Fill the internet with happy

Well, folks, we’ve made it. Election Day is here. After today, we won’t have to endure attack ads and mailboxes full of political flyers and canvassers knocking on our doors and waking the baby who *just* went to sleep for the love of all things holy.

It’s not a stretch to say that most of the country is feeling a tad anxious today. That’s why I want to fill the internet with happy.

Read on for a smile. Then please—please please—do your own small part to spread happiness and fill the internet with happy!

The world is full of too much sadness. So fill the internet with happy and spread happiness wherever you go! Ten Thousand Hour Mama Read more

Kiwi is 14 months: Copycat kid

Despite the two years that separate them, Kiwi and Peeper sometimes look like twins—well, a long-haired twin and one with barely enough hair to put up in a whale spout. But this past month, Kiwi’s love of doing everything her big sister does means I have two kids who give me twice the trouble and twice the joy. Because Kiwi is a walking, talking, singing copycat kid.

Kiwi the copycat kid does just about everything else we do. She blows her nose when I have a cold. She combs her hair with a sock when Peeper’s getting her pigtails in. She washes Peeper in the bath just like I do.

In one part of the Cinderella CD we listen to every single darn time we get in the car, Peeper sings along to the chorus—“Ahhh ahhh ahhh ahhhh!” Kiwi does the same, though without much of a tune.

Peeper is learning how to turn a cartwheel in gymnastics. She was showing us the other day, and Kiwi tried to mimic her—and actually got pretty close! Kiwi’s cartwheels were more like headstands, but she did accidentally do a somersault, too. Peeper was thrilled: She clapped and exclaimed, “She’s doing it! She’s doing it!”

If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, my toddler is really buttering us up! Ten Thousand Hour Mama

Kiwi is all eyes—and then she gets it. After watching Peeper or another one of us, she launches into her own version, whether it’s dancing or scrubbing down her high chair.

If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, well, Kiwi is really buttering us up.  Read more

Happy Independence Day – the meaning behind the 4th of July

Happy 4th of July! Ten Thousand Hour Mama

Happy Independence Day!

My aunt and godmother just sent around this photo. My Grandpa Ryan is the tyke in front with the flag. He was also a WWII veteran.

The email from my aunt came shortly after I was complaining about fireworks. Our neighborhood is full of kids, which I absolutely love: They play tag, ride bikes and zip in and out of each other’s houses from breakfast until dusk. They even knock on our door to see if Peeper can play, and they take turns jumping on our mini-trampoline with her. We have a beautiful community.

But they also light fireworks. Perhaps the local fireworks tent had a buy-one-get-five-hundred-free deal, but good grief the explosions. Read more

What my love is worth

preschooler love bed snugglesThe other morning I was sitting on the floor, playing with Kiwi. I snuggled in close to her, ruffling her downy hair with my nose.

“I love you,” I whispered.

Then I looked up at Peeper, who was drinking milk at the table.

“Psst,” I started. She looked at me. “I love you.”

Peeper set her glass down.

Now can I have a popsicle?”

And that’s how I know the value of my love: It is preschooler leverage to get dessert.

Get your picky eater to try kale

In certain circles (*cough, cough* Portlandia), kale is shorthand for all things healthy. Want to make a smoothie? Kale’s in, spinach is out. Whipping up a frittata? Make sure those eggs come from organic-free-range-vegetarian-fed-deliriously-happy hens, and throw in some kale, too, obvi. Making a salad? Forget the romaine; you need to massage some kale instead.

But if your kid is anything like my picky preschooler, kale is not on the menu.

Until now.

(Sort of.)

picky eater kaleHow my kid started to eat kale

Read more

Egg thief

This was the first year Peeper truly did an Easter egg hunt—and she made up for lost time.

Our friend had hidden dozens of plastic eggs in her back yard. We let the kids loose, and Peeper delighted in each egg she found.

At first, she put them all in Eric’s pockets, since we forgot to bring her a basket. (Noobs.) Then a one-year-old friend lent her his, and all bets were off.

Peeper ventured into the baby area, where eggs were simply strewn across the lawn. “I found SO MANY EGGS!” she yelled, showing her full basket to anyone who would listen.

Toddler Easter egg hunt Ten Thousand Hour MamaToddler Easter egg hunt Ten Thousand Hour MamaThen it began to rain. We all went inside to say our goodbyes and eat a last deviled egg (or eight). But Peeper did not bother with such trifles.

Instead, she found another kid’s basket and without any hesitation emptied the entire thing into her basket.

You gotta admit, she’s resourceful.

To all who celebrate, happy Easter!

Happy Easter Ten Thousand Hour MamaSisters Easter bunny ears Ten Thousand Hour Mama

#MotivationMonday from a toddler’s POV

I’m not sure about you, but I’m having a hard time getting my Monday in gear.

We had a wonderful but slightly hectic weekend, complete with a glam photoshoot, catching up with friends we haven’t seen in way too long, and a brunch with about a dozen babies and their families. (The cuteness quotient was out of control.)

But Daylight Savings is still kicking my rear and I’m feeling stretched very thin.

Happy Daylight SavingsTo help me buck up, I’m channeling Peeper as today’s motivational coach. In my head, I’m thinking of what Peeper might say. Here’s how that’s playing out so far this morning in my #MotivationMonday. Read more

*Forehead slap*

Amidst a sea of toys, books and stray socks covering the carpet, Peeper worked on a puzzle. She concentrated as she arranged several robots, fitting their wooden heads, bodies and feet together.

Then she moved on to a number puzzle.

As she was putting the numbers in their places, she paused. She moved one piece over to the robots.

“Look, now it’s a forehead!” she shouted.

And just like that, my preschooler is a punster.

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Tell me a story

Tell me a story grandpa granddaughterEvery night, Peeper’s wind-down routine is the same: Last Play with a timer. Negotiations to get another Last Play. Teeth-brushing. Stalling to get out of teeth-brushing. Jammies. Book. Song.

And recently, after the lights are turned out, she has asked for a story.

***

When I was growing up, my dad loved to tell us kids stories. He’d invent characters and a plot then string them along in drawn-out dramas. He told us a scary tale about a ventriloquist’s dummy that came to life and a mummy who chased a bunch of explorers—but just because he wanted a cough drop.

He’d tell us these stories in the car, mostly. The tales kept us enthralled between point A and point B—but he’d impeccably time a cliffhanger to the moment he turned off the Shempmobile, his blue Dodge Caravan. He always left us wanting more.

It’s legend, in fact, that one summer he stretched a story about Fluffito, the world’s fluffiest dog, to last a road trip spanning a dozen states. He told about Fluffito’s adventures as he made his way up from local to regional to national to finally international  fluffy dog competitions. But, unbelievably, he didn’t finish by the time we returned home.

Before I could hear the end of the story, in fact, my sister ruined the punchline:

“He’s not so fluffy!”

(Yes, we waited 3,000 miles for that.)

***

I can’t help but think of my dad’s storytelling when Peeper curls up on my lap, waiting for the tale to begin. They’re significantly shorter than my dad’s yarns, but Peeper listens just as raptly as I used to.

Every night Peeper asks for essentially the same story. She wants to hear about how Finn lost his bark. My challenge, then, is to invent a new twist every night—how his bark froze when he was walking to the North Pole, how a crab pinched his nose at the beach and made his bark disappear, how he jumped so high on the trampoline that his bark bounced out of his throat, how a wave from the river splashed into his mouth and made his bark too wet.

Peeper enjoys them all, I think. But every so often, I spin a winner.

“Oh, that’s a good one, Mom,” she’ll say as she slides off my lap and climbs into bed.

Maybe my stories will become longer and more complicated as Peeper grows older. I doubt I’ll ever tell an epic of the same caliber as Fluffito, but you can bet I’ll continue to imagine ways for Finn to lose his bark.

Tonight, and tomorrow night, and every night she asks me, I’ll begin. “Once upon a time…”