When Mama Went Off the Deep End

It seems that I went through a paranoid phase when The Bud was three. I think he was winning...

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Hey. This is The Bud, here. I hijacked my mama's computer to have a bit of a heart-to-heart with all the preschoolers out there. I can't read, yet, so I can't say for sure what she's been posting on this blog,  but I can hazard a guess that not all of it is...shall we say...complimentary to those of us in the 2.5 to 5 yr old set. It's time to fight back with the tools we have at our disposal.

Where my people at? Whaddup, playas??!

Why the gangsta lingo? And how am I able to type and spell, when I've just told you I can't read? Don't ask me questions you already know the answers to! I'm three. Why do I do anything? Because I can, that's why. And you'd better believe it. In fact, for the adults who may actually read this post, I pity you the mind f**k that'll have you trying to come to terms with the possibility that a three year old could actually hijack an adult's computer and write a blog post. Admit it: in some of your more paranoid moments (like after he figures out how to escape his bedroom in the middle of the night, after you've turned the doorknob around so that very thing would stop happening), you wouldn't put anything past the little bugger. Crazier things have happened.

But I digress. This post is to empower the powerless. We'll start with Tips To Avoid Bedtime:

1. Request that Mama read ALL the books to you before you can sleep. Every. Single. One.

2. Fake a stomach ache, requiring a parent to apply "tummy wotion" (rosemary essential oil--may as well be snake oil, for all its tummy soothing properties) to the skin over the offending organ.

3. Go pee, again, but not until you've announced your need to do so to both parents and gotten their buy in on the plan.

4. Ask for more dinner.

5. Ask for more drinks.

6. Ask for a snack, your missing blanket, or for help to find your favorite stuffed toy-which is only missing because you don't know (read: care) to look under your blanket for it. 

7. Ask to be tucked in. Again. You can't help it if Mama and Daddy have already fallen asleep. You need their help!

And if, by some fluke, your maligned parents are unmoved, and all these deflective techniques fail, fall asleep for a half hour, then fall out of bed and scream the house down. That'll do it. Ain't NObody gonna sleep for a while after that. 

I've given you my best stuff. Make me proud. And DO NOT tell them where you learned this stuff. Even if they offer you chocolate. 

Love, The Bud

The Loaner T-Rex

If you have a least one child, but haven't yet experienced the joy(s) of Friends With Children, trust me when I say, you need to getchoo some quickly.

Last night, some friends of ours who have three boys of their own, invited us over for dinner. It was delightful; a gift of great value to us. They gave us the gift of uninterrupted time. Now, this couple is pretty great with or without kids, but as any parent in the trenches will tell you, a special magic happens when two or more children are gathered together. They entertain each other, and it is glorious.

As another friend of mine with three children put it, when you have three kids, you don't even notice when another one gets added. I would add, no one does because they make themselves scarce. Brilliant.

The Artist & I are currently the beleaguered parents of one threenager, with the option for a newborn in three months, give or take a couple weeks. We are so tired. So tired of wrestling, playing dinosaurs, hide-n-seek, t-ball, trains, marbles, Jenga (The Bud cheats), catch, and duck, duck, GOOSE. So tired of pretending enthusiasm for the same dinosaur videos/movies over and over again. But since we're The Bud's only playmates at home, we are called into action on the regular.

Uninterrupted time is not heavy on the ground at our house. I confess that The Artist takes the brunt of this. I'm not great at playing on a good day. On a pregnant day, fuggedabottit. I take (small) comfort that with a pending neonate on deck, I'll shortly be pulling a more or less equal load, what with all the birthing and nursing and whatnot.

Anyway, so back to Shangri La. Don't be too jealous when I tell you how it all went down. We went inside. Our child, spotting other kiddos (and their toys), ran off to investigate.

We didn't see him again for a half hour.

We sat down and watched dinner being prepared. We had sparkling conversation. We laughed, we drank (well, they did), we ate food while it was still warm, and generally had a great time while the kids played somewhere else in the house.

Glorious, I tell you. Simply glorious.

There were hiccups here and there, of course. Occassional tears, requests for help in the potty, dinner refusals, whining, etc, but when you've been given the gift of time, it all feels bearable. We had a wonderful time.

And The Bud? He made out like a bandit, too. The big(ger) boys have the most awesomest T-Rex, EVER. It roars louder than The Bud (yay...), is a foot tall, and it's eyes glow a very intimidating red. Rumor has it that he used to walk, but being loved on by three boys has taken its toll. Still, though, very cool. He played with it from the moment he found it until it was time to go home, when he let us know in no uncertain terms by the tantrum he threw that we would have to pry that dinosaur from his cold, dead hands to get him to leave without it.

That's when the final miracle of our evening happened. Our friends' middle son (read: he's been forced to share his toys with a younger, less reasonable person his whole life, just to stop tears, so nothing phases him anymore), whispered to his mother, "Mommy, he can borrow it for a week."

My child has been in heaven ever since. He roared all the way home. He cuddled T-Rex in his sleep all night long, and when he dragged that thing into our room this morning at 6 am and was told he couldn't get in bed with us if he had it, he turned around and went back to his own room.

This is gonna be a great week.

Roscoe, the T-Rex

Monthly Musings: March 2015

• The Bud has had a thing for watching dinosaur fight scenes on YouTube for some time now, and while I think it's weird, I haven't had just cause to object to the habit. He gets regular screen time for this, within limits, of course.

It wouldn't be a problem except he's expanded his taste to videos of other kids playing with dinosaur toys (I know), and in one particular video, a dad giving commentary in the background pronounces the 'T' sound in the word T-Rex more like the 'D' sound. I think English isn't this guy's first language, but it's hard not to hold it against him, because he's got my kid doing it. After he'd already mastered the T sound! The grammar and word usage nerd in me writhes. Writhes,  I tell you! This further proves that you can't trust the Internet to educate your kids. #umm...

• I've started a campaign to convince the Y chromosome bearers in my house that eating a warm biscuit with blackberry jam, as I do, counts as a yummy dessert. It's been unconscious, but I must confess that I do it so I don't have to bake to get them the desserts they really like. #cuttingcorners

• Today, The Bud, in answer to a question from me, answered 'yes, ma'am,' for the first time. #montessorieducated

• For the last 5 minutes, I've listened from across the hall to my son working himself from fake tears for dramatic effect to actual upset over the fact that we (I) only sang one chorus of 'Jesus Loves Me' with him before night-night. Then Daddy (aka: The Bleeding Heart) came home to discover the mayhem and to save his only son from his unfeeling mother. I live in a madhouse. #overtired #bothofus

• I'm a bit tired of seeing my mail carrier on the phone every time he's in the neighborhood, especially in light of the fact that at least once a week somebody in our building plays a game of Who's Mail Is It, Anyway because the wrong mails gets put in our boxes. #switcheroo

• It doesn't seem fair that now, while I'm doing, arguably, the most womanly thing there is to do, I have developed the hair growing capacity (and patterns) of a Sasquatch. #beardedmama

• Remember that friend in high school/college (usually a guy) who, when the question of food came up, no matter the time of day or what time they'd had their last meal, responded, "I could eat"? Well, that's me now, except it's pee, not eat. (Who am I kidding? I could probably eat, too). Any given time of the day, no matter when I last went, I can always go again . Ladies, I'm a social pee-er's dream, so invite me to dinner at your favorite restaurant. You'll never go alone. #icouldgo

Monthly Musings, February 2015

• Recently, I went into the kitchen to find The Bud and The Artist making breakfast. The Bud was standing on a dining chair at the stove, flipping bacon with his favorite set of tongs. He was closely monitored by his father, of course, but it was essentially done, by himself.

He's SO gonna start wiping his own butt.

• I've decided Lady's anthem is Ray Charles', Nightime Is the Right Time. I get up to pee at least twice a night these days, & I've noticed that she's up nearly every time I do, kicking away at my beleaguered bladder. She's pretty busy during the day, too. Constant baby movements in utero are very reassuring, don't get me wrong. It just doesn't bode well for when she starts making time one The Outside. #jusssayin

• Dear Family Bathroom Designers: Please consider installing a commode with a quiet flush, if not in all stalls, at least in these units. I'd guess that most little kids don't love how loudly, or seemingly without warning public toilets flush. I get it. Theyre short, so it's like having a giant, spitting monster growling in your face while you have your pants down. For the uber-sensitive ones, like my kid? The unexpected sound is a pretty big deterrent against public toileting; if he goes, it won't be without a fight, and I'm getting fed up. That's where you designers come in. Only you can change the experiences of parents in public for the better. The choice is yours. Just know that if you continue on your present course, there's at least one little boy who's peeing in the sink.

Thank you for your consideration.

• I've discovered that if I wear one of The Artist's belts, strapped low on my hips, I can still wear my non-maternity pants with comfort & ease. It's a real budget saver. Remembering to put them back when I'm done isn't going so well, though... #unwittingthief
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That's all I've got, folks. This has been a monster of a month. I jotted down what I could when I had the energy to think at all. Mostly in the shower.

See you next month!

Poopageddon

We've had a bit of pooping regression in these parts, lately.

Since we started potty training, The Bud has never been truly on board with a daily toilet constitutional. Peeing is no problem, but since we took his precious diapers away, he's preferred a more stealthy approach to #2. It's not uncommon to find him ready to skulk behind a cabinet, or secreted behind a closed door to do his business, according to his preference. Which is in his pants.

And that's if we're able to anticipate him at all. More likely, he comes out of hiding after the dirty deed is already done to inform one of us that he needs his bottom cleaned.

Dread of having to rinse out dirty underwear every day has turned The Artist and me into a two-man, crack pooping face detection team. We've become adept at reading his social cues, facial expressions, and even the tone of the silence in the house, either of us ready to jump at a moment's notice to get him to the pot on time. I'd say we're working with about a 90% success rate. It's not a perfect system, but I call it progress. We've been tripping along, hoping for that magic day other parents in the trenches talk about: the day when their unwilling charges decide that pooping in the potty is all of a sudden ok, and start doing it. Without a fight. No muss, no fuss.

Sadly, The Bud's not there, yet. Maybe nowhere near. He's changed it up a bit, though. NOW, he holds it for as long as he can--up to 5 days (yes, I count)--then gives in to the pot when the pressure becomes too great. He's driving us nuts. Five days is waaay too long to go without...well, without. So, of course, when he finally goes, it's so gigantic that, let me just say, there is much wailing and gnashing of teeth. And stopping up of toilets, and fruitless plunging, and swearing daddies.

It's ugly ya'll.

Last night was bath night and The Artist was in charge. After a few minutes of splashing, I heard a desperate cry for help from the bathroom. I ran in to find that The Bud had skittered out of the tub to stand, naked and wet, next to his father. They were both staring in horror into the tub of water. I looked in the bathtub to find about a thousand makeshift tub toys floating in brown water. Yep. There was doody in the tub.

Apparently, The Artist hadn't checked for dingleberries, of which there were many, before depositing the kid in the water. How many, you ask? Let's call it a prohibitive number.*shrug* Could've happened to anybody, right? I have no idea. All I know is, I feel like we're stuck in a neverending loop of a sitcom episode called, 'You Can Lead a Toddler to the Pot, But You Can't Make Him Go.'

It didn't take long to realize that if the tub (and the boy) was going to get cleaned any time before 5 o'clock the next morning, Mama was going to have to step in. I put aside my disgust and innate germaphobia and did everything except set a blowtorch to the porcelain, the bath toys, (and the boy), and eventually it all did end, in a blur of scrub brushes and non-chlorine bleach. I've blocked out the details.

Blech.

A moment I do remember, though, was after I saw what I was up against, I left the bathroom, headed for the basement and the big gun cleaning supplies. The Artist, fearful that I'd left him alone to deal with the filth, called out to see where I was. My instinct was to call back to him, "I am running away to a place where nobody can find me and nobody poops in tubs!"

I didn't say that, of course. I was too worried that I actually meant it.

Dark Days and Bubble Baths

The Bud loves to go to church. Bedtime on Saturday nights is always easy because he has the anticipation of a morning of chocolate donuts and train tables ahead of him. Shallow, but it gets us out the door on time. If I'm honest, my reasons for going to church this morning were as mercenary as his--it was my one chance to get out of the house and let someone else watch my kid while having nothing physical asked of me for two hours.

I am spent.

I've nodded off a handful of times in the last few hours, marked by brief moments of consciousness at the hand of my three year old, reminding me unceremoniously that it's 'time to wake up now,' or 'it's not sweepy time now, Mommy.' Poor kid. All he wants is my attention, which I feel completely unable to give him, but explaining the whys to a person who follows each answer with yet another why would take more effort than I can currently dredge up, so instead, I stare at him wordlessly, wishing I was anywhere but here...

It's been a rough go, lately. Work is a nuthouse, The Artist and I are tense and crabby as we wrestle with finances and the impending reality of raising two children in a Crackerjack box, parenting a toddler is a constant exercise in frustration and futility, and doing it all while growing a new person inside my body? Yeah, that's doesn't make the rest of it any easier to handle.

If such a thing as A Dark Night of Pregnancy exists, I'm in it. And I've been here before. My circumstances this time around are quite different than the last--I'm not single, lonely, bereft, and scared for the prospects of mine and my unborn child's future. I'm not eaten up with the anxiety of a first-time mother. Well, not the same anxiety, anyway. There's always something to worry about, of course, but my worries this time are different.

This Dark Night, while different in a lot of ways from the one before, has this in common: the feeling of being completely unequal to the daily effort of living my life. I'm sick of opening my eyes in the morning, as tired as when I went to bed the night before, thinking 'I cannot do this. Not even one more time.' It's not self-destructive, so much as the slightly tantrumy urge to sit down amid all the things and just...have a good cry.

Errday.

I get that what I feel is typical. I'm not reinventing the wheel, here. Jobs in corporate America have been around longer than I. So have relationships, pregnancies, and three year olds (God help us all). And in spite of all the muck and mess, people do get up to rave another day. It's ordinary. It's reality.

But, the world where I want to live is a lot less like reality, and more like a never-ending bubble bath, where the hot water never runs out and the suds never fizzle. Pregnancy brain is an old wives tale, not a well-worn excuse for failings. Misunderstandings, pride, self-centeredness, and unmet needs do not exist. Kisses really do heal all wounds. Parenting springs from an unending well of patience. Laundry, dishes, and cooking do themselves, and no one ever coined the phrase, 'decision overload' to characterize the poor schmuck, on his/her daily grind, fed up with the responsibility of it all.

Today my grind followed me to church. There I was offered a chance to be quiet and to rest in the stillness. It followed me to laughs with old and dear friends, who reminded me that while some things change, they also stay the same, and that feels really great. And it followed me home again, where I didn't get a quality nap, but I did get sweet cuddles  and giggles with my kid, all the way up to his (early) bed time. It followed me to the personal rock concert I'm getting right now from my guy, while my baby girl kicks and squirms in my belly. And the laundry is done.

I'd better get going. Tomorrow's another day on the grind.

Portrait of Valentine's Day

Disclaimer: this post contains graphic content. But, there's no need for gasping, clutching of chests, or any other such shenanigans. It's about Valentine's Day for parents of a three-year-old, for crying out loud.  Nobody is having any kind of sex, whatsoever. I hope that makes you happy.

Meany.

7:00 am: Awaken to a small mouth-breather, standing 3" from your sleeping face, demanding help to go pee (he can do it himself, he just chooses not to first thing in the morning, when it would mean the most to his exhausted parents).

7:03 am: Crawl hopefully into bed and try to go back to sleep.

7:05 am: The kid climbs into your bed, takes over your pillow, and starts an annoying dinosaur growling war in your ear. Daddy gives up and lets him take the iPad, as long as he promises to use it in his room. With the door closed.

8:35 am: Reawaken with a start, guiltily realizing that you've let your child start his day watching almost two hours of unsupervised dinosaur fight scenes on YouTube. Do not get out of bed. The damage is already done, may as well savor the relative peace for a few more minutes.

9:15 am: Daddy gets up and starts coffee. You start the chai latte you've become addicted to since you successfully convinced yourself tea was just as good as coffee to kick start a day. Turns out, it is. Make breakfast.

10:30 - 11:15 am: Field 3 temper tantrums caused by various parental infringements upon the will of a threenager.

11:20 am: Spank and time-out.

11:30 am: Bath.

12:30 pm: Mama takes (an accidental, but much appreciated) nap.

1:30 pm: Daddy puts the kid down for a nap. This one's on purpose.

[1:30 to 4:00]: Blessed peace ensues.

4:30 pm: Family Jenga. The kid wins. He cheats, but tattling is frowned upon in your house, so...

After Jenga but before dinner is a blur, really. Somebody threw several fits over pooping in the potty, resulting in soiled shorts and wiped bottoms. *shrug* Could've been any one of you.

7:00 pm: Mama and Daddy finally sit down to a lovely, home-cooked Valentine's Day meal with the soundtrack to yet another fight scene echoing romantically in the air. The kid touches none of it. He eats cereal. Mama and The Belly got a single, precious sip of Daddy's wine. (Sue me, it was delicious).

7:45 pm: Mama calls a moratorium on tantrums for the day, declaring it (early) bed time. Books, prayers, songs, and kisses see the kid down for the night.

The day ends with Mama and Daddy, huddled together for warmth and strength, watching a movie and feeling the baby kick. Each declares today the best day, ever.

And it was.