Gotta Get Me One of These...

So, the kid’s got a lovie.

A security blanket. An attachment object. Or, to put it in her words…. "a woovie."

The two are inseparable. Best friends. Soulmates. Two peas in a pod. And, partners in crime.

A regular Bonnie and Clyde.

When I found the Crayons shoved in the DVD player, I knew who was to blame. The gooey fingerprints and pink lint gave it all away.

When the remote control went missing, I could have sworn I heard that blankie giggle.

She’s a bad influence, that one.

I decided to teach it a lesson. I threw that blankie in the washer with ….how shall I put it?.....some less than delicate items. When it came out of the laundry, my toddler seemed to be even more attached.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder, I guess.

The bond is unbreakable, I tell ya.

I suppose my toddler and her lovie are meant to be.

Together forever. United for all eternity in love and Play Doh. Never to part. Simply inseparable. Tried and true.

Maybe I gotta get me one of these? Might just take the edge off. No?

Road Trip Fun

I do not recommend taking a road trip with a toddler.

We spent half the trip debating whether it was a Pterodactyl or a chicken strapped in the back car seat.

Of course, it was inarguably a chicken that we wrestled back into the car seat after our frequent pit stops….a greased chicken at that.

The argument was whether or not her more piercing squeals resembled a winged Triassic creature or a common dime store barnyard fowl.

“EEEEYAAAAKK!”

Hubby insisted that a human ear has never heard a flying dinosaur’s screech. Therefore, we could never be certain.

I argued that a chicken comparison did our daughter’s unique vocalizations a disservice.

And so it went. Our lengthy pitter patter helped pitter away the miles and hours spent on the road.

Until we pulled into a parking lot for another quick pit stop.

Next to us, was a minivan, complete with a husband and wife wrestling their chicken-Pterodactyl combo back into the car seat.

“EEEEEYAAAKKK!”

It was here that hubby relinquished the fight.

“OK, You win. A Pterodactyl. Most definitely.”

Apparently, a little perspective was gained.

And, another win for me.

Toddler Versace

It happened. It is premature. I had thought it would occur much later.

But, here we are dealing with it now.

Sigh.

My toddler is overly concerned with her wardrobe. She has a fierce opinion about her outfits. She’s a bit of a fashion diva, really. A clothes horse. A fashion queen. And she’s quite vocal. She throws a fit if her taste isn’t adhered to. Her moods are like a roller coaster. And, she changes her mind continually.

I haven’t been able to follow her fashion sense, however. There seems to be no rhyme or reason to her taste. It could be argued that her taste is all in her mouth, frankly. I mean, does a purple Princess boa really go with an orange Nemo swim suit?

She dresses to the nines in the morning, donning her red, velvet, Christmas dress. All set. Complete with a crooked misplaced hair bow. Ready to hit the sandbox. And, by mid-morning, she’s back in her footed PJ’s, blanket trailing behind.

“Her fashion sense seems to be suffering from a mood disorder,” I whispered to hubby one evening.

“I think it’s a case of premature teenage-itis,” chimed Auntie.

“That’s my gal,” says Daddy.

“I hear Gloria Vanderbilt herself had an opinion about her rompers while still in diapers,” proudly voiced Grandma.

“The kid’s a diva in training. A regular pint sized super star,” noted Grandpa.

Whatever it is, who knows? But, I think it may be catching…..Anyone seen my purple polka dotted jumpsuit or must I storm off in a huff?

Horton Hears a Baby Boo!

It all happened when I picked up Baby Boo #2 from her high chair. Her chubby thighs remained glued to the high chair pad for just a fleeting moment. In that revealing instant, the pad lifted up and the nightmare was exposed.

I inhaled deeply and hesitated even as I am writing this.

An ocean of crumbs, unfinished snacks and meals lay beneath that pad. The smashed peas and damp, flattened crackers were recognizable. Most chilling, however, was the unrecognizable; the gelatinous black mass that seemed to quiver in fear under my sharply peering eye. In my panic, I imagined an eyeball and a furry, segmented leg moving among this cluster fluster. Much like Horton Hears a Who, I peered into another universe, a place made of table scraps and discarded tidbits, dried applesauce and black banana chunks, sticky, fuzzy morsels of some long ago feast.

What kind of a moldy science experiment was flourishing beneath my infant’s diapered buns? What kind of a mother allows her child to sit atop a mini landfill?

And, worse yet, how long had this garden been growing?

Dear Horton,

I know a person’s a person no matter how small,

But your world is about to suffer a terrible fall…

“Squirt , squirt, wipe, wipe , scrubbidity scrub…”

My husband giggled as he passed me in the kitchen. I glared at him, disinfectant in one rubber gloved hand, face mask twitching from my irritation. What, pray tell, is so funny?

He smiled widely, happy to shatter my delusions of cleanliness.

“She has a stash just like that in her car seat.”

My mini van? My precious mini van?!! The horror.

Author's note.....Please pardon the Mamma, as I am on a family vacation. I reached into the depths of the Mammatalk archives for this post, which originally aired in October 08. Hope everyone is enjoying their summer!

Kitty Therapy

I think my kitties may need couple’s therapy.

There’s been a lot of hissing and growling going on lately. Some Kung-Fu moves have been flying between them and a heck of a lot of fur has been flying in the air.

I tried to step up as a mediator. I used a calm approach. I suggested a pause. A break. A time out. I thought that perhaps they could take a deep breath, put the past behind them and focus on their kitty future together.

My efforts were not appreciated.

Hubby’s suggestion to send them to the kitty spa for a kitty pick me up only added fuel to the fire.

Our kitties don’t travel well.

My daughter’s idea to take them for a romantic stroll to the park was met with a sour look, a turn of a furry heel and a sudden storming out of the room.

Apparently, my kitties disdain romantic strolls….and leashes.

Well, whatever is between them…whatever valley their union has fallen into….whatever grievance has cast its shadow upon their love…

It never ceases to amaze me how quickly they snap out of it.

PURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

My Iron Fist

As I’ve mentioned before, I run a tight ship here at the Mamma Talk humble abode. I govern with a firm hand, an iron fist and with nerves of steel.

“OK, kid. Stop screaming…. I’ll give ya a cookie?”

I believe in order and structure.

“Just shove it all under the bed, will ya? They’re gonna be here any minute!”

Discipline is the backbone of our family.

“Wanna another cookie?”

Rules and regulations steer this household.

“No eating in the car…. Yeah, we’ll take a couple Happy Meals to go and….”

Consistency and follow through are my mantra.

“And, I’m not going to tell you again….OK. This is the last time I’m going to tell you….Did you hear me? For the last time!”

Yep. There’s just no fooling around here at my house.

“So, how do you feel about a lollipop?”

Hey. Whatever gets you through your Mamma Day. Yep, and sometimes a little sprinkled exaggeration helps me through mine.

“STOP screaming! !!! Ice cream, anyone?”

And, I got all teary eyed over this Mammatalk review by Crafting with Rinos here. Be a pal. Go pay her a visit.

I Tried to Scream.....

It was a scene from a horror movie. A page ripped right out of Stephen King. A real life nightmare.

Much like a monster peering from a closet, these hairy toes of mine were peeking out of my flip flops.

The chipped polish. The unclipped nails. The corns. The bunions. The callouses.

Oh, my.

I tried to hide. I tried to run. I tried to scream. All, to no avail.

The Curse of Ugly Feet.

The ultimate horror flick.

Somebody, pass the popcorn…..yeah, and maybe a nail file?