Idiot Mom's Guide to Parenthood

Good Morning...excuse me while I hack a lung into my oatmeal.

2008-05-25T17:04:00.000-07:00

There are times when the common cold seems worse than being eaten alive by rabid gerbils. I have right now, what I have determined is the worst cold to ever exist on the planet. I feel like I'm trying to swallow a box of tacks and they are stuck in my throat, refusing to budge, and every sip of liquid makes them multiply. Coughing sets them on fire. My 3 yr old is also sick, but having contracted the virus a few days before me and his sister, he has left the lethargic phase and entered the "Hey. I feel better. *cough* I think I wanna play a game. Can we play dodgeball? How about hide and seek? Tag? Wait! I know...we can RACE! *cough-hack* YEAH! MOM! Will you play with me? Can we? Right NOW? *cough-hack-gag* No, I'm not still sick, mommy...PLEASE can we do all of that RIGHT NOW?" phase.

If that isn't bad enough, he has a new favorite word. The same favorite word that every child discovers at some point in early childhood. It is also the very question that drives millions of perfectly reasonable, amazingly patient and unconditionally loving parents to near-homicidal thoughts. The demon that possesses our normally sane children to lose all former concept of logic and take on the personality of a brain-damaged parrot.

That word is "WHY?"

If you are among the pre-spawn population, allow me to give you a glimpse of what you are surely missing. Please note, that the following took place between 7:30am and 9:30am. That's right. A mere two hours. Two hours of pure, torturous, toddleriffic insanity.

I must also note that I had been awake with Isolde until 4:30am. She woke when I was going to bed, crying and miserable from her cold, and after her tylenol kicked in, she decided she was far to awake to even think of sleeping, so I sat up watching her play...wishing I was enjoying a good dream instead of hacking and feeling like I swallowed a handful of carpet tacks. So I'd had roughly 2 1/2-3 hours of sleep. My patience, and my already worn-thin tolerance, were both gone before the day started.

Isolde wakes and smiles at me with that 7 month old sleepy, goofy grin. My favorite part of every morning. She immediately turns a familiar shade of red-purple and grunts. No lounging in bed today. I pull her out of the bed slowly, trying not to wake Nate, who joined us in slumber an hour before and by some miracle had fallen asleep again. With a jolt, he startles and sits straight up.

"Good Morning, Nate"

"Hey.. where are you taking my baby sister?"

"She pooped, so I'm taking her to her room to change her diaper"

"Why?"

really? already? ugh...fantastic.

*sigh*

He follows me down the hallway to the baby's room as I try to navigate the toy-cluttered carpet, stoppng to turn on the house fan on the way.

"Why did you do that, mom?" He asks me every morning.

"So we can open the windows and cool the house." I reply every morning.

"Why?"

*grumble*

I change the baby while he dives into her toy basket, claiming various items as his and exclaiming "I don't WANT her to have these toys...they are MINE!" I remind him that they are her toys. He says, "NO! They are MINE!"

Ahh! What a fabulous day it will be...perhaps it will even be the best day ever. I try to fool my brain while ignoring his ridiculous display of jealousy.

"Nate, those are HER toys. You may play with them, but they are hers."

"WHY?"

*scans room for optimal spot to bang head against wall*

I glare at him for a moment and then proceed toward the hallway.

"What would you like to do this morning Nate, while Mommy gets a shower? Would you like to watch a show with your sister, or play a computer game while she watches her show?"

"Watch a show."

"OK, can you sit beside your sister and watch, so she doesn't get lonely?"

"WHY?"

*clenching teeth*

I reapeat slowly... "SO SHE DOESN'T GET LONELY."

"But WHY will she get lonely?"

"Nate, can you JUST watch a show for 5 minutes so mommy can get a shower? I really feel terrible and a shower will make me feel so much better. Then, we can get some breakfast and go for our morning walk. Does that sound good?"

"Can we go NOW?"

"After a shower and breakfast, ok?"

"But I don't want you to take a shower."

"Nate, this isn't really up fo discussion. Mommy needs a few minutes to get a shower, and then we'll get ready to go."

"But you don't neeeeed a shower mommy. You aren't VERY dirty, JUST...a little little littllest bit dirty." He holds his fingers apart only the tiniest bit, just enough to peer at me through his fingertips, to demonstrate exactly how little-dirty I am.

"But I feel sweaty and icky. The baby's sick and I feel like I've been used as a snot rag for the last day and a half, Nate."

He explodes into laughter.

"A SNOTRAG! MOMMY! You are SO silly! SNOTRAG! Bwaahahahaha!"

Great. Awesome new word to add to the ever-growing vocabulary, Mom. Let's see...where do we stand? Conversation: de-railed. Point: definite casualty. Mom: On her way to bald and committed.

"OK...so I'll be out in five minutes. I can se you from the shower, so just stay in here with your sister until I'm done."

"WHY?"

My head falls forward in defeat and I let out a loud sigh, then turn and head for the shower. While I'm in the shower, I hear Isolde, let out a cry of discontent, immediately followed by Nate's footsteps, which sound more like a fat donkey is running through the house looking for me, rather than the light steps of a 35 lb boy. I rinse shampoo from my eyes, and look out from behind the curtain.

"Mommy...Can you get me chocolate yogurt?" (Of course, he's talking about chocolate pudding)

Sure, just let me reach into my shower fridge...

"Hmmmm...What do you think, Nate? I'm IN the shower. Besides, you KNOW chocolate 'yogurt' isn't breakfast food."

"But, WHY?"

"Because it's JUNK food. Can you please go keep your sister company. She misses you."

"But I really LIKE junk food."

"I'm sure you do, but that doesn't make it a good thing to have for breakfast."

"WHY?"

"Nate! GO. BACK. INTO THE LIVING ROOM. AND TALK TO YOUR SISTER, PLEASE!"

"But I want you to get me chocolate yogurt."

"I CAN'T right now because I'm IN the SHOWER."

"You can get me a chocolate yogurt and THEN get a SHOWER, Mommy. That's a GREAT idea! See? I told you it was a great idea!"

"Nate, it's NOT going to happen.

"PLEEEEASE!!!!"

"But I WANT. CHOCOLATE. YOGURT."

At this point I just glare at the shampoo bottle, imagining myself as one of those cartoon characters with the steam blowing out of their ears.

Feeling defeated by my silence, he turns on the charm. He intertwines his fingers and lifts his hands to his chin, as if about to pray, widens his eyes like a lost little puppy, and says "Pleeeeease Mommy....it would make me SOOOOO happy?"

Instant flashback to my own childhood, begging because I knew my own mother would cave. He totally gets it from me.

"I'm sorry Nate. No. How about some cheerios?"

Here it comes...the morning tantrum. Perfect cure for my already pounding sinus headache.

Isolde is still complaining from the other room as Nate goes into still-sick-but-in-denial full on meltdown. I step over him, and dry off. Isolde is staring at him, with one eyebrow up and a look of alarm on her face. Trust me, little one. I completely agree.

By the time I'm dressed, Nate has decided he "does not want cheerios, Mommy. How about marshmallows?" My sigh has grown a head-shake and a large eye-roll at this point, so I give him choices.

"Nope."

*gasp*

A look of pure devastation instantly appears on his face.

"Marshmallows are junk food, too, buddy."

"But, WHY?"

*grumble grumble hiss*

"Because they are almost completely sugar."

"SUGAR?"

"Yep."

"But I LIKE sugar!"

"I know you do, son."

"OK...here are your breakfast choices. You can have oatmeal or..."

"Nooooooooo!"

"...or cheerios."

"I don't want EITHER of those things. I want sugar."

"Or you can have no breakfast."

"NO BREAKFAST???"

"None."

*GASP!*

In a tiny voice: "I DO want breakfast, Mommy. I DO."

"OK, Mommy...I will have oatmeal. Can you make oatmeal for me? Can you make it RIGHT NOW?"

"Yes, Nate...can you keep Isolde company while I make your oatmeal?"

"OK...I will do that."

From the kitchen I hear Isolde fussing. I look around the corner and actually have to say the words "Nate! Please, son, DO NOT lick your sister on the cheek."

"WHY?"

"Because it isn't nice to lick people!"

"WHY?"

"ARGH!!! JUST DON'T DO IT!"

"But I'm pretending she's an ice cream cone."

What does one even say to this response? I was at a loss.

"Your sister is NOT.FOOD."

"But I'm pretending that she is."

"Well, she's not, so just DON'T do it."

He stops and looks at me...

"Mommy, why aren't you making my oatmeal?"

*glare*

When my favorite, home-made, super-fluffy, cinnamon vanilla oatmeal is done, and I have Isolde's mashed bananas ready, I call Nate into the kitchen to carry his milk cup to the table and whisk the baby up and fasten her into her high chair. I'm amazed that I had six whole minutes uninterrupted in the kitchen to prepare breakfast for the three of us. Nate doesn't come to the table. I call him and he's staring at his sippy cup, with the puppy dog eyes again.

"Mom, can I have chocolate milk?"

"I'd prefer you drink that milk since I've already poured it. You can have chocolate milk for lunch, OK?"

*semi-meltdown*

"But I want CHOC-late miiiiiiiilk!"

Wow. How bad is it to wish your recovering child to be a little sicker and mopier, just to mellow out the group? I feel only half-guilty at the thought. We settle in around the table and Nate finally joins us. Isolde coughs into every other spoonful of bananas until I am covered, managing to sneak in a bite of my own food here and there. I look over at Nate, who is attempting to eat his oatmeal with his spoon upside down...after he's scooped up a bite. Between the three of us, we may as well have thrown our food to the floor and wallowed in it, then licked our hands clean. Had we done so, I'm sure we would have come out with the equal amount worn and ingested as we have this way.

Suddenly Nate goes into freak-out mode over the globs of oatmeal sliding down his shirt, onto his pajama shorts and onto the seat beneath him. He also pleads with me to remove the sticky oats from his fingers and arms. I toy with the idea of leaving it all there as payback, then I give in. I clean him up with the condition that he eats the remaining few spoonfuls of his breakfast like he has held a utensil at least once in his life. He agrees.

I get a few more bites and Isolde starts grabbing at the spoon, apparently having decided I am far to neglectful at mealtime, and she can do a much better job than me, and smears banana slime into her nostrils and hair, wipes it around with the back of her hand in a circular motion, into her eyes and one ear. She then shoves the empty spoon into her mouth, grumbles, then throws it over the edge of the highchair tray onto the floor.

I grab a wet cloth and wonder why I'm even attempting to clean her up, since there's more banana than Isolde at this point. I look over at Nate and see that, while he is using his spoon like a normal human, he has still managed to drop a large hunk, as it is now too cold to be a glob, of oatmeal onto his left knee. I ask him to wipe it with a napkin before it gets smeared onto the underside of the table, or somewhere else I will forget about it and the ants will form an army the size of my van in attempts to move it, to their nest, in the form of a million tiny morsels.

"What Mommy?"

"Please wipe the oatmeal from your knee."

"Why?"

"Nate...seriously. Just get a napkin and clean your knee."

"Where?"

"Your knee, Nate...that thing on the front of your leg with the oatmeal hunk clinging to it. WIPE. IT. OFF."

"My knee?"

*grumble grumble hiss bristle twitch*

"Yes, Nate" I say as I grind my teeth in frustration. "Your KNEE."

He looks at the floor. His eyes are five inches away a directly above the gooey hunk of oats.

"YOUR KNEEEEEEEE, YOUR KNEE, YOUR KNEE YOUR FREAKIN' KNEEEEEE!!!!!!! Right THERE!" I point to it.

"Which knee, Mommy?"

Oh dear God I may have to KILL him.

*As I glare at him, I shoot fire from my pupils, I'm sure of it. It seem he has constructed some sort of fire-proof forcefield.*

He looks up at me again and asks "Which knee, mom?"

I'm amazed that one's head cannot explode from the frustration of parenting. Truly amazed.

Obviously bored with my lack of response, he looks down and exclaims "OH! THAT knee!" He wipes it with a napkin, tosses the napkin to the floor and says "You're welcome, Mommy."

I was never hip.

2008-03-09T06:34:00.000-07:00

Hippy? Well, yeah...I could stand to lose a few inches. And then a few more.

Hippie? For sure. Not the Woodstock variety, but I am a tad crunchy sometimes.

Hip? Never. Never in a million years, never.

Even worse...

I don't even fit into the "Uncool is cool" category anymore.

My dorky cool expired with the second baby and the saddle bag permanently attached to my belly...the spit-up I never seem to notice, having been chucked over my shoulder and run down across my butt...the giant booger, or the nauseatingly iridescent snot streak on the back of my shoulder or thigh, which my three year old decided to decorate me with, when I wasn't paying attention... the clothes that don't quite fit right because my body adheres to no fashion designer's rulebook, category or size...and my hair, which even when it isn't falling out in it post-hormonal-surge clumps...is at the mercy of two tiny fists with an unbreakable grip. If I had the right shaped head, I swear I'd shave it off, but I wouldn't even be cool then. It's a hairstyle I coveted as a teen and all through my college years. I still get jealous when I see a woman who has the perfect head, who can rock that style. However, from the feeling of my skull, I'm pretty sure they used the salad spoons to get me out! If I shaved all of my glorious thinning hair, I'd have a new nickname: "Lumpy" ...and they wouldn't be talking about the sock stuck in my bra hitching a free ride from static cling.

*sigh*

I've just kind of given up on cool. I don't think 'sexy' is in my vocabulary anymore. And I'm pretty sure graceful was never there anyway. What do I have left? I can rock some geeky, unhip silliness (or at least my kids think so).

So, I guess I'm in the dork category for life.

New Years Resolutions

2008-01-13T06:13:00.000-08:00

I don’t usually make resolutions. The idea always seemed silly to me, really. Everyone making promises to themselves that they don’t keep, resulting in feelings of failure and depression. Who needs that, right? Why not simply resolve let yourself down, totally disappoint yourself, and wallow in the shame of your own worthlessness and lack of will power? At least that one you can stick to.

Now, I’m sure there are those few who beat the odds each year and actually lose those pounds, or save that money, even a few who accomplish something truly miraculous, such as completely de-clutter their homes and stick to a strict daily ritual of preventing clutter build-up…you know, that “there’s a place for everything and everything is in its place” kind of deal. But, let’s face it. Those people obviously never had a 3yr old who believes you can make snow from a roll of toilet paper if you unroll the entire thing, shred it into tiny fibers and fling it all through the house all in the time it takes mom to grab a cup of milk. After which, of course, as mom straps her baby to her hip via mei tei carrier to prevent a chorus of cries and screams that would result in the neighbors calling in a disturbance complaint to the local authorities, convinced that she is neglecting her poor child. They forget that an infant has a built-in alarm that signals mom needs to do something…anything…besides shower the wee one with attention, and they have nothing better to do while in that $100 baby swing or equally expensive contraption, marketed in ways to appeal to a parent’s desperate clinging to those last few precious fibers of sanity…

”Hey, you! Yes, you…the idiot with the baby…think about how much you could get done while your baby grows smarter by the second as he sits under a $80 light up, musical star with tons dangly brain-developing toys at his fingertips? YOU MUST BUY THIS!”

And of course, she does…delighted to see her infant’s eyes widen as he marvels at the colors and shapes, then she discovers the problem: the darn lights and music shut off after 5 minutes of play, which kept her baby’s gaze as he giggled and cooed at it, batting at those dangly things with the dilated pupils of a feline overdosed on catnip. She hears a whimper, the sound of discontent and realizes it has shut itself off (to conserve batteries, they say…are they MAD? I’ll buy a hundred batteries a week in exchange for 30 minutes to do a real chore, in completion…within a 24 hour period). She curses the developers of this ‘miracle device’ as she sprints toward the sound, bits of Charmin-y snow following her stride. She taps the start button, hoping the frown will fade and the quivering chin and pouting lip will subside, but no matter how much she hopes, or pleads with her child to engage him in the toy’s many wonderful exciting bells and whistles…it’s over. No amount of encouraging will stop the stream of cries and disapproval that follows, until she picks him up. Obviously her child knows this toy is a worthless piece of marketing crap, and, clearly, his mother is a sucker, just like the rest of us. So she straps the child to her midsection and retraces her steps, picking up a billion shreds of ‘snow’ until she reaches the point of origin, at which she finds the cup of milk she gave to her child, empty, the contents now dripping from the mountain of toys he has assembled in the hallway, so that Superman (beneath the pile of superheroes and cars, blocks and puzzle pieces) can use his superpowers to break free from the pile of rubble which threatens to crush him. Why the milk, you ask? Because no mere pile of rubble is a proper challenge for a real superhero! The sky was pouring acid rain while Superman was being buried, of course! (Don’t you KNOW this stuff?) That’s what happens in the mind of a 3yr old when trying to use all resources to create the ultimate challenge. If in his hands had been a bottle of ketchup, she’s sure it would have been emptied atop the pile of rubble, as well, the result of a killer tomato attack or a mucky red mudslide. A bowl of oatmeal would have been super-cement, macaroni (shells of course) would have been slimy snails… all intended to make Superman more powerful and awesome as he defeats his attackers. And don’t forget Elastigirl, who clings desperately to life, in the toilet, awaiting Superman’s arrival to save her from a horrible drowning (and I’ll spare you the details of the flush status of a 3 yr old’s potty). If only that darn Superman would show up when milk and ketchup, oatmeal and macaroni need to be scrubbed from a zillion tiny toy crevices, and Elastigirl needs to be thrown into the decontamination chamber (that would be the garbage can) now THAT would be awesome! The least he could do is get her child a cup of milk, since he’s yelling from the other room that he’s very thirsty. *sigh*

And with that, I am way off track of my original point, which is exactly my point. As easily as you were swept away into my description of a mere 15 minutes of the life of a mom, that’s how easy it is to become distracted and pulled away from one’s goals, and I’m talking daily goals, like bathing herself and brushing her teeth. She can’t exactly tackle a clutter problem, when her pits are becoming hard to distinguish from her husband’s and her hair hasn’t come out of a ponytail for four days, even for brushing. I think to myself, every year…”What’s the point? What is the point of setting myself up to fail by making a bunch of promises to myself that I can’t possibly find the time to keep?” So I make none. It’s a tad depressing, but it’s not nearly as bad as wallowing in the daily misery of feeling worthless and tired, and tired of being so darn worthless and tired.

So this year, I’m trying something new. I’m making just one big resolution…to accomplish nothing. That way I’ll have to be pleasantly surprised when I do, as I’m sure I will occasionally happen upon the evil plan against Superman, BEFORE a mountain of ketchupy mud slides onto it…and perhaps I will figure out a way to lock up the toilet tissue to avoid a freak snowstorm. And, maybe, just maybe…I’ll figure out a way to keep my infant occupied for a whole 20 minutes to get all the dishes done at one time, or vacuum a complete room all at once. Now, those, my friend, to a mother, are REAL accomplishments. And, if not clouded by the depression and sense of failure that comes with not accomplishing the impossible, maybe I’ll actually feel like rejoicing instead of sitting down to eat my 11pm dinner of cocoa pebbles, in shame and disappointment, when both the baby and my 3yr old finally fall asleep. And in that rejoicing, who knows? Maybe I’ll feel optimistic and burn a few calories getting something done, save a buck on a late night bowl of sugar I didn’t need and get rid of that pile of clutter on the kitchen counter…and sleep well, knowing that at least a few things in my house are in the right place.

Happy New Year!

Ever heard the phrase 'misery loves company'?

2007-03-22T11:55:00.001-07:00

It's a huge stinking load of crap.

The genius who coined that idiotic phrase has obviously never been pregnant with nausea, backaches, and the urge to pee every two seconds, suffering from the nastiest of sinus infections, at the same time her son battles bronchitis, all the while her husband battles a stomach bug which keeps him puking for days. Misery, meaning me...let me assure you...does NOT love company.

Nope...I'd rather have locked myself in the bedroom and slept away this awful infection, away from EVERYONE. But I couldn't. My husband was too sick to take care of Nate, so I had to...all day...everything he needed. No rest for me.

Now, don't get me wrong. I love my husband and I hate that he was so sick, but I have felt so bad for weeks with this new pregnancy, and waited with such anticipation for the weekend to get here, so that I could get some rest. Then suddenly we are all stricken with illness last Thursday and Friday. Lovely.

And of course the weekend passes...and on to Monday, everyone is feeling better. Except ME. Perfect. The week passes and the weekend approaches and yep...you guessed it...I'm still feeling absolutely worthless and miserable. Sinus infection still hanging on. I can't sleep because I have pregnancy induced insomnia, and what few minutes I could get here or there are interrupted by a cough equivalent to a 90 year old who smoked five packs a day since she was 6 yrs old. Thanks to the crud that drains down the back of my throat from my sinus cavities every night. And what tiny amount of sleep left after that, is ambushed by the need to pee every hour, increased to a gallon every ten minutes when you factor in the bottles foof water I keep next to the bed at night to stifle that hacking cough and unglue my tongue from the rest of my mouth because I can't breathe through my nose. I have visions of that kid in A Christmas Story every time I wake, thinking "Stuck....STUCK!....STUUUUUUUUCK!" Only my tongue isn't stuck to a flag pole, but my teeth and cheek and the roof of my mouth with what feels like super glue.

And right in the middle of all that, as if that were not enough, nature had to go and throw in some 'morning' sickness. Not the best timing, considering the stuff I'm blowing out of my nose could make even one with the strongest stomach gag and retch over the bathroom sink...and the smell. 'Instant Puke' is what I like to call that smell, because that's what it induces. Funny thing about that smell: I cannot smell a thing right now because of this sinus infection. NOTHING. My poor kiddo poops in his diaper and I'm oblivious. Me. The parent who usually smells the stench of poop from across 2700 sq feet of house and yells "You need to change his diaper...it's making the whole house stink!" while my husband has no idea there is anything in his pants. My nose is that sensitive. While not having to smell poop is a blessing, having to check his diaper every ten minutes, not so much. I can't even smell it WHILE I'm changing it. That's how impaired my olfactory senses are...and I don't need to tell you the power of toddler poo. That can be the smelliest stuff on the planet.

And with smell, goes taste. You can't have one without the other. How cruel is it to take away a pregnant woman's sense of smell? The driving force of a pregnant woman is food cravings. And when a woman gets a craving, God forbid ANYTHING get in her way of that food, because someone could die. And the craving does not pass until it has been satisfied. Nope...it can linger for weeks. And a pregnant woman averages about 10 real craving a day minimum. Raise that to 50 if she watches TV Commercials! I swear restaurants make 99% of their entire earnings off of the cravings of poor unsuspecting TV-watching pregnant women who find themselves driving like starving lunatics, insane and frothing at the mouth, squealing tires into the nearest drive thru to satisfy a craving for the most recent televised snack. The restaurant industry is evil, and it knows our weakness.

Now take those figures for cravings and multiply them by the number of days one cannot acheive that glorious satisfaction, because she can't taste any food...

Ever seen a starving Hyena? I have this feeling that's what I look like. Crazed, snarling, hunched over...taking bites out of everything I have in the kitchen trying to find something, ANYTHING, I can taste. But it doesn't work, so I leave the kitchen with a bigger snarl, claws out, eye-twitching, ready to rip to shreds the first person who mentions food.

Then Nature decided to go and poke at me with a stick. Thursday, while sitting at my computer, I caught the faint whiff of poop when my kid walked by, and nearly killed myself as I leapt from my seat, cheering "I smell POOOOOOOOO! WAHOOOOOOOOO!" It's also warm weather and I have my windows open, so my neighbors probably think I am the most bizarre person on the block after such an incident.

I changed a diaper, washed my hands, then made a mad dash to the kitchen to stuff my face with some gloriously sinful food, only to find that my olfactory powers had kicked in for a mere 2 minutes.

12 days. Almost two weeks without being able to taste or smell anything. It's horrible. Absolutely excrutiating to crave pancakes, or a cheesburger...or even an apple...and bite into it with no flavor at all. Today I made pancakes for Nate and Dan...and I got all excited when I could detect just a hint of maple syrup. But I'm no fool..we'll have to see how lunch goes before I go shouting crazed outburst for the neighbors to hear. Not that I can really do more damage after cheering to the world because I smell poo...

How to give your Mommy a heart attack, Toddler Lesson # 143

2007-03-22T03:31:00.000-07:00

"Mom..." *gag* "BUG!"

That's what Nate said as he ran into the room, pointing at his half stuck out tongue, gagging.

Me: "Whaaaaaat?"

Nate: *points to mouth again* "BUG!"

Oh dear GOD! He's got a bug in his mouth!

Me: "A bug where, Nate?"

Nate: "Bug in the moush"

I knew it!

Me: "Well open your mouth, man! Stick out your tongue! Stick it OUT!!"

I sooo do not want to see a bug in my kid's mouth. I'm gonna lose my biscuits if I see even a leg...

Nate: *opens mouth...sticks out tongue...nothing*

Me: "Holy Crap son, did you EAT a bug?"

Nate: "Yes!" *gags again*

*shudder*

Me: "Geez, son! Well, what color was the bug?"

dreading answer...

Nate: "RED!"

ok...maybe it was a ladybug...could be worse

Me: "Was it a ladybug?"

Nate: "Noooo....BLUE?"

Me: "Whaaa?"

Nate: "YELLOW BUG!"

Me: "Son, did you really eat a bug?"

Nate "noooo"

Me: "Are you sure?"

Nate: "No. No eat the bug."

Me: "Are you kidding me?"

Nate: *giggle*

Me: "Get outta my face before I feed YOU to the bugs, you little stinker." *stifling my laughter since he nearly gave me a heart attack and made me hurl*

"Owwa-mommy-POEIA!"

2007-03-14T06:28:00.000-07:00

Onomatopoeia This word makes my 2 1/2 yr old laugh with such force he can hardly breathe. I asked Nate if he could say the word yesterday and after about fifteen minutes of "Owwa-mommy-p-*giggle*......Owwa-mommypoe-*more giggles*......and then just "POEIA, Mommy! POEIA!" followed by guffawing and those breathless clicks you hear when a child is still laughing but they've run out of air to actually do so.

After he calmed down to quiet giggles, he finally said it, and then I explained to him what it was, and gave him a dozen or so examples. So now when I ask him "what is an onomatopoeia?" He replies with "Owwa-mommy-poeia....POW! POW! POW! BANG! Pwack-pwack! Moo! Sploosh! Boing-boing! Meow! Woof-woof!" (Insert random noise of choice, he changes it every time)

I'm so proud of him for learning such a big word!

It did, however, ruin our attempt at learning "Hippopotamus" That word, according to Nate, is now pronounced "Hippo-potta-POEIA!" followed by insane laughter.

Let the insanity begin.

2007-02-28T22:24:00.000-08:00

I'm pregnant!

The excitement after trying for a year and a half is just too much to take. I'm going to have a tiny new chubbly baby...a whole new beautiful life...a glorious little bundle of joy! A little brother or sister...holy smokes, I'm gonna be a mom to 2.

Clearly I am out of my mind. If I'm not crazy now, I'm on my way there for sure. What was I thinking?

I'm going to be...outnumbered.

My mind jumps back and forth between these two extremes about ten times per hour. The crazy hunger brings the joy and anticipation of the new life within, then the lower back pain from hell kicks in and reminds me that I will be the minority in eight months. One mom, and two crazy children. My husband would make us equal, but since he works, I am left at a disadvantage. Ten hours a day, all alone with two kids who will surely duct tape me to the bed while they raid the kitchen for cookies and chocolate, tar and feather the cats with maple syrup and ketchup and a fluffy coating of bran flakes. They'll use hair gel and sharpie markers to create a masterpiece on the TV and computer screens. They'll stuff peanut butter sandwiches and bananas into the hole on the front of the subwoofer and shove cheese slices into the DVD tray. And then, like good little monsters, they will un-tape me just before their father returns from a long hard day at work, and act as if they are truly innocent, making it look as if I just sit at the computer chatting on CM all day, letting the children run wild like monsters.

Ok..so in reality I figure it can't be that bad, but what do I know? I'm just a mom of one. I keep hoping if I imagine the worst, I can be blissfully surprised when my children turn out to be mild mannered and sweet with only the occasional tantrum and mischievous act. I mean, it can't be that bad, can it?

Wait...don't answer that.

Dust Bunnies and Milk Chunks

2007-02-28T22:23:00.000-08:00

I came back from checking the mail to discover Nate had found his stickers and stuck them all over the hardwoods. He'd also eaten goldfish crackers earlier. Well, he ate at least one cracker, the rest he pounded to smithereens with his trains, while shouting "Oh NOOOOOOO, run! Run, fishy, ruuuuuuun! Traaaaaaaaaaain!"...*SMOOSH*

So there were crumbs everywhere so the stickers were coated in goldfish dust and wouldn't stick to the floor. For once happy the floor was dirty with food crumbs, I got on my hands and knees, picking stickers off the floor, feeling lucky because he went through about 10 sheets, and even peeled the sticker borders off the backing, tore them to tiny shreds, and stuck those on the floor too. I figured while I was down there, I may as well pull all of the trains, cars, blocks and a long lost pacifier from beneath the desk. A few dust bunnies came out with it. I didn't realize Nate was standing behind me, wide-eyed over the discovery of his missing red 'yet' (his word for pacifier) and the red one is his absolute favorite. He gasped and yelled "Red Yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaht!"

Before I could grab it, he snatched it from the pile of rubble and popped it into his mouth....grimaced...then pulled it right back out.

The culprit: Dirt.

Nate has this thing about lint, dirt, crumbs, and hair, especially hair. If any of those things get in his mouth, he will walk up to me, gagging and pathetic, and say "Haaaaa" (hair) then sticks his tongue out really far for me to remove the offending element. I generally keep his old infant washcloths handy for such removal, since they have no lint, and I have a bazillion of them. And I can't believe I'm sharing this, but in a pinch, I use the inside of my sleeve. I hate doing it, but there is a time issue. If he isn't assisted immediately he will most certainly puke. The removal of said elements will make him gag and cough right after but then he's fine.

This time, however, he was gagging much worse than usual. There must have been a whole dust bunny wrapped around that 'yet' because the poor kid was 'glurping' as he gagged. And you know a glurp means there's trouble on the way up. He was trying to say "Hair" but it went a little more like this:

"Haa...gag...glurp...Hhhh-HNGKCHHHH!...H--GAG...HGKKKK!" I remembered he'd just guzzled a full cup of milk... my kid was about to spew milk chunks at me!

No time to get up and rush him to the bathroom...I yelled "STICK IT OUT, MAN!!!!" and pulled my sleeve over my hand to swipe his tongue. But every time he'd stick it out, his gag reflex would kick in and he'd involuntarily pull it right back. AGHHHHH!!! I finally grabbed it with me free hand, and went for a quick swipe with the sleeve...

"GAGGGG....URRRP....GLHRRRRNGKHHHHH"

Oh NOOO! NoNoNoNoNoNooooo...

"BLGLKGKRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRP"

So there I sat, showered with sour, watery milk curds. Not a single drop on Nate. He gulped down some juice and handed me his red yet to clean...said "Sowwy, Ma." and poked his little lip out. Poor kid. If only his lazy mom would vacuum, these things wouldn't happen.

Now, Nate has a new ritual. He makes me inspect every pacifier before he will put it in his mouth. As for me, I hereby declare that Murphy's Law be from now on referred to as Mo's Law. Because Murphy's a wuss. Mo's Law could kick Murphy's Law's ass! Even if blindfolded, broke-footed, and sprayed with skunky cat pee, Mo's Law would win.

Unless Murphy is armed with cockroaches, then all bets are off. Cockroaches are like Mo's Kryptonite.

Who knew a 2yr old could roll his eyes and dish out some sass?

2006-12-29T10:35:00.000-08:00

I usually walk away from the Disney DC outlet empty handed, but yesterday...I scored.

I stopped by yesterday and I found Nate a 3 piece Little Einstein warmer set (hat, mittens, and scarf) for $4.99. (This is the ONE thing I really wanted to get for him when I worked in their personalization dept) and GET THIS: It had my kids name embroidered on it!!! Nathaniel! How much more fantastic can you get? I figured if I found one, we'd have to ditch the scarf because it would be some other kid's name. He LOVED them and insisted on trying them on immediately.

However, after about 5 pictures, he started getting annoyed and did you know a 2yr old can do quite a stage-worthy eye-roll, disapproving pout and dramatic loud sigh to follow? Yeah, well...here's proof:

and more proof:

He is SO obviously my child...

Thank You Burt.

2006-08-26T11:09:00.000-07:00

Thank you for making your products all-natural and non-toxic.

I love Burt's Bees products. For one thing, they smell so lovely. But mostly I love them because they are non-toxic. And do you you know why non-toxic is important to me? Yes, yes...it's healthier for you, better for the environment, yada yada yada...those are all great reasons. I however, love Burt's products because I am an idiot mom.

I was clearing the clutter from the bathroom counter this morning and I grinned as I picked up the tiny tube of Burt's Bee's toothpaste and put it away in the cabinet. Nate is getting really good at brushing his own teeth and it brought a little smile to my face as I thought of him sitting there on the edge of the sink, watching himself brush-brush-brush in the mirror. His toothbrush was lying on the counter, and I noticed some dried toothpaste on it and rinsed it, but it wouldn't come off. (hmmm...that Burt's Bee's gets weird when it dries...)I figured I hadn't been paying attention last night. No big deal...except the dried stuff didn't want to come off...just moved around in a stringy mess. Ugh!

I finally grabbed at the string of dried paste and wiped it off of my fingers, put the toothbrush away and noticed the tiny trial tube of Burt's toothpaste on the edge of the backsplash and smiled....until I realized I'd just put away the toothpaste...the other tube of toothpaste...puzzled, I thought for a moment 'but I only have one tube of...Oh Sweet Mother of.'

I had just put away the diaper ointment. I brushed...my child's teeth...with diaper ointment!

OK...calmly...think this through, Mo. You know he's alive because he is, after all, playing in the playroom. That's a good sign. He slept ok...so it didn't make him sick. That's another good sign.

...brushed his teeth with butt paste...are you a complete moron, Mo?

He's eating fine, doesn't seem to be in any pain...and he's smiling. Those are all good signs. (Meanwhile, I was peering at my child from the doorway of the playroom, with a pale and panicked look on my face I'm sure...trying to assess his state of health post butt-cream-poisoning). Nate was happily building new railroad for his trains and cars...a very good sign.**

...brushed his teeth with butt paste.

I returned the the bathroom in a haste and checked the ingredients on the tube: Zinc oxide, sweet almond oil, beeswax, tocopheryl acetate & tocopherol (vitamin E), jojoba oil, lavandin oil, retinyl palmitate (vitamin A), extracts of rosemary, lavender, calendula, chamomile, rosebuds and comfrey root. OK...whew! Burt's Bees is all natural and non-toxic...I think...I hope. Well, technically the diaper ointment is 94.something % natural, but still nontoxic, so I think we're ok. After all it's not like he ate a bunch of it...

(I thought for a moment, trying to remember if he gagged or spit after the toothbrush touched his mouth...nope) In fact, he brushed his own teeth last night, willingly, and if my memory serves well, I heard him say "Mmmmmmmm" after the first brush. He did wrinkle his nose for a second, but that's typical as he's not the most coordinated brusher...and he ended up with streaks of what I then thought was toothpaste on his face...something I'd never seen before. And he didn't brush quite as long...so I finished the job for him.

*sigh* ...finished. brushing. his teeth. with butt paste.

So, Thank you, Burt. Thank you for making it impossible for me to harm my child with your wonderful products...even when they are paired with my own stupidity. But can you please make your product's containers a little more distinguishable? The diaper ointment and toothpaste tubes are nearly identical (except for one being marked 'Toothpaste' and the other 'Diaper Ointment') and I am temporarily without my glasses.

I guess I should be even more thankful we have no hemmorhoid cream in the house. Especially if it came in little honeycomb colored trial-sized tubes.

My what large buoys you have, Mom.

2006-08-21T08:21:00.000-07:00

I was trying to rock my child to sleep at bedtime last night and he looks up at me and grins, and points at my nose and says 'nose'...I said "Yes, that's Mom's nose." He then points at my eyes...cheeks...chin...eyebrows...ears...and my chest. Then he points at my boob. I say "breast" and he gives me this weird look. So I said "that's Mom's boobie."

I thought my kid was going to choke he laughed so hard. Is this the real reason boys giggle when they hear the word 'boobies'? Not because it's a forbidden part of our anatomy, but simply because it's a funny word?

He pointed again, and again, and again, and again...wanting me to say boobie, and each time laughing harder and harder until no noise was coming from him but some strange clicking where a laugh should have been..and lots of drool.

So I say "OK...enough boobies. It's time for sleep." To which he responds with another poke at my boob. I say nothing. He giggles and pokes me again...and again...and again...then poke-poke-poke-poke-poke-poke-poke-poke-poke-poke-poke-poke-poke-poke....I grab his hand and say "Son....WHAT are you doing?"

He points at my boob and says "Boo-weeeeeeee!"

Did my kid just call my boob a BUOY?

I guess he's not entirely wrong...they do make excellent flotation devices.

Nate: 1 Orson: 0

2006-03-25T06:17:00.000-08:00

The Mighty Thor strikes again.

I just found poor Orson locked in my son's closet.

He's been in there for about 2 hours. I opened the door to hang up my kid's shirts and there he was. He blurted a very thankful 'meow' and immediately started rubbing against my leg.

Mighty Thor VS 3-Legged Pussycat

2006-02-26T07:00:00.000-08:00

I have a sick kid who needs two eyedrops in each eye three times a day, antibiotics twice a day, an amputee cat who needs pain meds every 24 hours and antibiotics every 12 hours...along with a change of shredded paper litter ever 4 hours or so, because the smell of pee-soaked paper is absolutely nauseating. I have to spend time with him so he's not caged up all day during his recovery, and when I do, Nate gets jealous and has a major meltdown, partly because he wants me to hold him instead of the cat, but also because he wants to play with Orson's lampshade collar, and by playing I mean trying to smoosh Orson's head flat inside by flinging himself on it, or trying to literally remove Orsons head from within the collar as if it is a decapitated head that is merely sitting inside a plastic bucket. He reaches in and tries to lift it out, then gets angry that it won't budge and smacks Orson on the noggin and lets out an emphatic and frustrated "AGHHHH!" which makes Orson leap from my lap and flee with the speed of a three legged Cheetah to escape the wrath of the little beast running behind him.

I'm selling tickets in case anyone missed the circus...

I smell poop and oatmeal

2006-02-22T05:08:00.000-08:00

ACK! *gag*

You'd think my son could wait until he's finished eating breakfast, but nooooo. He's covered in oatmeal, smells like poo and the Jack (my parrot) is behind him belching, kissing, and repeating 'Good Morning. Did'ya poop yet? Huh? Did'ya poop yet? Naaaaate?' belch, belch, kisskisskisskiss...'

What a way to start the day...mmmmmm.

The latest in breast enhancement...

2006-02-22T05:02:00.000-08:00

I went out to run some errands late yesterday afternoon and found a nice little surprise when I got back home.

After the Meet and Greet at Owen's Deli, my son passed out in the car seat and my headache got worse and worse as I sat in traffic waiting to get past the roadwork (exhaust is a trigger for my migraines) so we went straight home and vegged out on the sofa bed for a while.

Around 5 we went out, and when I returned I looked down and noticed my boob was...well, lumpy. I pull the front of my shirt open and peer in to find a dirty Nate sock... stuck to my bra. I immediately thought of him rolling around me on the sofa, practicing his typical shirt sweep/boob grab maneuver he's become so good at. I mean really good, because I didn't have a clue he'd stashed a sock in there.

So I'm wondering how many people wondered who the lumpy-tit girl was...because there was just no way anyone could've missed it.

Do you ever think back and remember all those times you were sure people were mocking you, or conspiring and whispering rumors behind your back?? Remember how mad you got, wondering what their problem was??

Well, today I realized maybe they never had a problem. Maybe I've just had a sock stuck on my boob my whole life...

Diaper Bags for Dummies...er, Dads.

2006-01-24T07:24:00.000-08:00

For all fathers who need a lesson in preparation:

Dude...Hellooooo? It is only going to take once...ONCE...for you to learn this lesson, and I hope you are in a crowded restaurant when it happens!

For the last time, there is a reason your wife tells you it's important to pack a change of clothing in that diaper bag. Did you think she just couldn't decide what the kid should wear?? Maybe she wanted to change him when they went into the mall b/c while that yellow shirt is just darling on him at the park, the flourescent lights hit it just right and makes him look 'all washed out'...DUH!

One day...just you wait! The poo fairy will deliver a load far to big for that diaper to contain and you're gonna have a squirmy, pissed off $hit grenade in your hands. One wrong move...and, oh, the horror!

Tell me, Mr Smarty Man...what will you do?

Hmmm. Let me guess...

Before you even consider it, let me remind of of the importance of checking the diaper bag before you leave home. While wrapping him in your coat (assuming it's cold weather) and whisking him off to the car is an option, it only seems like a good plan until you realize you forgot to refill the wipe container, genius. Umm, yeah....I bet you're really gonna put that slimy, poo-smeared set of cheeks in your jacket.

So, Smarty-Man. When this happens to you, you can expect to get home and see a big I-Told-You-So smirk on your wife's face, as she hands you a bar of soap, points you toward the bathtub, and suggests that you'll be taking care of the laundry this week.

You didn't really intend to ask her to help you clean it up? Did you?

*sigh*

Off to find a steak to smack him with...will they ever learn?

Fun Things to Do With Vomit. Toddler 101, lesson 2

2006-01-21T05:33:00.000-08:00

Hey kids! Wish your parents would let you bring some sand inside to put in your sand bucket?? Of course you do! Well, don't count on it. They're parents, and it's a parent's job to make your life no fun. They are mean and boring. What else are you supposed to do with a sand bucket? And it's just sand after all. What's the big deal?

Well here's a neat new idea for your bucket, and a great way to let your mom and dad know how displeased you are with the "No sand in the house" rule:

You will need your sand bucket, a cup of water, and a clear view of mom and dad. And be sure you've just finished a big dinner...peas are a good idea if you have any. Spinach will make a nice substitute, but any food will do.

Now you're ready!

Step 1. Drink all of the water from your sippy cup in three huge gulps, and be sure to swallow plenty of air with it.

Step 2. Grab sand bucket. (make sure parents are nearby to witness this display of evil genius)

Step 3. Hold it in front of your face.

Step 4. Puke into bucket.

Step 5. Dump vomit out of bucket onto floor.

Step 6. While parents are looking at you in disbelief/, throw bucket across room, and and, with both hands, immediately smear vomit all over freshly mopped hardwood floors.

Step 7. As your mother is leaping across the room toward you, shove vomitty hands into your mouth and grin at her.

Step 8. Give mom a big, open mouthed, slobbery kiss as she drags you off toward the tub.

Step 9. Giggle and splash your mom as she pukes while you celebrate your victory in a sudsy bubble bath.

Great job, Kiddo! That'll teach 'em!

Toddler 101: Poop makes good finger paint.

2006-01-20T05:28:00.000-08:00

I keep thinking of things that strangers tell me when I'm out in public. Whenever Nate attempts to pick up something nasty, I try to intervene, saying "No, Nate. That's dirty. We don't pick up trash/gum/etc. Let mom put that where it belongs." and then I get a tissue if I have one, and put the item in the trash or he will go back for it over and over as toddlers do, as if under some spell '...muuust-piiick-uup-goooey-caandy-wraapperrrr-and-smeear-onn-faaace' and trust me, if you don't snag it on the first attempt, it becomes a game, and a full-on tantrum shall follow.

Anyway...I keep thinking about what people say when they witness these attempts to keep my child from ingesting some nastiness. How often I have heard a 'more experienced' parent say (with a chuckle) "Oh just you wait! This won't seem so bad when you start finding snails in their pockets or pet lizards under their pillows!"

I've always bitten my tongue, smiled and nodded...and thought to myself "AND?? So, wait! You mean that nasty pre-chewed piece of gum isn't really something I should worry about then? Oh Thank GOD you were here to make my life easier!! I could have avoided this stress all along. I could nudge Nate and say 'Here, sweetie, run along now and play. I think I see a pile of stale french fries by the trash can. Those look TASTY! Mom needs som 'me' time.'"

If I did respond, what would I say?

Well, now I have a perfect answer to those "You haven't seen anything yet, you novice" smirking types...and all thanks to my son, who taught me quite the lesson yesterday:

Just an ordinary day, an ordinary soiled diaper, the usual changing table, same routine...I guess my son decided we needed to 'spice up' changing time with some action. I took his pants off, he was barefoot so the usual socks-in-poop option was eliminated. What else could he do?

Oh, let me tell you...*gag* it was beyond anything I've seen the child do. Ever.

Just as I am about to slide it from beneath him, he reaches down and grabs the diaper with his right hand, and it was one of those 'squished up 'tween the cheeks' poo diapers, so his fingers sink right into the nastiness. I am holding his ankles with my left hand, and trying to wrench the diaper away from him with my right hand, while he is giggling and squirming. He finally lets go and the force launches it over onto the changing table where it lands with a lovely splat, poo side down.

*cringe*

I let go of the diaper because all I can think of his poop covered fingers haded towards his mouth. I yell "Noooo!" which startles him, causing him to grab my arm, leaving three little brown streaks across my sleeve...*gag* at least it wasn't his mouth. In that same instant, I realized he's grabbed his poop-smeared left butt cheek with his other hand and again. I yell "Nate, NO!"

So, let me just tally this up for you:

Nate's poo covered right hand- in my right hand...

Nate's ankles- in my left hand...

Nate's poo covered left hand- flailing madly... Getting the idea??

I had no other choice but to drop his nasty butt onto the changing table and reach for the other hand. I caught it, but not before he swiped it across the wall a few times, realized he was actually causing those marks to appear, then after a quick study, decides to scratch at them.

BLLAAAAARRRRGGGHHHHHHHH!

The rest of the ordeal is just a blur. I'm not really sure how he got clean, but he did. And just to be on the safe side he got a looong dip in a sudsy tub.

As for those know-it-all types, let me just say..."Really? My son thinks $hit makes good fingerpaint! I believe I'll take snails and lizards any day."

Things the parenting manuals don't tell you...

2006-01-17T10:36:00.000-08:00

#1. Why my child is always walking around wearing just one sock, and the other is gone forever. Maybe he eats them?

#2. Why it never fails that 2 minutes after I change a wet diaper, he poops in the fresh one.

#3. Why his hands are like magnets to his poop-smeared cheeks/nards when on the changing table.

#4. How he knows when my head hits the pillow at bedtime, and immediately wakes to need changing or feeding.

#5. Why he always has a meltdown as soon as I begin posting...like right now. Grrrrr!

...To be continued.

Mirror, Mirror...why do you hate me so?

2006-01-17T10:20:00.000-08:00

oh, the joy of the post-pregger body.

The self esteem fairy has failed me, yet again.

Do you ever have one of those days? You know...when you get dressed, and you actually like what you're wearing, and you're feeling pretty good about yourself, and then you walk over to the mirror expecting the worst. But somehow, the universe likes you today, the mirror is your friend. You don't look like your usual frumpy, exhausted, breathless, everything-is-getting-on-my-last-nerve self. No sir! Today, you look thinner, rested, confident and happy. What did you ever do to deserve such joy???

And then...

You turn to walk away. And you notice that you don't look quite as good from the side...but hey! No big deal, right?

And then...

'DON'T DO IT!' you think to yourself...but your body refuses to comply. You are confident, dammit! You are going to have a good day. And nothing, nothing is going to ruin that!

You turn...and look at your bum.

The universe is not your friend. It mocks you in your state of blissful ignorance and says "HA!...Sucker!"

Your eyes widen as you wonder how you didn't notice when this gigantic fat-parasite attached itself to your ass. How long has it been there, and more important, WHY HAS NO ONE TOLD YOU??? Your friends have let you walk around in public looking like this...or at least you thought they were your friends. You dream of punching your husband the very next time he smiles and says "I think your butt is sexy..." That lying son of a...what has he been smoking?

So there you are... torn between being thankful that you have the opportunity to dig through your entire wardrobe with the hope of finding something other than a muu-muu to cover the Mt Everest-sized trailer that you've been unknowingly dragging behind you, even though you know the effort is futile...and wishing you'd never, EVER turned and looked back into that mirror. You could have spent the entire day oblivious to your jiggly backside, feeling wonderful when you walked past others instead of praying their eyes weren't following you, inspiring thoughts of "Holy crap! Someone needs to put a back-up alarm on that thing!" If only you'd listened to the voice in your head...

*sigh*

Instead, you turn out the light, put on your bath robe, eat a cookie and vow to never leave the house until sundown.

Underestimating the capabilities of the 14 month old brain.

2006-01-08T09:21:00.000-08:00

I am embarrassed more than you know to post this...but how can I not share this shining gem of good parenting gone terribly, terribly wrong?

That's right, Ladies. All of you with your perfect little angels beware!! In the blink of an eye, a mere second, these mischievous beings can go from innocent babies to devils...seconds, I tell you.

On New Year's Eve, D (the hubs) and I are enjoying a very relaxed evening. No partying. No guests...just a pizza and a couple bottles of Mike's Hard Lemonade. So, after dinner, we are sitting around the dining room doing our own thing. D playing City of Heroes online, our son playing with his cars and trucks, while I look for inspiration within my art magazines.

The next thing I know, my child has climbed into the chair and onto the dining room table, and is standing in the center waving his arms around, grinning like he's conquered the universe. In total astonishment, I jump up to get him before falls and kills himself, but just as I get to the table (mere seconds...you thought I was joking, right?) My child, my sweet innocent 14 month old darling baby...plops down on his knees, grabs the half-empty bottle of Mike's Hard Cranberry Lemonade that my husband was to finish, throws his head back, tilts the bottle high over his head, mouth wide, and pours the booze right into his mouth!! I am leaping toward him in what is apparently the speed of a snail, yelling "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!" But I am too late!! He swallows with this incredible 'GULP' and grins at me, wide eyed. Of course, what didn't fit into his mouth ran out of the sides, soaking his jammies.

And then, no lie...I hear "Ahhhhhhh"...the sigh of delight.

I wrench the bottle from his hands, and try to wipe the dripping booze off his face and chest with a wad of napkins. My husband, who has missed the entire event, absorbed in the world of online superheroes, finally realizes what has happened and says, "Holy crap, son! You gonna do a table dance for us while you're at it?" My son, who is standing again, fighting the napkins in my hands, flashes a grin at his dad, stomps his little feet, shakes his teeny butt and shouts "Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!" O...M...G.

*thanks her lucky stars there are no witnesses to this horror*

While I'm envisioning a future on the set of Jerry Springer, I hand the kid off to D and tell him to get the child some fresh jammies. My husband, annoyed, actually says to me... "They're not that bad."

*looks at husband in total bewilderment*

Me: "Are you freakin' kidding me? He is SOAKED in BOOZE!!! I am just imagining if something happened, someone finding my toddler 'passed out' in his crib, covered in alcohol. Are you getting the whole picture here?"

So..as a warning to all you moms who are comfortable in your houses, with harmful things safely out of your little angels' reach...DO NOT BE FOOLED!!! Take a lesson from the my life, which shall be referred to as the Idiot Mom's Guide to Parenthood, because just when you least suspect, baby-proofing takes on a whole new meaning.

Happy New Year...