Portrait By a Young Artist

Can we talk about this picture for a minute? My 4 y.o. came home from preschool with it the other day and it’s been adorning our kitchen wall ever since.

The boy is getting to be quite the artist, I’ll give him that. It wasn’t so long ago he was bringing home deformed blobs of Play-Doh dotted with buttons and macaroni and pronouncing it “birthday cake.”

What gets me is the level of detail in his family portrait. He’s colored himself green (his favorite shade), aptly depicted his baby brother with red hair, and even included his dad’s Adam’s apple. And yet he couldn’t even give HIS OWN MOM hair or a nose?!

Now, I do like how he drew me with blue feet. Perhaps that’s a nod to my stylish footwear. But what’s with the crazy, bendy pose at the top of the page? Is this symbolic of how I bend over backwards for my family? How I tie myself in knots to cater to my kids? Or did he (more likely) simply run out of room after drawing the rest of the family? Thanks, kid. Thanks a lot.

It’s like the time he gave me a Mother’s Day card with what I thought was a lovingly rendered portrait of his mom. Nope. He set me straight: “It’s a candy machine.”

Of course, his Father’s Day card WAS adorned with a picture of his dad … and his dad’s smelly sneakers, complete with wavy lines to illustrate how the stench was wafting out of the shoes. Very life-like.

Miles’ favorite things to draw, however, seem to be animals. There was his koala period, when every marsupial was, oddly, drawn with a belly button. Dogs and cats are popular subjects. Then he moved on to his licensed-character phase: Mickey Mouse, Kung Fu Panda, and the Pink Panther. (Or, when he can’t find a pink marker, the Purple Panther.)

At age 4, my boy is certainly a prolific artist. Now the only question is, what do I do with all this artwork? I’m running out of room on the fridge. Maybe if he’d draw a decent picture of ME sometime, I’d even get it framed.

LINK O’ THE WEEK: Minky Moo’s portrait of another young artist, aka The Boss.

Fun with Juggies and Funk

Think life with little ones is all dirty diapers, spit-up, and safety hazards? (Now who on earth could’ve given you THAT impression?! ;) Not so, my friends. Sometimes it’s more fun than you can shake a stick at. Though I wouldn’t advise it, because sticks are sharp and someone could lose an eye.

If your definition of fun involves tequila shots and shirtless frat boys, of course, you’re in for a bit of an adjustment post-kids. Though I would daresay the shirtless guys around my house are MUCH cuter than any beer-soaked dude in a backwards baseball cap. (Although did you SEE the photos of Zac Efron in People magazine recently?!)

Here’s just a small sampling of the shenanigans we get up to around here:

Making fun of each other. I’d say we laugh WITH each other rather than AT each other, but that would be a lie. Fortunately, a lot of times we’re laughing at the baby, who’s too young to realize he’s the butt of our jokes.

Speaking of butts, the Huggies jeans diapers he’s been sporting since my MIL bought him a pack are an endless source of amusement. Have you seen these? C. calls them “Juggies” (Get it? Jeans + Huggies) or Daisy Dukes.

Baby dance parties. Anyone who’s ever seen an episode of “America’s Funniest Videos” can attest to the fact that kids + music = hilarity. Kids just seem to have this natural rhythm that can’t be contained. Riley starts rocking out to any tune he hears, even the theme music of Miles’ video games.

The other day I had the XM Radio tuned to my personal favorite station, acoustic coffeehouse feminists or something like that, when the baby grabbed the remote and somehow navigated to old school funk. Get down, get down… He sure can shake his Juggies-clad booty.

Taking pictures. I’m going to reveal my advanced age with this comment, but can I just say how astounding I find it that my 4 y.o. can use a digital camera? And he actually takes really good pictures! Check out this artistic sky shot. I was twice his age before I got my first Polaroid camera. A Polaroid!! I’d have a hard time trying to even explain what film is to today’s kids. Wow, I’m old.

Other pastimes include streaking, karaoke, and Mommy & Me happy hours with the neighbors. Although I’ve sacrificed many a glass of wine to rescue someone from a tricycle collision or errant Frisbee. Maybe it’s time to get one of those hands-free beer hats. You know, like a beer-soaked frat boy.

LINK O’ THE WEEK: “Sh*t My Kids Ruined” features photos of – you guessed it – stuff kids have destroyed, defaced, or worse.

Domestic Goddess by Default

I have never been an enthusiastic practitioner of the domestic arts -- cooking, cleaning, sewing, gardening, crocheting, what have you. I mean, I CAN whip up some tasty peanut noodles. I DO clean my kitchen (too often for my liking, yet still not often enough). I HAVE managed to keep a few houseplants alive. I even sewed a quilt for my unborn child. (Hey, I had to pass the time somehow during my 41+ week pregnancy!) But I wouldn’t say I particularly enjoy these activities.

I know people who love to cook. Look at Rachael Ray. The woman cooks for a living, and still claims she goes home and makes dinner every night. My question is: why?? Same goes for people who make their own clothes. I can appreciate a hand-sewn quilt, but why would you spent all that time making a dress when you could just go out and buy one? Gardening I sort of understand -– at least you can admire and maybe even eat the fruits of your labor -– but it’s still one of the least-appealing activities I can think of. Just the THOUGHT of dirt under my nails makes me cringe. And to me, mulch smells like vomit.

OK, so Holly Homemaker I’m not. Unfortunately for me, none of my hobbies (if you can even call them that) lend themselves to raising a child. Traveling, reading, going to concerts, eating out, exercising, even writing is not easy with a baby in tow. Early on, I was frustrated that motherhood curtailed so many of my favorite pastimes: the beach was too bright for a baby, his neck was too floppy for a bike seat, kayaking was too dangerous, and whenever he was sleeping, I was too tired to read.

Now that Miles is a toddler, he’s more adaptable. Still, we spend a lot of time housebound. Naps are sacred, he goes to bed early, and he prefers to stay home and play with his toys a lot of the time. So, I have been forced to find things to do around the house – like cooking, cleaning, and even (yikes!) gardening. It’s true. Miles and I spent a nice afternoon planting window boxes. Well, I planted while he dug in the dirt for worms and emptied the watering can on his shoes.

My mom, a skilled sewer and bread baker, revealed that she took up baking after she had a baby. It was a quiet, time-consuming activity she could do while he napped. Plus, it made the house smell nice and everyone got to enjoy the finished product. I learned to knit when I was pregnant, because I could do something productive and chat or watch TV at the same time. (Sadly, I ditched that hobby the minute I finished my first, and only, scarf.)

I have friends who are avid scrapbookers. (Or "scrappers," per the lingo.) That, I can get on board with. At least it’s an attractive way to deal with all those shoeboxes and/or hard drives full of photos. Other moms I know refinish furniture and make their own stationery. All productive activities you can do while keeping an eye on a baby. And that don’t take too much brain power. And that can be easily interrupted should you need to nurse, change a diaper, or rescue your toddler when he’s wedged his head between the slats of a kitchen chair. (Not that that’s ever happened to me. Oh, who am I kidding? Of course it has!)

I have not embraced my inner Martha. I do not aspire to win any bake-offs. I will never make a pair of overalls for my child or decoupage a lamp. (Actually, I don’t even know what that means.) I might, however, keep my window boxes alive this year. Fingers crossed.

LAUGH O’ THE WEEK: We were at the pool and another boy had a squirt gun. Miles asked me what it was. I paused, reluctant to introduce the concept of firearms. “What do you think it is?” I asked him. “A hairdryer!” he shouted. Sure. Let’s go with that.