Look Away!

I decided to just not look. Look away. Avert my eyes. Pretend it was just not happening.

My toddler’s hair was goopy with applesauce, her face smeared with mashed potatoes and her bib was dripping with….Ick. The floor beneath her was littered with flattened peas and …(sigh) oh, can we just not talk about this?

Maybe I could just take the spoon and help her scoop the glob hanging from her chin.

“No!” she spouted.

I had been informed.

She continued on with her feast, eating fistfuls and spoonfuls as if she hadn’t eaten in days.

I decided to just not look. Look away. Avert my eyes. Pretend it was just not happening.

THUD.

Hmmm. I thought sippy cups were spill proof.

“Milk! Milk!” she commanded.

I had received my orders and, faithful servant that I was, crawled under the table to retrieve the beloved item. The squashed peas welcomed me to the party they were having in the carpet.

Squish. Squish.

So much for looking away.

And what is that splattered all over the baseboards? Closer inspection proved it was hardened, evidence of a long ago feast. The mahogany China cabinet had been targeted by the flying goop as well. And, that’s not a splatter under the table, right?

Splat!

Did I mention I was still under the table?

Should applesauce be washed out of your hair right away or are there benefits to letting it sit? Anyone?

The Kissing Bandit Strikes!

My toddler is a kissing bandit.

She steals kisses whenever the opportunity presents itself. She blows kisses to strangers across grocery stores. She dashes around blowing air kisses all day, diva that she is. And she firmly plants one on you when you least expect it.

Her sister often falls victim.

“Mommy!! She broke my dolly, she won’t give back my Triceratops, and, and …..

MMMMMPPPAAAHHH!!!!!!

..…and she won’t stop kissing my knee! Ick.”

Cashiers frequently are targeted.

“And your total is 48 even. Got any coupons?”

Kiss.Kiss.Kiss.Kiss.Kiss.Kiss.

Kitty’s efforts to escape are fruitless.

Smack.Smack.Smack.Smack.Smack.

Granny happily offers herself up as a sacrificial lamb.

Peck.Peck.Peck.Peck.Peck.Peck. Peck. (Squeeze!)

Sometimes it comes in handy. Her charm helped me out of that awkward moment on the highway.

“Is there a problem, officer?”

Kiss.Wave.Smile.Kiss.Kiss.Kiss.Kiss.

And, she’s always the one to diffuse a tense moment.

‘Well, ain’t that like the pot calling the kettle black, Mr.Shopoholic?!”

Kissity.Kiss.Kissity.Kiss.Kiss.

Needless to say, she has many fans. She is adored, cherished and loved…all over town.

She will outgrow this by prom, ya think?

Worm Hole in Space

I have a secret….. I am afraid of my purse.

No, it’s not the stale Cheerios scattered at the bottom that gives me the creeps. Not the lost, dirty Kleenex that puts my hair on ends. And, it is not the gum clinging to the side that gives me the willies either.

It’s the secret pocket.

When I purchased this bag there were no warnings about a secret pocket. No tags advising to purchase at your own risk. No buyer beware. Nothing.

Truthfully, I had no idea that a secret pocket existed until …well, things began to happen.

It started with some spare change at Starbucks. “Oh, thanks! I’ve been looking for the Nebraska quarter!” I naively chirped, tossing the coins into the “to be filed later” section of my purse. (Yes, that means they would be rubbing elbows with the “to be filed later” crumbling Cheerios partying in the deepest crevices of my purse.)

For days, I heard the coins jingle in my purse.

“Gotta file those..”

Then, one afternoon, I dumped my purse out…well, OK, my toddler dumped my purse out…… in the middle of the grocery cart, but that’s another story. The coins were gone. Missing. MIA. They had simply vanished. After a panicked swipe of my toddler’s mouth, I dismissed the odd occurrence. I filed it under “weird” …oh, and embarrassing…. and continued about my day.

Then, we had the lipstick incident. Things took a turn for the worse.

It was a certain lipstick that played a “now you see me, now you don’t” game with me in my purse for the better part of the week. Ordinarily, I would have just shrugged off the mystery and run to the local Walgreen’s for another quick purchase at the Wet and Wild display counter, but, Heck, budget’s tight these days! Gotta stretch that $1.99 as far as we can go…

So, here we go …another dumping of the purse. After shooing away a furry, 8 legged friend…or two…that had apparently taken up residence ….and averting my eyes from the gelatinous, gummy, quivering mass that seemed to be mating with my day planner, I came to the quick conclusion that this lipstick was NOT there!

My temper began to boil just beneath my “I’m-a-nice-person-who-once-worked-with-disadvantaged-youths” façade.

“Where is that freaking froupin' nickel knuckle knickerbukker….” I searched my imagination for the most colorful swear words in my (limited and shrinking, thank you) vocabulary.

After a good working over, I tossed the purse to the floor. There was a clunk sound as it hit the ground. A clunk sound that shouldn’t be heard when yarn macramé hits linoleum. Grabbing the bag by her (I hope it was a her) innards, I turned the whole kit and caboodle inside out to discover a hole in the stained, satiny inner lining.

A hole, as in a black hole, a time warp, a worm hole in space? Perhaps?

Peering through this hole, I found my lipstick! She was floating in a sea of Cheerios, between the macramé and satin lining, clinging desperately to a Nebraska quarter.

I was so happy to see her that I immediately swept her in my arms and kissed her. I applied her to my dry, colorless lips and promised to be a better Wet and Wild lipstick owner.

A hole in the lining! HA! Explains everything. Now, if someone could just explain the ransom note pinned to my lipstick’s chest, we’ll have a mystery solved.

Purse mafia, ya think?

Toddler Pox

My doctor peered over his glasses as I whispered my secrets.

“I think something’s a little off with me lately.”

He leaned closer.

“I’m exhausted at the end of the day. I am distracted. I can’t seem to finish a sentence. I run circles in my home. I have a flabby belly, stretch marks and saggy boobs. I obsessively make macaroni and can’t break my Barney addiction.”

“Hmmm.” My doctor smiled knowingly. “My wife had a bout of this in the 80’s.”

“She did?” I felt instant relief. “What is it?”

“Toddler Pox,” he stated.

I gasped in horror. “Is there a cure?”

“No. No end to this. Rather, it evolves. It starts with Baby Pox. Then, Toddler Pox, of course. Preschool Pox is around the corner. Then you’ll catch a nasty case of Elementary Fever….giving way to The Tweenie Plague… graduating to the contagious Teenage-itis. We will have to quarantine during this time, naturally.” He paused reflectively.

Hands over my face, I took it all in as he continued. “It is cyclical, recurring every 25-35 years. But, for the second cycle, you serve more as a witness rather than a victim. Makes for interesting retirement years.”

“Don’t they inoculate for this?” I asked in outrage.

“The drug companies pushed for a vaccine, of course, but the diaper lobbyists have a strong grip on Washington.” He winked. “I have heard rumor about a certain doctor that can help.” He paused, scratching his head.

“His name is on the tip of my tongue,” he continued, “….Dr. Snik….no…Dr. Snitch….No. Um, that’s not it.….Snit….No,…..Snipity…Ah…yes….Doctor Snippy Snip. That’s him. This will stop a reoccurrence. If you can just get your husband in the car, they’ll fix him up good.”

Hmmmmm?

Author’s note….tongue in cheek, of course. I loooove and appreciate my toddler. Just driven a little crazy this week due to four large molars erupting in her little, mostly always wide-open-and-screaming mouth. Makes for a very screamy, screamy day! If you hear sirens blaring from my blog, you’ll know they have finally come after me with a big net.

Toddler Pirate

My second baby was 8 months old when we first noticed it at the dinner table.

“Argh! Arrrrrgh! ARGH!” She spouted.

“Looks like the stork brought a baby pirate,” I noted.

Hubby nodded and whistled a piratey tune. We all joined in, creating what is now considered our family theme song.

“Argh! Argh!
Oh, I’m a baby pirate.
Yes, I am
I like to poop my pants
Whenever I can.”

“I’m the meanest baby pirate
Of the seven seas
I’ll make ya walk the plank
Then I’ll make ya feed me peas! ARRRGH!”

Today, at 16 months, my baby is a wobbly toddler pirate with a bit of a drunken swagger to her waddle. She chugs her sippy cup, one eye closed and screams “ARGH!” with well practiced gusto.

I promise ya, Captain Hook and I did not have a little roll in the hay back in late ’06. No encounters with Blackbeard either. Maybe there was a little mix up at the hospital. Think my real toddler is being rocked to sleep on some rickety boat by a peg legged sea rat while I sing “Wish Upon a Star” to my lil’ dozing pirate in her crib?

Ya don’t think her piratey DNA will manifest any further, do you?

“This term, your daughter continues to excel in all curricular areas. As discussed at our last parent teacher conference, she is working on keeping her hands to herself. Please see me about confiscated sword. PS. Her map skills are off the charts!”

Do you think she’ll face any social awkwardness among her peers?

“Ahoy, Mateys! Up for a playdate? ARRGH!”

And criminal behavior is purely environmental, right?

“... I keep finding these giant black X’s in the sandbox…Hey, where’s my watch?!”

And surely I can influence her with my calm motherly demeanor.

“NO! I will NOT buy you just one hoop earring!”

Well, I guess ya never know what you’re in for when you roll those genetic dice. Just gotta roll with the punches!

ARGH! Shiver me timbers!

I am Your Boogie Baby

My one year old likes to bust a move. We first noticed it in the car as we were listening to some tunes. She bobbed her head and shook her leaky sippy cup like a tambourine.

“Hmmm..This one has a little rhythm,” says hubby.

It’s true. She regularly gets jiggy with commercial jingles, sitcom theme songs, and certain cell phone ring tones. She gets her groove on when a particular button gets pushed on her Leapfrog Fire truck scoot toy. And she really gets that party started in her toddler Kindermusik class.

She is discerning with her musical taste, however. She scoffs at the 80’s, but play a little Disco Inferno, and this toddler cuts up the rug. And, we’re not talking about just some light head nodding and toe tapping here. This child works it. Her hips are shaking, arms swinging and there’s an occasional full body wave. She even attempted some mosh pit moves with her older sister when hubby played an old Nirvana album the other day.

Oh, yes, this child can sure shake her thang. She takes her art seriously, though. No jumpy, giggly, baby bouncing here. Her eyes closed, lip bit and with her caboose a rockin’, this gal brings the house down. Hubby and I attempt to keep up with our own wiggly jiggly’s but she always seems to leave us in the dance floor dust, leaky diaper and all.

All aboard the Soul train! Chug-a-chug-a-chug! Choo! Choo!

Opposite Directions

I now have two children that can walk. Happened a couple months back. No more baby blob securely strapped to my hip, front or back. Now, there are two of them moving….mostly in opposite directions.

Hubby helps. “I got me a full visual on #2 and a partial on #1. Do you read me? Over and out.”

But, on the days I venture solo to a play date at the park or museum….Oh, my!

“Sit here! Your sister’s getting away.”

“Sit here. Come here. Not you. You! Sit. You. Stay. You coooooome HERE!”

“Gotcha, ya little bugger! Where’s your sister?”

“Which way did she go? Which way did she go?”

“Where’s my daughter? Not that one. The other one.”

“Here. Here. Here. ….Come baaaack here!”

“….And don’t eat that!”

I spin around so much, I wouldn’t be surprised if my body corkscrewed its way into the ground. I am sure I’d make a great permanent fixture in the park between the slides and swings, jaw dropped wide, eyes rolling, hands flailing, my Medusa locks on end. Hopefully, I would provide some solace to other mothers on their wild run through the park chasing a toddler or two. Perhaps a plaque at my feet… “Motherhood…She came undone.” ??

La-La-La-La-La!

My one year old daughter is a screamer. During dinner, she flavors the dining experience with “AHHHHS!”, some “Grrrrrrrrrs”, a few “ya-ya-ya-ya-ya-yas!!”, a handful of “da-da-da-da-das” and the occasional “oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-ooh-oh-OH!!”

“It’s a stage,” hubby says.

Is it? I do hope so.

I envision prom dates gone bad…...

“Gimme more fries! Ya-ya-ya-ya-ya-ya!”

graduation dinners gone awry…..

“Ahhhhh! Goodbye Central High! GRRRRR!”

and wedding receptions hitting the fan.

“I’d like to thank my parents for their never ending love and support. Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Yaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

On a lighter note, there could be some benefits.

Childbirth will be a breeze.

“Push and breathe.”

“ARRRRRGGGGHHHHH!”

My retirement party should be interesting.

“Let’s toast to my mother. Ooh-Ooh-Ooh-Ooh-OOH!”

Business dinners will have a twist.

“And, further, I propose to decrease our monthly spending by …Da-da-da-da-la-la-la-la-LA-LA!!”

Oh, well. At least she inherited my charm and good looks. Kinda makes up for the gaps.