Wednesday, March 28, 2007

Do I Say It Out Loud?

I'm afraid to say it out loud, in case something changes, but the Sprout has weaned himself this week, I think. I can't pinpoint exactly when it happened, but he's stopped breastfeeding.

Yay! I'm getting excited about the toxic hobby opportunities that I could get into again if this truly lasts. I couldn't do leaded stained glass panels, and I certainly couldn't do furniture stripping while nursing, but perhaps I can start one of these hobbies again soon.

Keeping my fingers crossed.

Not that I regretted extended nursing - I'm hoping it helped him grow out of his peanut allergy, all the nutrients have given him strong teeth and a precocious brain, and he's a really emotionally secure little guy. I'm glad I did it. I'm just done.

If he's done, I'm done. With all my heart.

Springtime Melt

It is melting like wild around here (except for snowy today), and on Sunday, Sprout went through four pairs of mittens and about six pairs of pants playing outside.

At some point, he had shed his mittens and was standing in a deep snowbank sawing the snow for a while. Then he was gamboling around happily doing this and that. I asked him, "Your hands are pretty red. Do you need mittens? They look cold."

He stared at me for one short second, and then burst into a howl: "Bwah!!! And my feet too!! The wind is blowing right through them! Boo hoo hoo!" I took him into the house, and we took his boots off - to find that they were full of water and about 3 cups of melting snow in each. His feet were bright red and very sore from the cold.

After some relaxing in a warm bath, all was right with the world again.

But if I hadn't asked him if he was cold, he wouldn't have even noticed. Kids are so funny.

My Old Friend

Alas, poor Yuck, I knew him.

My old friend, the poopy diaper, was back last week.

Some little friends of Sprout had him over for dinner and the evening last week, and when we arrived to pick him up, they were all eating prunes as a snack. Yup, prunes. My son LOVES prunes, and will eat them until I make him stop.

And no one made him stop, I guess.

In the middle of the night, he suddenly sat up next to me, whimpered in his sleep, and pooped the biggest prune poop I've seen in a long time. In fact, it was the first non-bathroom poop I've seen in a long time. And then he fell over and went back to sleep.

We've been meaning to try night-time potty training him again, but I'm so glad right now that he had a diaper on that night. Wow.

And I must say that from out of a dead sleep, I rallied to his cleaning up rescue, but I sure don't miss the midnight diaper change.

Monday, March 19, 2007

Honey or Vinegar

At the little branch with the big heart, I am responsible for planning free programs for teens and adults. There are lots of reasons to do this. A program attracts people to the Library (and they might decide they like us and come back), it supports local arts and culture by providing a venue for people to perform/read their writings, it gives people information on a topic through a means that is an alternative to printed information.

Sometimes the programs fly and sometimes they flop. We're always scheming to figure out a topic that will attract people. I've been doing this in bits here and there for years at the Library, and I think I've got a handle on what attracts adults, but teens are pretty much still a mystery. I was such a geeky teen, that all my internal radar is faulty. For example, if someone advertised a free program on 'be an archaeologist for a day' and come dig in the dirt behind the Library under the direction of trained excavators, I'd be right in there. But everyone that I bounce the idea off, who happens to be the parent of a teen or teens, says 'pitch that idea to 8-12 year olds'. So you see, I'm a victim of my own perkiness.

I was told that kids and teens around my branch are really into creative writing, and so we put together a teen poetry writing workshop on two Saturdays and advertised it city-wide - and got one registrant. So we cancelled it. Sigh. And yet, 'Making handmade soap', pitched at adults and teens together got 12 registrants easily, and 'Learn to play chess' got fourteen people of all ages to come as a drop-in program without even taking registration. It's mystifying.

My next plan is a series of 'handmade' programs for Wednesday afternoons in the summer, and I'm going to pitch it to adults and teens together to make sure I get the numbers. I'm very excited about it, because we have come up with some cool ideas. 'Make your own backyard bubbling fountain', anyone? How about 'wind chimes made out of old silverware'? I'm pumped. And obsessed with getting winner topics. And pleased to heck with myself when I strike gold.

Jim has only one word for me in this state: 'megalomaniac'. (And if this sounds bad, you should see him roll his eyes when I talk about my plans for the storytime I signed myself up for once a month.) It's my cross to bear, I guess.

Saturday, March 03, 2007

Spa Ahhh

We spent last weekend at the Moose Jaw spa hotel, and it was bliss. Sprout had his birthday around then, and we had a very nice family time to celebrate. I don't have any riveting stories from that weekend, but perhaps an uneventful weekend at a resort is a good thing.

Monkey's Potty

Sprout is pretty good at using the grown-up toilet these days, and I would like to get rid of the training potty. Sprout knows this, but there is always a reason why we can't do it right now. The current problem is that the little training potty is not only Sprout's potty, it is Monkey's potty. Who is Monkey, you ask? Monkey is Sprout's little blue stuffed animal and sleep companion.

This, earlier today:

Sprout: We could give dat potty away, but dat is Monkey's potty.

Me: Maybe we could teach Monkey to use the big potty.

Sprout: Monkey can't use dat big potty because he might fall in because he never grows.

Me: Uh, you're right. What if we got Monkey a diaper he could wear?

Sprout: Monkey doesn't pee in his pants at night. He stays dry.

It's a logic hurricane. And I'm not winning.