Fintan is now "Fintan" even to himself. Woe is me.
Earlier today Fintan raced across the room to me yelling "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!". I was feeling sad over some news I'd received about a girl dying who was younger than I am with a son almost exactly Coen's age. Seeing this, Fintan flung himself into my arms and hugged me and gave me a kiss and asked "are you sad, Mommy?". When I put him down a moment later he walked away and then turned around and repeated the whole performance again, and then again a moment later. I got to savor his call, his hug and his kiss three times. He's so intuitive and special. I adore the socks off him.
And I always will, whether he's Tintan or Fintan and whether I'm Mommy, Mama or just plain ol' Mom. I'm just so grateful to be here, at this moment, to enjoy my little boys.
Showing posts with label Fintan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fintan. Show all posts
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Oh what fun it is....
To ride on a one pulled Daddy sle-ed!
This morning we woke up to a heavy snowstorm and almost a foot of snow on the ground. Pat decided to forgo his long commute to stay safely home with us. And we rejoiced. Once Coen went down for his morning nap the rest of us went outside to play.And Fintan tested the limits of his snow apparel
again
again
And again,
And again,
and found them good. He would have stayed out there all day if we'd let him.
Luna tested the limits of her snow apparel, too.
and found them good. He would have stayed out there all day if we'd let him.
Luna tested the limits of her snow apparel, too.
Winny, on the other hand, begged prettily for me to keep her warm.
After playing for over an hour we came inside and had grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup for lunch (Coen had a tasty mix of sweet potatoes and peas) . Then we topped it all off with generous helpings of snow ice cream.
Yummy! What a day.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Thirteen stairs
So, the evening started out well. Fintan and Coen were both happy. Fintan was eating his dinner (grilled fish, crackers, and sliced tomatoes) and Coen was watching him and not crying. So I felt industrious all of the sudden and decided to make Irish brown bread for Pat. It's a "quick" bread so you just have to mix it up and bake it for 50 minutes. No kneading. No problem. I could whip it up in 10 minutes and then put it in to bake just before taking the boys up to have their bath--which I could surely do in 50 minutes.
The bread came together fairly quickly--except that I didn't have enough buttermilk. The ingredients stated 1 3/4 cup so I thought I had plenty, but I hadn't read the recipe carefully enough and it said to continue adding buttermilk until it was the consistency of thick brownie batter that you would then pour into a loaf pan. Mine was the consistency of chunky peanut butter. Great. But the recipe also said that you could limit the amount of buttermilk and make a "free form" loaf. Perfect! So I free-formed it and put it in the oven. As I was setting the timer I realized that with less buttermilk the bread would probably need less time to cook so I set the timer for 35 minutes. The boys would just have to have a quick bath.
As soon as something needs to be done quickly everything slows down. I kept forgetting things (like, um, jammies and diapers....towels) but eventually everything was ready. I put Fintan in the tub first and then undressed Coen. I picked up that cute little nekkid boy and gave him a big ol' kiss on his round cheek. He's so irresistable! Then as I lifted him a bit higher to transfer him into his little tub inside the big tub, I heard "tttthhhhhbt" coming from the general direction of his bottom....and a warm sensation spread slowly across my thighs.
Breastmilk poo. Ew. And then some more....and then some more...and then just a little bit more.
Okay. I remained calm. I couldn't leave the room because Fintan was already in the tub, and we were dripping poo as well. But that's okay, I had wipes, everything was okay. I grabbed one wipe after another and cleaned my baby's tiny bottom and his legs, and his feet, and his back and his...just kidding, that's all. Then I put him into his little bathtub. Then I got up to survey the personal damage. It was bad. I stripped off my jeans and wrapped them up in the bath mat that had taken its fair share of the of the mess and shoved them both in the washer (which is within arm's reach of the bathtub). I cleaned my legs up with baby wipes and then, of course, I bathed the boys in my skivvies because I couldn't leave the room to get fresh pants. Fine.
By this point I'd forgotten about the bread in the oven....but it hadn't forgotten about me. The boys had both been thoroughly cleaned, but were still in the tub, when I heard the timer go off. I quickly, but carefully got Coen out of the tub, dried him, diapered him, jammied him, and moved him aside to start on Fintan. Every 10 seconds the timer went off. I pictured my brown bread shriveling up in the oven and bursting into flames. I g0t Fintan dried and jammied quickly and then scooped up Coen and we started to head downstairs at the achingly slow pace of two-year-old Fintan Patrick.
You might think that knowing my house was lit gloriously from within would give me pause in heading downstairs pantsless on a dark night with curtainless windows. But it didn't. My bread was burning, people! We headed down the stairs. Fintan scooting down on his bottom and Coen and I walking ahead, as usual, in case he took a tumble. Now, the underwear I happened to be wearing was, ahem, (pardon me for saying) a g-string that was held together in back by a small circle of metal. Fintan happens to LOVE little circles of metal (think, coins which he calls "caps"). So the whole way down the stairs I heard:
"What's that on your bottom, Mama?" thump
"What's that on your bottom, Mama?" thump
"What's that on your bottom, Mama? thump
For thirteen stairs he asked me that. And for thirteen stairs I answered:
"They're called panties, sweetie."
"They're called panties, sweetie."
"It's part of my panties, sweetie."
Then I laid Coen down on the rug in the living room and raced to the kitchen with Fintan padding after me in his footies. I stood in front of the picture window and checked the bread. It was brown and poofy and sounded hollow when I thumped it. Perfect. The bread was saved. My PRIDE however may never be.
And what's the deal with all the poo and the underwear-at-the-window events happening at my house? I think we're developing a theme here.
I guess the moral of the story is: Cover your eyes when you turn up my driveway. A call ahead might be prudent. And if you pinch your nose when you walk through the door, I won't be offended. I'll just offer you a clothespin.
The bread came together fairly quickly--except that I didn't have enough buttermilk. The ingredients stated 1 3/4 cup so I thought I had plenty, but I hadn't read the recipe carefully enough and it said to continue adding buttermilk until it was the consistency of thick brownie batter that you would then pour into a loaf pan. Mine was the consistency of chunky peanut butter. Great. But the recipe also said that you could limit the amount of buttermilk and make a "free form" loaf. Perfect! So I free-formed it and put it in the oven. As I was setting the timer I realized that with less buttermilk the bread would probably need less time to cook so I set the timer for 35 minutes. The boys would just have to have a quick bath.
As soon as something needs to be done quickly everything slows down. I kept forgetting things (like, um, jammies and diapers....towels) but eventually everything was ready. I put Fintan in the tub first and then undressed Coen. I picked up that cute little nekkid boy and gave him a big ol' kiss on his round cheek. He's so irresistable! Then as I lifted him a bit higher to transfer him into his little tub inside the big tub, I heard "tttthhhhhbt" coming from the general direction of his bottom....and a warm sensation spread slowly across my thighs.
Breastmilk poo. Ew. And then some more....and then some more...and then just a little bit more.
Okay. I remained calm. I couldn't leave the room because Fintan was already in the tub, and we were dripping poo as well. But that's okay, I had wipes, everything was okay. I grabbed one wipe after another and cleaned my baby's tiny bottom and his legs, and his feet, and his back and his...just kidding, that's all. Then I put him into his little bathtub. Then I got up to survey the personal damage. It was bad. I stripped off my jeans and wrapped them up in the bath mat that had taken its fair share of the of the mess and shoved them both in the washer (which is within arm's reach of the bathtub). I cleaned my legs up with baby wipes and then, of course, I bathed the boys in my skivvies because I couldn't leave the room to get fresh pants. Fine.
By this point I'd forgotten about the bread in the oven....but it hadn't forgotten about me. The boys had both been thoroughly cleaned, but were still in the tub, when I heard the timer go off. I quickly, but carefully got Coen out of the tub, dried him, diapered him, jammied him, and moved him aside to start on Fintan. Every 10 seconds the timer went off. I pictured my brown bread shriveling up in the oven and bursting into flames. I g0t Fintan dried and jammied quickly and then scooped up Coen and we started to head downstairs at the achingly slow pace of two-year-old Fintan Patrick.
You might think that knowing my house was lit gloriously from within would give me pause in heading downstairs pantsless on a dark night with curtainless windows. But it didn't. My bread was burning, people! We headed down the stairs. Fintan scooting down on his bottom and Coen and I walking ahead, as usual, in case he took a tumble. Now, the underwear I happened to be wearing was, ahem, (pardon me for saying) a g-string that was held together in back by a small circle of metal. Fintan happens to LOVE little circles of metal (think, coins which he calls "caps"). So the whole way down the stairs I heard:
"What's that on your bottom, Mama?" thump
"What's that on your bottom, Mama?" thump
"What's that on your bottom, Mama? thump
For thirteen stairs he asked me that. And for thirteen stairs I answered:
"They're called panties, sweetie."
"They're called panties, sweetie."
"It's part of my panties, sweetie."
Then I laid Coen down on the rug in the living room and raced to the kitchen with Fintan padding after me in his footies. I stood in front of the picture window and checked the bread. It was brown and poofy and sounded hollow when I thumped it. Perfect. The bread was saved. My PRIDE however may never be.
And what's the deal with all the poo and the underwear-at-the-window events happening at my house? I think we're developing a theme here.
I guess the moral of the story is: Cover your eyes when you turn up my driveway. A call ahead might be prudent. And if you pinch your nose when you walk through the door, I won't be offended. I'll just offer you a clothespin.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
My boy is two
This is a post I wrote on September 14th, Fintan's second birthday. It was really windy and I lost my internet connection and my computer froze up while trying to load pics onto this post. This is the first time I've been able to get back to it. I swear I'm going to have to hire a babysitter in order to blog! Anyway, here is the post cut short:
I can't believe it. It's official. Fintan is a two year old. *sniff* I put him in his bed last night and felt a catch in my throat as I kissed my one year old for the very last time.
Last night after his bath, as if to drive the point home to me that he is growing up whether I want it or not, he (and unless you've had babies you will not understand the bigness of this deal) asked to poopoo on the potty. I put him there expecting him to just sit there and do nothing as the potty is brand new and I've hardly even broached the subject with him except to read a few potty books here and there. Well after a minute or two and a few grunts he started unrolling the toilet paper and telling me he was going to wipe. I played along but didn't realize until he stood up that there was actually poopoo in the potty! An honest to goodness pellet. He did it! I couldn't believe it. Pat and I cheered. Fintan beamed. What a right of passage for your last night as a one year old, huh?
Actually, his last few days as a one-year-old have been fun. The weather has been nice and cool so we've been able to get outside a lot, even if Coen is awake. I can wear him in a wrap and we can go for nature walks to Fintan's favorite place: the mulch pile, stopping on the way to pick a few cherry tomatoes as an afternoon snack for Fintan. A few days ago on one of our nature walks we found the biggest toad we had ever seen at our house. It was a pretty laid back toad and he let Fintan pet him for a moment or two before hopping on his way.
He played in his sandbox a lot and even laid down in it once to better sing "Up on the Housetop Reindeer Paws".
I'm going to end this here with a birthday pic since I don't know where I was going with this whole monologue. ;) Here he is, the man of the hour, king of the cube and supreme dictator:
I can't believe it. It's official. Fintan is a two year old. *sniff* I put him in his bed last night and felt a catch in my throat as I kissed my one year old for the very last time.
Last night after his bath, as if to drive the point home to me that he is growing up whether I want it or not, he (and unless you've had babies you will not understand the bigness of this deal) asked to poopoo on the potty. I put him there expecting him to just sit there and do nothing as the potty is brand new and I've hardly even broached the subject with him except to read a few potty books here and there. Well after a minute or two and a few grunts he started unrolling the toilet paper and telling me he was going to wipe. I played along but didn't realize until he stood up that there was actually poopoo in the potty! An honest to goodness pellet. He did it! I couldn't believe it. Pat and I cheered. Fintan beamed. What a right of passage for your last night as a one year old, huh?
Actually, his last few days as a one-year-old have been fun. The weather has been nice and cool so we've been able to get outside a lot, even if Coen is awake. I can wear him in a wrap and we can go for nature walks to Fintan's favorite place: the mulch pile, stopping on the way to pick a few cherry tomatoes as an afternoon snack for Fintan. A few days ago on one of our nature walks we found the biggest toad we had ever seen at our house. It was a pretty laid back toad and he let Fintan pet him for a moment or two before hopping on his way.
He played in his sandbox a lot and even laid down in it once to better sing "Up on the Housetop Reindeer Paws".
I'm going to end this here with a birthday pic since I don't know where I was going with this whole monologue. ;) Here he is, the man of the hour, king of the cube and supreme dictator:
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