to watch both kids, Abree broke free and ran to the window. Luckily, I caught her moments before the actual gunshot. As we were walking away from the window, we heard the shot, and of course, I glanced over to see an armadillo flopping around like crazy on the snow. I scooped Abree up and took her in another room trying to avoid any more trauma. She cried sweet little tears for that nasty creature. Of course, there was still snow on the ground, so what should've been an unmessy death, appeared to be a gruesome bloody scene. There was no hiding it from Abree. So, all I could do was explain to her, with a straight face, that the armadillo, of course, went to Heaven. I couldn't help thinking in my mind that I wasn't so sure that armadillos would be one of the animals in Heaven. At least I hoped not anyways. But, instead of simply accepting the Armadillo-Heaven theory, Abree asked me how it got there, and why, and lot's of other questions that I wasn't quite prepared for. (My little guy is only one so I have awhile before the hard questions) All in all, it was a traumatic day for tender-hearted Abree. Even though Pops and Carl felt bad, I think I sensed a hint of pride radiating from them because of their big kill (neither one of them are hunters). Later that evening in Branson, Abree asked her dad if he knew how to kill an armadillo. When he said no, she replied, "I can show you."

Last night was one of those nights. I put Cale to bed after his bath, like usual. He went to sleep easily, with little fussing. It seemed like a perfect night. But, then around 11:00 he began to cry and continued off and on until 2:30. I would finally get him to calm down, put him into his crib, and sleepily climb back into bed. Just when I would begin to fall into a deep sleep, I would hear the dreaded sound that most parents of little ones deeply fear in the middle of the night. Baby cries. Loud, piercing, persistent. Oh so persistent. Sometimes I try to convince myself that I'm just dreaming or that maybe the sound I heard was actually a dog howling outside. But, as I lay there trying to make it go away, the sound just grew louder. So, since I had already gotten up once to give Cale some milk, I decided that I was going to let him cry this one out. *Snort* Yeah. I usually last about 10 minutes before I begin to go insane and decide that getting myself out of bed again, will be much less painful than listening to the cries. What is it about baby cries that can make your skin crawl and your pulse race? Why is it that 5 minutes normally passes so quickly, but in baby-screaming time 5 minutes feels like an eternity of torture? Babies, although quite small in stature, are so incredibly powerful over adults.

After repeating this 'asleep again, awake again' process about 4 times last night, I finally did let the poor guy cry awhile. It probably took about 30 minutes of off and on crying, but by about 2:30 Cale was finally asleep. Who knows what caused the outburst. Babies are such a mystery. Talk about variety. Cale loves to keep us guessing. Just when we think he's finally consistently sleeping through the night, he'll actually beat his record of wakeups-in-a-night. I think maybe it's a game with him. He probably makes bets with the other babies in the nursery. I bet you ten Cheerios and a sippy cup of juice that I can get my parents out of bed five times tonight. Sneaky little guy almost always wins. But, last night, in the end, I won. Well, now that I think of it, I was just finally going to sleep at 2:30 AM...so did I really win?

It's amazing how much mischief Cale can get into already at only 13 months old. If he's not suppossed to have it, he finds it. If it's not suppossed to go in his mouth, he eats it. Tonight, after giving him a vanilla wafer for dessert, I glanced over and noticed his mouth was completely covered in dark brown, chocolate. Or so I thought. I assumed my mom must have given him something dark and chocolatey, as she enjoys doing! Then, I discovered the mess on the floor. Cale had found the used filter full of old coffee grinds in the trash can and was chowing down on them, along with the vanilla wafer. The crazy thing is, he didn't seem to mind the taste. I think his taste buds are out of whack because he's eaten dog poop, dog food, dirt, sand, toilet water, and probably many more things that I'm glad I don't know about, but he never shows a dislike for any of it. At least he's not too picky, right? Guess we're going to have to find a new place for the trash can. There's only one sure location I can think of that would be out of Cale's reach, but it just doesn't seem in good taste to put a trash can on the table. I think my mom is finally realizing what I've been talking about when I say that Cale is constantly looking for trouble!

Well, tomorrow night Cale is spending the night with Carl's mom. I've only been away from him at night a few times and I still get a bit sad each time. I'm not sure why because lately he screams through each nightly bath, often gets up in the middle of the night, and has been waking at 5:30 the past few mornings. You think I would enjoy a break. But, the minute he's gone I will begin to miss him. I'll miss the nightly reading of Goodnight Moon, the cuddles, the smile I get as he's standing up in his crib when I open his door first thing in the morning (even if it is WAY too early). Hopefully Carl and I will enjoy our night off, and won't spend the whole time missing our little guy. We might even get crazy and go to Lowe's and Wal-Mart in the same night. You never know... We're pretty spontaneous like that. :)

Home Sweet Home

Even with a much-needed snow day, this weekend was anything but restful. Saturday was our moving day, and of course there were several inches of slushy snow covering the ground. But, knowing we had to be out by the 1st, we braved the storm of moving. Saturday morning we began the much-dreaded day with a nice breakfast at Stoby's. After that, my mom, Cale and I went to the grocery store. The trip was a success (aka, no crying baby) up until the very end. As we were standing in line to check out, I looked down and noticed a puddle beneath our shopping cart. The puddle wasn't beneath the entire cart, just under the spot where Cale was sitting. At that moment, I was pretty sure I knew. But, I continued to say a prayer that the puddle was simply melting snow from another customer's shoes. I reluctantly felt of Cale's pants, and of course they were sopping wet. I quickly glanced back over my shoulder, and to my horror there were about three other customers behind me. I'm sure they watched as the pee fell from my child to the floor, probably shaking their heads with disapproval! So, I stood there wondering what I should do. I headed to the bathroom to find some paper towels, because I couldn't, in good conscious, leave the puddle on the floor, disguised as melted snow. (Well, in good conscious, and the fact that everyone behind me knew the truth) Luckily, I found a custodian and told them that there was "liquid" on the floor that needed to be mopped up. Hey, it was liquid. After my embarrassing moment, I sent Cale off with my mom and headed to our house (well, no longer ours as of today) and continued the torture of moving. Moving is never fun, but the messy snow only added to the pain. Try opening your trunk when it's covered in several inches of snow. I don't know what I thought would happen, but a trunk full of snow and ice was not what I had planned. During the day, I got a call from Carl asking me about towels. On one of the trips to the storage building, our couch and Cale's rocking chair had become covered in snow. Sludge, actually. Brown, yucky sludge. I wasn't in a place where I could go and resuce my couch. So, I let the men handle it. The bad thing is the couch is on its side near the back of the storage building so I guess I won't find out the damage until April or May. Good, the dirt will be nice and settled in by then. Mens' definition of "cleaning" is wiping something down with a towel. My definition is getting a bucket of water, some Resolve, and a brush, putting some elbow grease into it and scrubbing. Oh well, it's only a couch, right? *sob*

Six hours later, and an almost empty, muddy-footprint filled house, I drove 20 minutes to our new home, exhausted. Our new home is with my parents in the community of Caglesville. I unpacked some boxes, hung up the endless amount of clothes, that I didn't realize I had until we moved. It's funny how I have a closet full of nothing to wear. The next morning after church, we continued the teeth-pulling process of moving, lifting, and cleaning. Finally, after we finished we headed home, anticipating a shower and time with Cale. (This weekend was the least time I have ever spent with him) What we found when we got home is that Carl's dog, Cash, his companion since his bachelor days, was gone. Cash had never lived in an area where he could roam free and we had been afraid he would do something crazy. I had dreaded the moment something happened to Cash. My poor husband was so depressed. He was speechless (which is something for Carl) I know he was replaying it in his mind, regretting, thinking about things he could've done differently. Then, my Dad aka, Super Dad, drove around for an hour, knocking on door after door, until he saved the day. Cash, being the ladies man that he is, had simply followed the scent of an attractive female in heat (he's been without a companion for quite some time, if you know what I mean) All I can say is, thanks Dad. You saved our family from a few days...weeks...who am I kidding, probably years worth of sadness and mourning.

It was a long weekend; a hard weekend; a weekend of no rest or fun; a weekend of countless trips to Caglesville and back; a weekend of muddy footprints; a weekend of driving 40 miles an hour in fear of hitting an ice patch; A weekend of frozen, soggy feet; a weekend of pee puddles and lost dogs. But, we're officially moved. We're comfortable. We're enjoying Mom's cooking. We're one step closer to our new house on Crow Mountain. So I would say life is pretty good.