The Next Ones

I averaged about two seizures each year over the past ten years. But in less than a year now I've had five seizures. Yesterday I had the fifth one-- the second one since I had Teddy. It was absolutely and completely my own fault this time. I had forgotten to take my medicine. The time before yesterday was in August, and that was when my neurologist had me cut back on my dosage too quickly and I had one in our street with all three boys. Fortunately for that one Brian was just upstairs in our house and Calvin sprinted up to get him while Clark stayed with Teddy. Awesome kids.

Yesterday my dear friend Missy stayed with me after she was going to drop us all off because I had felt a sometimes-seizure-indicating tremor while we were out. So when I had the seizure I was not only safe at home, I was safe at home with Missy to take care of the FIVE children that were there. It inconveniently happened on a rare day that I was watching little Alex, who I used to watch all the time. I fell into a wall and got a black eye and bit my tongue all up.

I hate my situation so much. I have sole responsibility for the lives of my children and sometimes others' children too, and yet I can't always guarantee that I will be capable-- even conscious-- throughout my responsibility. I find myself wondering if having children was a smart decision. Every day they are in jeopardy because of my seizures. And then I get bummed out about it and sad and wonder if my seizures will get worse and worse or stay the same or get better. I'm sad that my seizures scare my kids and husband. And then my medication makes me spacey and I forget what I was worrying about. I know it could be much, much worse.

It's an odd and helpless feeling to have your own body fighting against you in this way-- I'm sure in any way.

One thing is for certain; I am blessed to have so many people who are willing to drop everything and help me when I need it.

My eye from yesterday

My knees from the street in August

The Way It Is

Last Sunday I had another seizure. It’s the second one I’ve had while pregnant this time. I fell straight down on my abdomen from a standing position. I fell partially on Calvin, and my coffee splattered all over the carpet. Fortunately, Brian was right there since it was Sunday. He called his mom to watch the boys while we went to the emergency room to have the baby checked out.

I couldn’t believe it. I’ve averaged one seizure per year for the past four years or so, and I just had one three months ago. I honestly didn’t think I’d have another one until next fall. Silly to think I could predict my own unpredictable neurological misfires.

I discovered, on returning back home from the hospital (Peapod was fine- moving all over like crazy on the sonogram), that I had forgotten my medicine the night before. That was a huge relief. I thought I’d remembered it. I can’t tell you how many times in my seizure-medicine-taking life I’ve forgotten my meds and been fine. But the only two times I’ve forgotten them while being pregnant this time, I’ve had a seizure within 10 hours of missing the dose.

Now our minds are spinning—I think especially Brian’s because he watched the seizure. What will we do with a newborn? The boys will not be able to pry me off a baby if I fall on it. They can’t turn off a pan with scorching pancakes on the stove or pick up a baby out of a bath. They can call for help on their phone, but that’s about it at this point. Fortunately we've been blessed as a family to get through this far with no horrible accident surrounding my seizures. But if something did happen we could never forgive ourselves. We feel that we need to make better arrangements. And now we are trying to figure out what in the world to do.

My seizures always have occurred within the first hour and a half to two hours of waking up. Basically I just need an alive, awake adult in my house every weekday morning for two hours. Let me tell you how this makes me feel: utterly useless. I hate that I need it, but I’m trying to swallow my pride and do what I need to do to take care of my family. There are other options we’re also looking into, but the least life-changing one would be to simply have someone come babysit me- a 32 year-old adult- every weekday morning; keep me from hurting my own children, should I have a seizure. It's grim and it makes me sad. But that's the way it is. I know it could be much worse.    

Any and all other ideas for how to face this are certainly welcome. 

Lumpy's Gift

You may remember the acquisition of our Lumpy Tree that I wrote about. We had Lumpy for a couple weeks before we saw her miraculous gift. On Christmas morning we woke up to see one side of Lumpy covered in a spider web. I don’t mean, “Oh, look at the cute little spider web!”  If there’s such a thing. No, I mean, “Who spread the fake Halloween web all over the tree?” Seriously. So foul. Our hardworking Lumpy Spider had spent all Christmas Eve building us a web, but we couldn’t find any words in it, so clearly it was not Charlotte the spider. Lumpy Tree had given us a gift. It was a Christmas miracle?

We weren’t home very long on Christmas day--  just long enough to open presents, Skype with Idaho and Ecuador, and then head out for a day with family. The spider wouldn’t leave the tree, right? He couldn’t bite us if we weren’t home…we’d take the tree out the next day. Just be cool, everyone. And please just let Lumpy Spider be a boy and not a pregnant mom.

The next morning I started undecorating Lumpy, but Brian was sick and slept a lot of the morning. I could not haul that giant tree out by myself so I just waited. We were sitting at the dining room table when Clark pointed up at the light and said, “Look Mom, there are bugs on our ceiling.” Yes. There. Were. Hundreds of tiny spiders, each about the size of a pen tip, were on a web from the vent at one side of the ceiling to the light in the middle of the ceiling. I tried not to vomit as I vacuumed them up and emptied the vacuum out. Later Brian woke up and took the tree out in segments and we cleaned up the needles. Then in a lampshade in the living room we found more of Lumpy’s gift—more tiny spider babies. And Lumpy’s gift continues.

We definitely will never forget Lumpy Tree and Lumpy Spider.  Now every tiny speck I see I aggressively wipe out. Damn that mutant tree.

Lumpy's web

Lumpy Spider's offspring

More of Lumpy's Gift

 

Potty Mouths

Happy Thursday! I hope you've all eaten before you read what I wrote about my twin potty mouths for DC Metro Mom this morning. Here's the link.

The Incident of Which We May Now Speak

Not so long ago an incident went down, or rather, when up in our house that I am just now feeling comfortable enough to write about. One morning I walked into the boys’ room to see this on the wall.

This is not crayon. Nope. Sharpies.

My initial reaction was total dismay. Cal, Sharpies in hand, might as well as have punched me in my feelings and laughed. I know that’s not a thing, but still. You know what I mean. I felt personally injured. That kid knows that drawing on anything other than paper or the window (but only with window markers) is wrong. He had just gotten in trouble a few days prior for using crayons on his dresser. Now this.  I don’t remember exactly what I first said, but it was probably just whining and moaning as I shook with anger.  Brian had to calm me down as we talked about discipline measures. To me at that moment, nothing except maybe water-boarding would be too extreme.  

I suppose what we settled on was more level-headed. We had to take everything into consideration: The day before he was praised highly for how well he was coloring in the lines. In fact, he colored twelve space shuttles, skillfully staying in the lines for the most part. 

Cal's are the 12 monochromatic ones. the others are Clark's.

On the wall, he had spent plenty of time coloring in each of the truck wheels on the wall. He clearly had been at this for a long time. How had we not heard them? He (and maybe Clark) had been at this a long time. They marked the lampshade, the radio, the wardrobe/dresser, the shelf, the sheets, the outside of the bed, the inside of the bed, the top rails of the bed, the middle rails of the bed, Cal’s pajamas, and Cal’s body.  

How could we have let them both be awake for so long and not noticed they were up? Also: it’s not their fault that someone left Sharpies in their reach, particularly when they were bored and Cal was trapped on his bunk. I still have no idea when or where I left Sharpies in their reach. It’s still a mystery. Whenever we asked them, they said a different spot, so we gave up on sleuthing it out. Anyway, we ended up giving them several stern talkings-to and if anything else like this happens we will not be so passive about it. Because I'm perfectly rational, I was mad at the Sharpies themselves and let them sit with out the lids on for a few days, drying up in a prolonged, painful death. 

Now. Any ideas for how to get this stuff off the wall? The bed? The shelves? I’ve had some luck with hand sanitizer on the wall, and Colgate toothpaste worked some on the dresser. Sunblock got it off his neck, legs, and foot. Stain stick didn’t take it off the sheets. I haven’t even tried the lampshade, but I’m guessing that’s finished. 

Any other ideas? As soon as we get it cleaned off the best we can, we will paint over it. I guess. I kind of just feel like leaving it up. Maybe I should let them draw on that wall all they want? The other day they were pretending the scribble-wall was their map while they flew their bed like a space shuttle. Maybe leaving it would promote creative play. As if the little pretenders need creative play promoted. 

Just Be Enough

It has been great to meet so many local Virginia and DC bloggers over the past few months. I've met many of them online and some of them I've actually met face to face. Today I have a guest post on Just Be Enough, thanks to having virtually met Elena, the voice and heart behind Just. Be. Enough. Read it here.

Remembering I Am a Model: The Smoking Ears

I’m not an easily-angered person. Not much makes me mad. But having kids seems to have awakened an occasional angry side to me that I didn’t know existed. I love my boys more than I thought possible, and they make me happier than I can even describe, but sometimes they make me want to put my fist through a wall. Pretty sure I’m not supposed to say that out loud or write about, but it’s true. I think most anger-inducing actions fit into four basic categories.

Creating intentional messes. The other day they were pretending Clark’s chair was toast and they were smearing tuna, which they were pretending was butter, all over the chair. Of course it doesn’t stay on the chair, but falls to the floor, chunky and disgusting. If you don’t know what it’s like to clean tuna up off a carpet, you’re lucky. I love all their pretending, but they know this is something they shouldn’t be doing—they see the mess they’re making. They know it’s not nice to me because I always tell them, usually through clenched teeth while I clean up something gooey and/or sticky from an inconvenient place. Their giggles usually make me so happy, but when they giggle about making a mess, when they know what they are doing, I am not a giggle fan.

Another thing that makes me mad is when they’re mean to each other, specifically when the mean is unprovoked. Sometimes one of them will be having a fun time playing alone and the other one purposefully comes along and pulls a jackass move simply out of boredom or just plain jackassery. For example, Clark loves to pretend everything is a hockey puck, and often it is a little shamrock from a necklace that is his puck. He was happily pushing his shamrock around, being a commentator at his imaginary hockey game, and Cal came over, picked up the shamrock, and flung it behind the couch. What a little punk! Why would you do that to your brother? Anger.

Another anger-inducing situation is when they disobey me and then laugh when I’m frustrated. When I’m telling them to come over to me for something and they stand there, saying they’re tiptoeing to me, or walking backwards to me and they actually aren’t moving, and smoke is welling up in my ears, and then they laugh. The smoke empties. In public is the worst because it’s also dangerous for them to not come to me immediately. Often when I’m in a hurry, they think I’m being funny because I’m doing things quickly and asking them to speed up. They must think that laughing at me in distress makes me funnier.

The last one is actually a different form of anger; it’s mostly incredulous and often comic frustration. I cannot believe how long it takes me to do something simple most days. I’m interrupted so many times that it’s nearly funny. I feel like I’m looking at a movie of myself flailing around trying to do 47 things at one time and there’s a laugh track with it. This often involves taking two hours to make scrambled eggs and toast because I keep having to stop to put Cal on the toilet, off the toilet, clean up the floor he peed all over, apply sock gloves to Clark and then cheer for him each time he scores his imaginary hockey goals, change Clark’s diaper, wipe noses, turn on Jimmy Buffet for Cal, clean up the spilled milk, start laundry, change laundry…you get the idea.

As I said, these quick feelings of anger are somewhat new to me, as a laid-back-in-general type of person. But they are canceled out by so many moments of love, fun, pride, and downright amusement that they are of course worth it. The other night, while saying prayers, Clark prayed out of the blue, “Help Mommy not have seizures,” which of course made me proud and sad at the same time. I hope the boys learn not to hurt each other, how to hurry when we need to hurry, and to not laugh at people in distress, so hopefully those instances of frustration will diminish. I have this feeling that different ones will emerge as they grow, but it doesn’t matter. I have to remember most importantly of all that they are always watching me and that I am their model for how to handle frustration and anger, so I need to only punch that hole in my imaginary wall and ease off on the steam pouring out my ears.

P.S. You would not believe how long it took me to complete this entry.

Learning to take turns and work together

Angry Birds vs. Angry Clark

Clark is acting like a teenage girl lately. For one thing, he’s obsessing over his hair. If it ever gets any hint of static or he imagines that there is static, he starts wailing about wanting water on it. If his pants are pulled up too high, he freaks out. He doesn’t like his food to touch on his plate. Everything surrounding him is of dramatic importance.

To best illustrate the drama surrounding Clark’s difficult and stressful life, I’ll use an incident from the other day:

1.       Clark hurts his finger and cries.

2.       I tell him that Daddy bought Angry Birds (a new obsession) band-aids for them!

3.       I put on said band-aid.

4.       Clark is happy.

5.       Two seconds later, Clark starts crying because the yellow bird is covered up and he couldn’t see it and that is his favorite bird.

6.       I calm him down by showing him how cool the other birds are.

7.       We leave the house and start down the stairs.

8.       Clark begins screaming hysterically because holding the rail on the normal side he walks down feels weird because of his band-aid on his finger.

9.       I show him he can use the other rail with the other hand and it doesn’t feel weird.

10.   Clark sits down on the top steps, yelling, “no! no!” with tears pouring down his face.

11.   I go to pick him up and carry him down and he shrieks even more, slapping at me.

12.   I go down the stairs with Cal and leave him to his tears.

13.   He eventually comes down and is happy.

14.   We go for our walk.

15.   We stop at a restaurant for lunch.

16.   As soon as he gets his food he starts wailing about how he can’t eat with his band-aid on. “Get it off! Get it off!”

17.   People stare.

18.   I take the band-aid off and put it on his coat, which is on the back of his chair.

19.   He smiles at it and starts eating.

20.   He notices that from where he is sitting and eating, he cannot see his band-aid-turned-sticker.

21.   He again starts wailing about it.

22.   I tell him he’s being ridiculous and I throw it away.

23.   More screams and more stares but he eventually calms down.

24.   He finishes his chocolate milk and starts crying that it’s gone.

25.   We leave.

I guess he’s just going through a phase, but it’s one that makes me want to routinely bang my head against a wall. He also threatens us. He threatens to spank us or yell at us or bang something really hard! on the floor or table or something. I guess he's revisiting this phase from last year. Fortunately Cal has been milder in general these days. He prefers to engage in silent mind games by refusing to apologize or admit what he did was wrong even though it means staying in his bed.

So I’m sure this makes you want to go out and have kids, right? Specifically twins? The amazing thing to me is how quickly they can go from having an epic meltdown to being charming again. I guess that’s how they survive in our house. Cuteness and sweetness outweigh screaming fits of unbridled and irrational rage. 

I’m so glad they won’t one day be teenage girls. Then the drama would be over things like boys and shoes and purses and tampons and things. I'm way better with band-aids and chocolate milk.

Can't imagine him angry? Come visit in a few minutes. 

Tantrums: A Brief Index

It's been close to a year since I wrote this about an inappropriate comment that an old man made to me in a coffee shop. So, I'm checking in again with some more totes inappropes comments from a stranger, and weighing in on the phenomenon of toddler tantrums. On Saturday Brian and I took the boys over the icy path, along the crunchy snow that the boys wanted to eat, "like the man in the merkercial on TV, Mommy!" (commercial), to the Barnes and Noble across the street. Since the fine Barnes and Noble booksellers now boast "the greatest toy selection in the world!" (?) they added a block table within the expanded toy section that the boys and I played on while Brian went to pick up the book he needed. The boys are much better with Duplo (big Legos) blocks than they used to be, but they still sometimes have a hard time clicking them into place.

We had great fun at first, but soon frustration set in with the boys just as Brian found his book and came over to play too. Cal was emotionally injured by Daddy using some of the blocks he had been using and did some shrieking. I call these the Pre-Tantrum Tremors (PTTs). They are warnings that a meltdown is immanent if nothing is changed quickly. I took him to another toy and he calmed down. Then Clark started getting frustrated over blocks and started shrieking ridiculously loud, his PTTs rapidly escalating to a full-blown Physical Anguish Tantrum (PAT) as he flung blocks around. So Brian took him out the front doors and tried to calm him down. I took Cal, who at this point had calmed down and was perfectly content, outside with Brian and Clark. I stood out with the boys so Brian could go pay for his book before we left. I calmed Clark down from his indignant rage and then took both boys inside to fetch our stroller that was just inside the door, and leave the premises.

When I put Clark in the stroller he started more PTTs and squirmed almost through the bottom of the feet space, so that his feet were on the ground and his head was partially under the little tray on the stroller. His screams were reverberating around the once-pleasant interior of the store and I pulled him up by his coat, which of course only made him scream louder and slide down again, his PAT coming back with full force. He would not be reasoned with. I started pulling the stroller out the door, which made Cal enter PTT mode because he wasn't in the stroller too. By then there were about three people backed up around the door, trying to leave, while my giant stroller and I were taking up the small door space. I couldn't really pull or push it straight because the stroller itself was walking, thanks to Clark's little feet sticking through and his PAT.

I don't understand fits like this--the I'm-in-physical-anguish-and-must-be-heard-by-all tantrum. I really don't. My response is usually incredulity, rather than anger, (Really? You're really screaming hysterically over a block?) and my tactic is usually to remove the child from the scene, while at the same time not overreacting and making it worse-- which is probably what the little fit-pitcher wants. So in the ensuing awkward movements that it took for me to maneuver the walking stroller with the PTT boy and the PAT boy through the door, a random old man helped me. It was nice of him. I didn't need him to open his mouth though, as it turned out. He instructed one of the boys to, "Stop crying! Your mom is probably going to start crying herself."

What?

Weird. I mean, I kind of wanted to pick up Clark by his coat and shake him, and I was a perturbed and flustered to be in the awkward door situation, but I wasn't anywhere near crying and I don't know why he thought I was. So, as if Door Opener Man hadn't said enough, when Brian showed up with his book purchased and helped me get the stroller through the last door DOM opened his mouth again. "Oh, your help disappeared on you. I see," he said, nodding toward Brian. Come on, man. Really? If your door-opening comes with the price of your thoughtless comments, then why don't you just forget it. I'll have my PTT-ing boy try to hold the door open for me.

Anyway, that's my inappropriate comment from the weekend. And the giant meltdown, which was a prototypical PAT, was probably the worst public one ever. Below is a pictorial index of the main tantrum types caught on camera.

PTT's characteristic warming-up of the extremities for the physical display to come

The Physical Anguish Tantrum (PAT), this time over a computer screen

The annoying, but much-preferred in public, Silent Protest

The Stairs or the Fire?

Making decisions has never been something I'm good at. Would I rather have pizza or Chinese food? I either don't care and defer to the company I'm with, or struggle about the merits of both options and torture myself with the what-ifs. I'm rarely good at quickly deciding on anything. 

But becoming a parent has sped up my decision-making process in most areas. Since I have twins, who go through the same stages at the same time, those decisions really sped up when they began walking. It was as if I was being forced in a split second to answer nearly-philosophical questions that deserve pondering and postulating over. For example: one boys toddles off toward the stairs as another nears a blazing fire. Which do I grab first? Is being burned worse than falling? Ready, set, go! Decide! Now! One boy is eating a bug out of the sand, the other is racing toward the water without a life jacket. BAM. Decide! It's seriously something that you might have a group discussion about in a philosophy class. If Hitler were drowning in a river, and you were a lifeguard, would you jump in and save him? That type of thing. Is it worse for Clark to step on and break his guitar or for Calvin to pee all over the floor? It's really a tough call.

Now there are the discipline decisions since both boys are fond of throwing loud obnoxious fits lately. What is the nature and degree of the offense? If one boy won't stop kicking me while I change his diaper, should I kick him back (Which I've gently done while sitting down and it works like a charm, because it offends them. It's like a slow motion pretend kick, but they hate it.), or do I put him in his bed for a time out? Does one boy hitting the other boy in self-defense deserve the same disciplining that an offensive hit warrants? Better decide fast!

I think I'm getting better at the split-second decision-making than I was pre-babies, but I'm still not much good at it. Or am I?

And what should I make for dinner…?

Is this the best way for him to learn not to stick his head in a fountain spout? Maybe.

Firm Full Names

Occasionally Brian and I will use the boys’ middle names to be firm. To be frown-y. To show we’re serious. The usual way people use middle names. I didn’t think the boys were even noticing our use of their full names until the other day when we were climbing up the stairs after a walk. As usual the boys were dallying near the bottom (where the swarms of mosquitoes wait for their supple toddler skin). I belted out a nice loud, echoing, “CLARK!” since he hadn’t moved a muscle. Both boys stopped in their tracks and yelled back, almost equally as loud, finishing what they assumed to be the rest of my reprimand “…Aaron Crosson!”

It has happened a few times now with, “Calvin Kenneth Crosson!” or Clark Aaron Crosson!”  being shouted by one of them after we start talking firmly. It’s funny but it also completely undermines whatever we’re trying to get them to do at the time.

This morning Cal was perched up on the counter, proudly helping me add vanilla to the French Toast batter, when he decided he needed to show off his position of kitchen-authority to the little girl I babysit, Alexandra, whom we all affectionately call Baby Alex.

“Hey, Baby Alex!” he belted in the general direction of where he assumed she was. Clearly, the freshly-turned one year-old was not going to answer or come sprinting to him, as he envisioned.

“Hey Baby Alex, come see me!” he demanded.

Still no acknowledgement.

He lowered his head and frowned.

“Baby Alex Aaron Crosson, come see me now!”

I love toddlers. 

Clark the Shark and His Textbook Twos

Clark the Shark

Clark has been pulling some real great stunts lately. And by “real great” I mean spectacular displays of red hot anger. It’s been shorts weather off and on here for awhile, but I haven’t put the boys in shorts that often because when I put them on Clark he explodes in senseless rage. You see, he wants them to be pants. (Duh!) He tugs and yanks on them maniacally to try to stretch them into pants. He throws his head back, he screams, he kicks, he yells things like, “no!” or “pants!” or worse, “hurts! hurts!” My poor fragile Clarky must have done some textbook reading on child development and taken notes, because he is Two with a capital T lately.

Other things that have elicited gigantic meltdowns for Clark this past week:

Identical Blankets: I covered Cal up with the exact same matching comforter that I then covered Clark up with. Clark yelled “other one!” repeatedly in between giant sobs and screams and kicking that lasted 20 minutes and really jacked up bedtime and any semblance of composure I had struggled to make stretch the whole day.

Sandals: Clearly evil in intention, The Sandal does the unthinkable…that’s right. It separates the big toe from the second-to-biggest toe. Really pisses Clark off. He does the whole tugging and screaming and stomping routine that he pulls with the shorts, topped off by high-pitch wailing and sweating. Oh, wait, that’s me sweating.

The Wrong Cup: Handing Clark’s cup to Calvin or vice versa usually sets off some serious shock waves until the swap is made. It even made Brian pull the car over last week, because I wasn’t there to figure out what was wrong while he kept the van on the road, and Clark had flipped his Two switch into full gear.

Putting Scratchy Cat The Wrong Way: Obviously Scratchy Cat needs to be snuggled in the blanket gazing AT Clark when he is ready to go to sleep, rather than nonchalantly looking at the crib bars. And obviously Clark can’t move Scratchy himself!

Oh You Did NOT Give Me The Un-Blue Bowl: The only acceptable bowl color for Clark is blue.

Clark’s Turn: The length and intensity of the scream is directly proportionate with the blue-ness, and awesomeness of the toy being grabbed at with two sets of grubby hands.  They then yell in the third person, “Clark’s turn!” and “Calvin’s turn!”

Baby sounds: Clark has a broad vocabulary. But he gets in his baby mood, like he did this morning, and refuses to say words or make signs to say what he wants. I usually know what he wants but I will not respond to grunts and whines and screams from a child who can politely articulate what he so desperately needs. There were flying strawberries and a case of upside-down-on-the-carpet toast this morning while he flung his body around wanting me to pour him juice without saying or signing please or even saying juice.

Cal Being Charming

What’s nice about this is that Cal has been a perfect little angel despite Clark’s week of raging episodes. I think I’d rather they spread out the Two-ness, so I can appreciate the non-ranting child, than give me a double dose, but who knows. I’m sure I’ll have plenty of double doses as well.


For now I can just will myself out of a situation by thinking that even though is unbelievably nightmarish, and makes me want to stab myself, it will make great blog material once the silence comes. And it always comes. And when it does it is not unlike rich dark chocolate in all its sweetness and glory.

Balcony Blues

For the last couple months there has been nothing quite as challenging and exhilarating for the boys as seeing me plowing toward them on the balcony yelling, "No, no, no! Don't you drop that!" as they nonchalantly drop the item of the moment, giggle, and elude my clutches. This morning as the second plastic egg fell to its mulchy bed three floors below, I decided to calm myself by creating a list on the topic. I like lists.

Things the Boys Have Happily Thrown Off the Balcony Much to My Chagrin

Clark prepares for a drop

balls
their little watering cans
my big watering can
balls
new sandals they don’t like
shoes they do like
Dan Zanes CD
baseball bat
baseball tee
small vehicles
balls
multiple clumps of potting soil
an unearthed flower
helium balloon
not-helium balloons
balls
juice cups
milk cups
various plastic food, including but not limited to: a pear, eggs, a peach, bacon, ice cream, a carrot
favors from birthday parties: a top, whistle, etc.
various bubble-blowing paraphernalia
balls