Old School!

When people are being kind, they say my older son is "precocious."  When they are being neutral, he is "loquacious."  When they are being mean, he is described as "never shutting his pie hole."  Should anyone ever want to kidnap him, there will be no need for a "looking for my lost dog, want some candy, your mom sent me to pick you up" ruse.  Just start chatting and he will happily tag along for the adventure (his FAVORITE word).

So, Saturday night he and I are playing bubble machine (we live it up around here, I tell you what.  Saturday night and I am on the front porch with the Gazillion Bubble Maker BBQ).  After 20 minutes of this shriek-inducing bliss involving a toddler repeating AD NAUSEUM "I caught that one.  Did you see?  Ohhhh, that was a big one.  That one was the best ever," the batteries die in the bubble machine.

Not one to be beaten by circumstance, I tell sweet bebe boy "No worries.  Mommy will make bubbles old school.  We can still play bubbles.  No worries.  Mommy always has a back-up plan."

... More time passes ... I am bored to tears wondering what has become of my life... Saturday night and I am blowing bubbles... alas...

(For those of you who don't know, we live on the top of a mombo hill.  For non-Coloradans, it would be called a mountain.  For the locals it is just a big-ass hill)

Suddenly, a man we don't know comes huffing up the hill.  He stops to chat while panting and heaving.

"Whatcha doing, little man?" ~ stranger

"Playing bubbles.  We were playing bubble machine but the batteries died so now we just play plain bubbles." ~ Bebe Boy who has never met a stranger and who, additionally, feels compelled to share lots of details and background

"After walking up that hill, my batteries are dead." ~ stranger

"You want my mommy to blow you old school?  She's very good."

I Almost Wept

So, like the good wife that I am, I agree to buy beer for Hubby.  I loathe beer and I especially hate buying it because it is heavy and I am weak.

I hoof in, get New Belgium Brewery's Folly Pack (it is great beer and they have a fabulous sustainability story. Seriously, look it up).  AND. GET. CARDED.

SUH-WEET.  SUH-WEET. SUH-WEET!  BoNANza even.

The downside is that it takes me five minutes to find my ID.  They would not accept my zoo pass or my frequent ice cream buyer card.  The nerve.

I finally find my ID and the-man-that-I-kind-of-love (you know, cashier guy) counts on his fingers.  Appalling.  Pathetic.  I want a refund on my taxes that went to pay for his education.  I am forced to wonder if he moves his lips when he reads.

But I still have a crush on him since he carded me.  Just a crush, no longer love.

Then the jerkface (you know, cashier guy) has the gall to state "You can almost drink for two."

ASSHOLE!  I will no longer marry you, I no longer have a crush on you and, in fact, I hate you AND your ancestors.

I calmly respond, "Yes, I can practically drink for two but you count on your fingers.  My toddler does not even do that."

"Man, that is harsh."

"Not as harsh as telling a woman she is older than dirt.  Have a great day."

Day 2 of Baby Gratitude

1) Pie (it is the day after Thanksgiving)
2) Pizza
3) Taffy (the Nanny)
4) Daddy
4) Juice

I am still no where to be found.  Alas.

Gratitude - Bebe Boy

So today is Thanksgiving.  I am always trying to instill a sense of gratitude in bebe boy.  Not that he has everything but, seriously, he has everything and more a little guy could hope for to end up happy, healthy and smart.  Having non-addicted, non-crazy parents who live in a developed part of the world is, I swear, 90% of the battle.  But that is just me.

So, I am explaining to bebe boy (who turns two next month!) the whole Thanksgiving thing and gratitude. Not sure if he gets it I ask "What makes you happy today?"  Here is his list (I swear I am not making this up.  I am funny but not THAT funny):

1) Football
2) Poop
3) Toots
4) Taffy (his nanny, who ROCKS and is actually named Stephanie but this has been reduced to Taffy)
5) Jackets

I have now decided I am going to record this every day (until I lose interest).

The Wonder of Boys

Before I had bebe boy, I thought most of men's craziness was simply upbringing -- they had fewer restrictions and more freedom than girls so they, well, acted crazy.  Then, I became a momma of a heavily-loaded testosterone boy and realized that there is NOTHING to nurture, it is all nature.  He is simply genetically pre-programmed and I am only here to provide band-aids and kisses.

Anyone who disagrees with me has never raised a boy.  Trust me on this one.

Here are some oddities that I have noticed about boys:

** they LOVE their penises.  I thought the fascination started at puberty but, nope, we have sonogram photos of the little dudes holding themselves.  Yes, in utero.  Bebe boy #1 shoves his hand in his diaper to watch a game.  Sad but true, started when he was months old.  Actually, the first time it happened when he was less than 24 hours old (Cowboy game was on, seriously, we don't miss those in this house even for birth) -- however, I cut him some slack on this one since he was still all bunched up and unable to focus his eyes..

** anything (and I do mean anything) can be used as a bat, a penis extension or a ball.  I am told that they will later use anything as a gun but we have yet to reach that point with them.

** they are born with that car sound boys make.  You know, the vroom, vroom, screech sound.  They start making it long before they play with toys that make it.  Bizarre but true.

** a girlfriend of mine had her eardrum ruptured by her 18 month old WHEN HE SHOVED A PLASTIC LIZARD DOWN HER EAR CANAL.  Girls don't do that.  Boys love their mommas but in a brutal, caveman-ish kind of way.

** they are endlessly fascinated by peeing outside.  When I told my brother that we were having a boy the FIRST thing he said was "I can't wait for little dude to whiz off your deck."  I (naively) defended my unborn swearing that he would never do something as appalling as that.  {Did I mention that I was not only naive but also a little stupid?}  My brother's response "Don't be an idiot.  I guarantee you Ken pees off the deck and so will little dude.  Hell, I even want to and it is not my deck."

Fast forward two years and "the little dude" has done the deed.  He was having a little diaper time on the deck (this involves running in circles, harassing the dog and wearing nothing more than a diaper.  He prefers naked time but, for reasons that will become perfectly clear momentarily... diaper time is a dodgy affair around these parts).  Hubs and I were chatting.  Gorgeous Colorado evening.  All is right with the world.

We hear the familiar sound of diaper velcro and look over.  Bebe boy has whipped off his diaper and is letting it loose over the edge of the deck.  He even has the pelvis thrust forward thing down (who knew THAT was inborn?).  When he is done, he lets out a huge "aahhhhh" and goes back to playing.

Hubs had to IMMEDIATELY call my brother and announce that the deed had been done at 18 months.  Oh the horror.

** Bebe boy is not yet two and yet knocked the stuffing out of Daddy last night with his plastic bat.  I am, clearly, not in favor of arming toddlers so my sympathy was lacking.  Hubby refuses to get stitches and is now walking around with a Scooby Doo Band Aid across the bridge of his nose.

** as I mentioned above, everything can be a ball or a bat if you just want to be a little creative (candles, zucchini, lemons, onions, cans of hairspray).  I think, as adults, men use sports analogies instead of physical substitutions.  For example, I call my brother to tell him that we are having another boy and this is his response.  "That's great.  You got a pitcher and a catcher.  Now all you need is a third so you can have a hitter."  When I tell Hubs I am pregnant with our second he says "Great!  We will go from zone defense to man-on-man coverage."

A simple yahoo would do but noooooo...

Poor Emo

Let me start with the fact that I adore my kidlet.  He is beautiful, funny, smart, kind and charming.  And he has an amazing sense of comedic timing to boot.  However, there are times that his precocious-ness is, well, not only embarrassing but also, potentially, fight-inducing.  

Today we are walking into Target to buy, of course, baby hangers.  I swear I buy baby hangers on a weekly basis but that is not the point.  

While we are walking in, Emo-kid is walking out.  Let me describe his ensemble so that my (almost) two year old does not look rude.  I mean, really, Emo had this one coming.  

Burnt orange, skin tight (as in you can tell his religion) capri pants with slashes and holes all over them.  Held together with safety pins and slung so low his underwear (tighty whiteys!  egads!) are showing.  Paired with calf high, multi-buckled boots and an Ed Hardy t-shirt.  And, naturally, the dyed black spiky hair, multiple piercings and 'tude.  

I mean, really, kid... you don't look like an intellectual/poet/dreamer who is too above this world.  You look like a pathetic kid who cuts himself in the bathroom while listening to bad music.  

Bebe boy thinks that Emo is, clearly, there for his amusement and is in dire need of attention.  And attention he will provide.  He is yelling at the top of his lungs (as only a toddler can do):  "Mom.  Silly.  Pants.  Wowie.  Crazy.  Mom.  Pants.  Silly.  Wowie.  Silly.  Crazy.  Pants."  Over and over.  The only stopping was to laugh hysterically (to the point of falling down) all while jumping up and down and pointing.  This was quite possibly the funniest thing he had ever seen.  {The only thing that can compare to his level of reaction was when the elephant at the zoo pooped and tooted for approximately 10 minutes straight.  That about sent bebe boy over the edge}.

Of course, the more I try to shush him the louder he becomes because NO DOUBT I SIMPLY CAN'T SEE EMO.  So, please, baby, point him out so that everyone can look at him.  I pick him up and turn him away thinking he might get distracted by something, anything else.  No can do.  He simply arches himself backwards/upside down and continues his antics.  

Emo is horrified and angry.  I swear his internal debate was "Should I go to my car and cut myself or should I attack the lady and her kid?"  

However, I assume ole Emo opted for self-mutilation because, well, he weighed about 75 pounds and appeared to suffer from an iron deficiency -- even me the very pregnant pacifist could have taken him on.  Hell, my toddler (who downed a 5 ounce rib eye last night) could have taken him.  

Poor Emo.  Got his ass verbally kicked by a toddler.  THAT is something to ponder while listening to Marilyn Manson.  

When You Come Home, There is a Dead Mouse in a Diaper

So, I am the first person to admit it:  I am over the top about everything.  It is not fake enthusiasm, it is genuine and deep.  Part of it stems from the fact that I am crazy-optimistic and part of it is simply that I was born under a happy star (so was my son which is one of my favorite parts of his little character).  Besides, if you have to go through life as either Tigger or Eeyore, why not choose a little striped bounce?

Here is the downside of happiness and enthusiasm when you are parenting... the little dudes get used to it and want more, more, more kudos, random hugs and high fives for. every. single. thing. they. do.

Normally, I don't find this to be an atrocious behavior or expectation.  The fact that he loads me and my pockets up with rocks, leaves, used gum, golf balls and handfuls of dirt is simply expected and accepted.  I wanted a boy and I got all boy.  Quit your bitching and be grateful.

This morning was an entirely different story.

My preggo self had settled onto the sofa for an exciting round of diaper folding [yes, I am THAT mom who cloth diapers and grows organic food.  I don't judge you (well, only a little) for your Pampers and McDonalds, stop harping at me about "it's good enough for everyone else, why do you have to be so picky?"].

I hear bebe boy squeal with delight in the utility room so I assume he has found the half eaten sponge football that I keep trying to hide from him.  {Don't judge me, this thing is nasty -- it has been through three dogs but when "faball" goes missing a full-on clearly-the-house-is-on-fire-and-the-dog-and-the-cherry-tomatoes-are-still-inside meltdown ensues so faball will remain a fixture in our house until bebe boy grows attached to something else.  There are only so many hills upon which I am willing to die, Marine, and a half-eaten Nerf ball does not even come close to the list}.

Little Sweetness (Daddy is the original Sweetness) comes toddling toward me clearly THRILLED with his find.  I don't see faball so I assume that he has found the mini-Stonehenge I am erecting from all the rocks that I find in our washing machine.

Then he presents to me... with all the elegance of royalty...  A. DEAD. MOUSE.

Mother of God, THIS is where I draw the line of motherhood.  I accept avocado in my hair.  I accept Elizabeth Mitchell on my stereo.  I {grimly} accept never again having a quickie on the living room floor mid-afternoon.  I accept rubber ducks and wind-up lobsters in my Jacuzzi tub.  Hell, I even accept having my pockets loaded down with stones a la Virginia Woolf.

But I draw the line at handling dead rodents.

So, I start screaming (over and over and over because clearly the problem will be solved at great volume and with maniacal repetition) "drop it, put it down, leave it, oh god, oh god, oh god, drop it, put it down, leave it, drop it, put it down, leave it, oh god, oh god, oh god, drop it, put it down, leave it, drop it, put it down, leave it, oh god, oh god, oh god, drop it, put it down, leave it, drop it, put it down, leave it, oh god, oh god, oh god, drop it, put it down, leave it, drop it, put it down, leave it, oh god, oh god, oh god, drop it, put it down, leave it."  Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

I, essentially, in my panic, have given myself an oh-so-pleasant combination of Tourette Syndrome, bi-polar syndrome (the manic side) and I-have-hearing-loss-but-I-am-the-only-person-on-the-planet-who-does-not-realize-it.  Yep, I was quite the femme fatale this morning.  Envy Sweetness.

Bebe boy is clearly perplexed.  I clap, thank him and give him high fives for dead dandelions, wads of dog hair and used gum but, for the best gift EVER, he gets nothing other than a screaming mimi jumping on the sofa?

So, he keeps yelling louder and louder:  "Mamama {Yes, I think it is cool that I am called an over-the-top moniker like Mamama with the slightest hint of a French accent.  And, yes, Bitter Berthas, he came up with it on his own} so yummy.  Look, yummy, Mamama."

{Don't get too disgusted at this point.  He has yet to grasp a full range of compliments so EVERYTHING that he likes is called "yummy" from dead mice to smoked gouda to dogs to the recycling truck.  Though, I must admit is is both adorable and ego-boosting to be called "yummy" first thing in the morning by such a sincere and enamored audience.  When he claps for me to boot... well, I am on the floor in a puddle}.  But back to this morning which was anything but yummy.

Eventually, he tires of my top-volume soliloquy and drops the dead beast.  Happily, it lands on a diaper.

This is the part where I look like a bad mom.  Prepare yourself.

I am afraid that he is going to pick it up again and, egads, throw it at me or the dog.  So, I quickly scoop him up and stick him outside.  It is cold.  Really cold.  And he is in the midst of naked time.  I know, I know.  I did warn you that this is where Mamama goes bad.

But I figure 1) it is only for a minute 2) you don't actually get sick from being cold and 3) the 150 pound hairy dog is out there too so they can cuddle if he gets cold while I deal with the mouse.  And, yes, I accept the fact that I am HOPING the dog will offer my sweet child comfort and warmth while he is outside a la Tiny Tim (and a naked Tiny Tim at that) and I am inside a la Ebenezer ensures that I will never be Mother-of-the-Year (but I have Mamama-of-the-Year wrapped up, not to brag).

I grab my Williams Sonoma tongs (best tongs ever -- which is not the point of this blog but good to know anyway) and grab both the mouse and the diaper it serendipitously landed upon.  The carcass package goes on the kitchen counter and I herd bebe and the dog back in the house.  {See, I am a good mom, I did not take the time to draw a bubble bath or polish my nails}.

For the briefest of moments, I actually thought about dealing with Mr Bubonic myself but then realized that I got married so I would never have to deal with tires, furnace filters or dead rodents.  This one gets outsourced to Daddy-O. I was in labor for 40 hours, you can deal with dead nasties.

I am 32 weeks pregnant so he is more than willing to answer his phone even if he is in the middle of a business meeting.  And, yes, I could have waited -- it is not like Mr Bubonic with Rigor Mortis was going anywhere -- but we all handle emergencies differently.  And please don't say that this was not an emergency ... crises are in the eye of the beholder.  And I beholded this as a full-on-eMERgency!

But I will {begrudgingly} concede the fact that, just perhaps, my response to his "hello" was just a leeee-tle on the dramatic side.

me (in a very high-pitched squeal):  "Mayday!  Mayday!  Huge catastrophe narrowly averted.  Baby, dog and the threatened area have been cordoned off and decontaminated.  Their debrief will begin once you have been fully appraised of the situation."

completely baffled hubby:  "WTF are you talking about?"

me:  "When you come home, there is a dead mouse in a diaper on the counter."