Learning By Example

Do as I say, not as I do - sometimes I feel like that is my motto.  I don't always set the best example for my kids, as much as I want to.

Particularly when it comes to keeping my house clean.

But you probably already knew that, right?

Right.

In our house, things that aren't used very often tend to stay where they land until we go on a cleaning spree...or until we decide it's some sort of safety hazard and move it.  Case in point:  when my husband got a replacement mirror for my car, the box in which it came sat on the third step coming up into our living room for a long time.  Like, weeks.  At least.

Another example:  a marker fell down the steps.  It sat there for a while.  I'm not sure how long, because after a while, you just don't tend to notice the clutter, at least not until it starts jumping out from behind corners and yelling BOO!

The other day, Craig was bringing the Imp into the house.  I was standing at the top of the steps watching them come in.  The Imp spotted the little marker and picked it up.  "Oh - what a good boy!" I called down to him.  "Thank you for bringing that up!"

The Imp, of course, completely ignored me.  He looked at the marker, then looked around.  Then he spotted the box.  He looked back and forth - marker, box.  And then - plop.  Marker in the box.  He beamed at me, then climbed on up the steps.

Maybe he's seen us shoving things into the closet one too many times.

Pool Fool

I had planned on posting tonight about my daughter's t-ball experience.  Her last game was this evening, and I took a few pictures and had a few ideas started up.  But it was hot, it stormed in the middle of it, and basically, it was a fairly miserable experience for me (fortunately, not for anyone else, but I'm going to be self-absorbed and call it NO FUN AT ALL, at least right now).  I'm sure I'll feel better about it tomorrow and I can write about it then, but tonight I'm still feeling a little bitter at the elements, so I'm going to save my sanity and pretend it didn't happen.

So, instead, I'll post about my husband.  At his request.

Remember, as you read this, he suggested I write about it.

And I'm all too happy to comply.

Yesterday evening after I got home from work and collapsed on the couch, he made a little suggestion:  that we inflate the blow-up-pool my parents got the kids last summer, put water in it, and let them splash around a little bit.  Since it's been in the 90's for the past several days, this sounded like a pretty good idea.

Note to self:  at 35+ weeks of pregnancy, in 90+ degree weather with 70-ish percent humidity, nothing involving toddlers and playing and outside is a good idea.  They are 100% guaranteed to drive me crazy for something, even if they're technically not doing anything wrong.  But I digress.

I agreed that we should take them out, so he got the electric air pump and went out to blow up the pool while I rounded up the kids and got them ready.  After I stuffed the Birdie into a swimsuit two sizes too small for her (but it's Princess!  Ooh, Princess!  Must wear the PRINCESS swimsuit!  Even if it hasn't fit for OVER A YEAR!) and suited the Imp up in a swim diaper from a package that was handed down from my cousin's daughter who turned FIVE a few months ago (thanks, Tabitha!), we headed back into the living room.

A glance out on the deck told me some not-so-good news, the very news, in fact, that I had been dreading:  although Craig had been trying to inflate the pool for a good five or ten minutes, it appeared that no progress had been made.  And I don't mean "very little" progress.  I mean NO progress.  The pool mostly resembled a blue tarp that had been left outside for months, gathering rainwater and leaves and creating a habitat for mosquitos.

And the only thing I could think was Oh no oh no oh nononononono.  Because I had two toddlers in swimsuits, convinced they were going to get to swim.   Please please PLEASE Lord, do not let there be a hole in the pool.  Please please please!

I told the kids "Don't get into anything, Mommy is going outside with Daddy for a minute but I'll be right back," which is, of course, a carte blanche for them to start tearing up everything in sight, but I didn't care - if that pool wouldn't inflate, I'd have much worse trouble on my hands than toys and mess all over the place.

I'd have a disappointed three-year-old.  And there is no greater force on this earth than a 3-year-old who has been told she gets to do something fun and exciting, only to be told a few minutes later that she isn't going to get to, after all.

"So, it's not inflating," I remarked to my husband, much more casually than I felt.

He tugged at it in a few places and looked puzzled.  "It doesn't look like it, but I can't figure out why."

I thought, "I KNOW WHY!  IT'S BECAUSE THERE'S A HOLE IN IT!  A HOLE A HOLE A HOLE AND NOW THE BIRDIE IS GOING TO THROW A FIT AND THE WORLD IS GOING TO END AND MY HEAD IS GOING TO EXPLODE!"

But I didn't say that.  Because the weird thing was, it didn't look like any air was going into the pool at all.  Usually when you try to inflate something with a hole, it will at least work a little bit before starting to seep back out.  But this wasn't even pretending to inflate.

So I grabbed the side of the pool, and started looking for the little air hole - you know, the kind you actually blow into - because Craig was trying to inflate it through a big one, made for the electric pump, and I thought, I don't know, maybe something was wrong with it, even though I couldn't imagine what.  And as I was turning the side of the pool over, looking for the other plug, I commented, "It's really weird.  It's like you're putting air in and it coming right back out..."

...the other side.

Blink.

Because, you see, it was coming back out the other side.

Blink.  Blink.

Oh yes.  The nozzle of the pump was actually sticking out the bottom of the pool.  And somehow...my (sometimes) annoyingly intelligent husband never noticed he was trying to inflate it through the drain.

Snicker.

Snicker snicker.

Umm...I think we found our problem.

I was just relieved there wasn't a hole in the pool.

At least, not any unauthorized holes.

Bitty tantrum avoided.  At least for a little while.

WHAT did that little boy just call me?

Kids do funny things.  Kids also do things that embarrass their parents.  Sometimes, they do things that are funny in one circumstance, and embarrassing in another.  And then you think, Maybe we shouldn't have laughed quite so much the first time.

For instance.

Yes, of course I have an example.  I have two toddlers, one of whom is just learning to speak, and hasn't gotten us in much trouble.  Until, maybe, now.

It started out very innocently last weekend, after we went to dinner and tried to get ice cream at a nearby parlor.  It was jam-packed, and we had to move on, but not before my little Imp got to meet the parlor's mascot, a picture (or statue?) of a cow outside the door.  Although I didn't witness this personally, as I was dealing with a potty emergency involving my other toddler, I have it on good authority that he and the Crazy Cow hit it off quite spectacularly.  The brief meeting ended with my son waving and saying, "Bye bye, cow!"

This has become his new mantra, and at random times, for no apparent reason, we will hear his little voice pipe, "Bye bye, cow.  Bye bye, cow.  Bye bye, cow."  And he will say it over and over.  Sometimes it comes out as, "Bye bye, dow."  But we all know what he means.  And we ooh and ahh and giggle over it every time, because it truly is adorable.  He has a very precious little voice.

So, fast forward to tonight.  My mom was in town again this weekend, and the five of us plus Craig's parents went to an excellent BBQ joint ("restaurant" is just not the right word) for dinner after church.  After a rocky start that involved some sweet cornbread that looked (and tasted) like cake along with many tears when Mommy wouldn't let him have only that for dinner, the Imp managed to finish off about half of my BBQ pork, most of my cornbread, and half an ear of corn.  We were all pleased with ourselves.

Especially him.  He realized everyone thought it was funny when he would open his mouth wide whenever I would try to to take a bite of my food, and got a bit punchy from it.

He's a bit into being the center of attention.  We may have a class clown in the making.

After dinner, I made the ubiquitous pregnant-woman-fifth-potty-trip-of-the-hour.  The Imp was not very happy to see me go, but didn't make a fuss (I don't think).  However, when I came out, he started chanting, "Mommy!  Mommy!  Mommy!  Mommy!" in his adorable little voice until (and for a little bit after) I picked him up.

Of course, the folks sitting around us were charmed.  "He's so cute," a nice-looking young lady (probably only a few years younger than I am, but with a sweetness that made her seem younger than that*) at the next table commented, while smiling at him.

* I know that sounds a little weird.  I tend to assess people - not try to judge their character, but just make observations - and in this case, my assessment was along the lines of, "She is probably close to my age, but something about her makes her seem younger."

I answered with something like, "Thank you.  He knows it, too." while patting my son on the head indulgently.  After all, he is the sweetest, cutest little boy you will ever see.  Ever.  I mean it.  So take a good look now, honey, because this kind of cuteness only comes around once every seventy-six years or so.

Anyway.

The Imp and I were among the last of our group out the door, and as we left the people who were smiling at him, I told him to "say bye bye!"  I almost always do this when we leave people who have taken notice of him, because his bye bye is just so cute, and everyone always loves it.

Well, usually.

Can you guess where this is going?

My impish little troublemaker looked at this nice lady and said, "Bye bye, cow!"

Blink.

Except, fortunately, this was one of the times it came out as, "Bye bye, dow!" so instead of looking offended, the young lady just looked a bit puzzled.  And it could have just ended there, with me smiling and waving and leaving with at least a little dignity, but I knew what he had said, even if no one else did, and I got all flustered and embarrassed.

"No, no" I admonished him, "Just say 'bye bye!'"

"Bye bye, cow!" he repeated with the sort of stubborn innocence that makes you wonder if he doesn't really know what he's doing, after all.

At this point, I was both embarrassed and at the same time barely able to hold in my laughter, so I just apologized and darted out the door before she could figure out what he had said.

The poor girl probably thought I was laughing at her.  Sigh.

Actually, she probably just thought I was one of the strangest people she'd ever encountered.  And she was probably right.  Double sigh.

I carried my little guy to the car amidst his chants of, "Bye bye, cow!  Bye bye, cow!" and loaded him in, then had a good laugh about it with Craig and my mom.  And the Imp told the cow goodbye off and on all the way home.

So my little Imp has already managed to inadvertently insult someone - and he can't even talk yet.

(Incidentally, I could go into how my three-year-old who never misses anything just happened to notice how funny we found it that the Imp had told some lady, "Bye bye, cow," and add in there how she tends to take anything that we think is funny and run so far with it we can no longer even hear her crazy little giggles.  But I'll save that story for when it happens.  When.)

Please pray for us.  I think we may be in trouble.

Just Peachy

This will just be a little post, a blogette, or something like that.  I can't resist sharing a funny little conversation I had in the car with the Birdie on Wednesday night.

From the back seat, I hear a somewhat startling question.  "What color is the Imp?"

Me: [thinking: they really do notice.  They just don't care.]  I turn the question back on her, as I have learned to do when she asks something unexpected like that.  "What color is the Imp?"

Her:  [thoughtfully] "He's kind of a peach color."

Me:  [blink] "Why, yes, he is."

Her:  [pause]  "We eat peaches."

Me:  [blink.  blink.]  "Why, yes, we do eat peaches."  [pause]  "But we don't eat the Imp."

Her:  [giggling]  "Nooooo.  That's silly!"

Well, good.  I'm glad we got that cleared up!

I muttered to Craig, who was driving, "Well, that's one word for it."

In typical Craig style, he responded something about how cannibalism is usually frowned upon.

Little piping voice:  "What did Daddy say?"

I'll let you explain that one, Honey.

The Mind of a Toddler

You just never know what is going through the mind of a toddler.  Until they open their oh-so-innocent little mouths, that is.

My Birdie was in rare form this past weekend.

I did not personally witness the first event, and I think I may be glad of that.  My mother-in-law recounted it to me over the phone later that evening, Saturday evening.  We went to a restaurant with my mother- and father-in-law as well as some good friends of ours and their daughter (who is, of course, also a good friend of ours, but you get the point).

For whatever reason, my father-in-law got to be the one in charge of leading my daughter out of the restaurant, and as they walked out, they were stopped by a lady sitting at another table.  I saw them in there talking, but was already outside putting the Baby Guy in the car.

As my mother-in-law told the story, at one point, my precious little daughter turned to the lady and asked, so sweetly, I am sure, "Are you a girl?"

As I said, I think I may be glad to have gotten that story later rather than having been in a position to bask in the embarrassment first hand.  My father-in-law had that pleasure.

The very next day, the next evening, to be exact, she did it again, although this time it was not embarrassing, just funny.

The evening started with a fun trip to the Louisville Zoo, where we attended their Halloween party.  It was followed by dinner at a restaurant that was new to us, the "Hall of Fame Cafe," located conveniently close to both the University of Louisville and the KY Fair and Exposition Center.

I'll keep things mysterious and let you guess what their main attraction is.

It turned out to be really good (I guess I shouldn't have been surprised, right?) and we plan to go back sometime.  To that end, we quizzed our waiter on when their busy (and, by extension, less busy) times tend to be.

He surprised us by informing us that basketball/football games are not as great a driver of traffic for them (oops, I guess I just gave away their main attraction) as are conventions at the Fair and Expo Center.  For example, the prior Monday, there had been some sort of carpenters' convention going on. "We were slammed," he told us.  "I could barely find the time to take a break."

At this point, he was interrupted by my crazy daughter, who was looking around the table at the rest of us, excited and shocked and, above all, hyper. "Ohhhh noooooooo!" she exclaimed. "Ohh NO!"

We all stopped listening to focus on our little drama queen. "What? What is it?" I thought it was going to be something traumatic and unrelated like her Minnie Mouse shoes had just fallen off - oh the horror. I had no idea she was following the conversation, but, with a shocked, worried, hyper little gasp, she announced, "He bwoke!"

Everyone stared for a moment, then we all cracked up. She laughed too, and wasn't upset, but she was fairly concerned that our poor waiter had been broken. We reassured her that he had been fixed and he was just fine.

I can't wait to see what she will come up with next.

Naked, Loaded and Dangerous

My husband wasn't home, so I was bathing the toddlers by myself. I got them undressed, put the Birdie in the tub, and the Baby Guy ran off. Naked. He gets antsy in the tub, so I figured I'd let him run around a little and I'd try to get the Birdie mostly washed before I put him in. I just hoped he wouldn't pee on anything. Knew he might, but...hoped he wouldn't.

Well, he didn't pee on anything.

As I was sitting in the bathroom washing the Bitty Girl, the Baby Guy ran back and forth like a naked little maniac...into the living room...back to the entry of the bathroom...back off into the living room...back to stand at the bathroom door...and I noticed...something...on his legs.

And I thought, surely not. I must be mistaken. I must. Please. Please please PLEASE let me be mistaken.

But I wasn't.

I ran him down as he darted away from me, laughing his naughty little head off. I grabbed him...and sure enough: poop...all down his legs...on his arms...on his belly...fortunately NOT on his hands, toys, or face. But, ew. So I snatched him up - gingerly, of course, taking care not to spread the nastiness. I put him on the changing pad, reached for a baby wipe...a baby...a...wipe? No wipes. No wipes?! I had a naked baby with poop all over him and there were no freaking baby wipes! And by this time he was starting to get all, "What am I doing up here? I don't want to be up here! Get me down!" And then of course, of course, he rolled over and sat up. On his naked bottom. His naked, poopy bottom. YUCK YUCK YUCK!!! So I frantically searched for wipes, hoping all the time he wouldn't touch anything, and by then it was all up his arm and oh yeah, now there's a spot on the wall, too, and is that some on my shirt? And finally I found a new package of wipes in a drawer, opened the package, open, dangit, OPEN YOU STUPID THING!!! - and got him wiped up.

Next, I carried him, kicking and screaming, and put him in the tub, where his sister was playing cheefully and noisily enough that I was able to keep an "ear" on her the whole time even though I couldn't actually see her because did I mention I don't like leaving them in the tub alone? Yeah. But she was fine. Anyway, the Baby Guy stiffened up as usual as I tried to put him in the tub, and wouldn't sit down. So I picked him up and did a little swipe thing, trying to knock his feet out from under him while holding him, of course, so I could get him into a sitting position in the tub, and he's all stagger-stagger-stand. NO DANGIT SIT! SIT!!! I finally got him sitting and immediately soaped him up and got the poop residue washed off. Popped a toy in his hands and he was happy. For the time being.

But then I knew I had baby crap somewhere on my floor and I couldn't go clean it up because I had two babies in the tub and I couldn't leave them alone. So I tried to ignore the little voice in the back of my head whispering, Baby poop on your floor. Baby poop on your floor. The cats might step in it and track it around. Baby poop everywhere. Baby poop everywhere! I got them all washed up (if only it were as easy as that makes it sound, but I won't go into all of the gory bathtime battle details, at least the Birdie didn't act up, but it did include the Baby Guy standing and falling once in the tub, thank goodness he didn't hit his head) and got the Baby Guy out and turned the drain on on the tub while the Birdie was still sitting in it. Got him dried and in a diaper - IN A DIAPER!!! - and went back and got the Birdie out. By now, the Baby Guy was throwing a fit, I guess it was all just too traumatic for him. Yeah. For him. Got the Birdie dried...gave her a pull up to put on herself (she has to put them on herself, now) and went out and finally cleaned up the poop.

No more naked Baby Guys running around for a while. As cute as he is when he does it.

Cookie Catastrophe

There's nothing better than homemade chocolate chip cookies. Can I get an Amen? No matter how accustomed to the store-bought kind I get, there's nothing like a homemade chocolate chip cookie.

However, despite how much I like them, I have never before made them, myself. Not once. Not from scratch. I've done the Pillsbury roll, and I've done break 'n' bake, but never before have I started with just some flour, sugar, eggs, and, of course, chocolate chips.

Every now and then, the idea will flit across my mind. I might even go so far as to look up recipes on the internet or pull out some - you won't believe this - real cookbooks and see what I can find. But I've never actually gone through with it.

Until tonight, that is.

With my raging Fishlet success of last night, I was feeling pretty handy in the kitchen. Like I could do just about anything - certainly bake chocolate chip cookies. So I picked up eggs and chocolate chips on the way home and, after a fabulous dinner of pork ribs that my husband fixed on the grill, decided to give it a try.

Seriously, the ribs were awesome. I never need to go to Tony Roma's again - I'll just have my husband make them from now on. But I digress.

I followed the recipe, mixing things in little bowls here and there before adding them to the big bowl on the stand mixer - in the order specified in the recipe. I even tasted a bit of the raw dough - gasp! - a shocker for me, because I usually avoid eating anything with raw eggs in it. It tasted yummy. I couldn't wait for the cookies to be done.

I placed them on the baking sheets, and popped them in the oven, then took off to try to soothe my two (by now) screaming toddlers. (I don't think either one of them napped today. It has not been a pretty evening in our household.) I finally got both of them to settle down in my lap for a few minutes of peace.

"What does it smell like?" my astute 2.5-year-old daughter asked, all of a sudden.

"Cookies!" I replied blithely and happily, anticipating the warm, chewy, chocolatey goodness that awaited us.

I should have taken the hint.

A few minutes later, the timer on the oven went off. "Yay, cookies are done!" I crowed in excitement.

As I entered the kitchen, I sensed something was amiss. Maybe it was the - was that steam? Yes, surely it was just steam - pouring from the steam vent in the back of the stove. Despite my continuing optimism, I couldn't suppress an image that flitted across my brain of me opening the oven to have smoke come billowing out, National Lampoon-style.

I pulled out the oven mitts, opened the oven door...and sure enough, out poured enough smoke to make me cough and set our smoke detector to screaming in agony. I frantically pulled the cookie sheets out, and without taking a moment to be dismayed by the flat, black, pathetic little excuses for cookies that were splattered all over the sheet, I grabbed a third cookie sheet and began fanning the smoke detector.

Once I got it calmed down, I turned back to the stove and saw this:

Sigh.

The cookies on the second sheet weren't quite as bad - just flat, not burned - so at least I was able to give my daughter something. And truthfully, I don't think she even noticed. My son even ate a few bites.

But I noticed. And I am sad.

But not too sad to go pour a cup of milk and have a couple of deflated cookies before I go to bed.

Fishlets

I've spent most of the evening pretending like the minutes between 6:30 and 6:50 p.m. didn't happen.

I got home from work to an empty house. Ahhhhh. A few minutes of solitude before the Evening Insanity. But a quick phone call to my mother-in-law told me that my solitude wasn't going to be as peaceful as I had first thought. The kids hadn't eaten yet. Horror of horrors.

Let me point out that in our house, this truly is an event to make me groan. It's not that I don't like to cook - I love to eat, and I therefore enjoy creating things to eat. But feeding the kids is entirely different. Especially if I want to give them something that doesn't come out of a can, a bag, or a shrink-wrapped package. Something that they'll actually eat, that is.

As I stared first into the refrigerator, then into the freezer, then back into the fridge, then back into the freezer, my despair mounted. Then, suddenly, an idea began to take shape.

Fish sticks. Except, of course, we didn't have any. But we did have frozen fish fillets, some stuff called, "Andy's Seasoned Seafood Breading," and Canola Oil. So I thought, what the hey? Why don't I make some fish sticks?

I got out the fish, and set it to thawing (by running hot water over it continually for about ten minutes, during which time I think I about half-cooked it and I know I wasted a lot of water). I put some of the seasoning in a bowl and waited for the fish to thaw. I observed that one side of the fish was kind of orangish. Hmm, pretty. Getting bored, I put some frozen corn and frozen peas in the microwave to cook. Then I waited some more. Finally I checked the fish, and it was nice and squishy.

I pulled out the first fillet and started to cut it up. And then I realized - that pretty orangish side? Skin. Oh yeah. Nassss-teeeeee. And before I could make something fry-able for my children, I had to get it off.

Thus began the aforementioned twenty minutes I've been trying to forget. Peeling the skin off of raw, cold, slightly rubbery raw fish. Oh, don't get me wrong. I'll eat raw fish any day of the week. I love me some sushi. But Oh.My.Gosh, don't make me touch it. Ewwwww.

And not only was it necessary to touch it, but to get the skin off, I had to peel it. Squeeze it. Squish it. Mush it all around. After a few short minutes, there was nasty raw fish juice running down my arm. Augh. Augh. Aaaauuuuugggghhhh!

And there were three more fillets to go.

Please just kill me.

This brings me to another aside, by the way. When a package of fish says "Boneless" on the front, what do you expect? You expect it to be, well, free of bones. Am I right? So as I was mushing up those icky pieces of raw fish, you can imagine my surprise when I felt little sharp objects. Surely not bones. Not in my boneless fillets. The boneless fillets that I planned on feeding to my fifteen-month-old baby. Surely not.

Surely, yes. Yes, indeed. I find it amazing that the Kroger company has survived without a lawsuit over that one.

With all of the mutilation being caused by the mushing and, now, extra cutting to get the bones out, I realized fish sticks would be fairly difficult. I decided on fish nuggets, instead. Fishlets. This was perfect, really, because allowed me to make little bite-size pieces that would be just the right size for my son.

So I got them all cut up and fried an itty bitty piece to see if I had the oil right. Amazingly, it tasted pretty good, so I cooked up the rest (not that I wouldn't have cooked the rest, at that point, if it hadn't been). I was fairly shocked, because truthfully, frying and I don't tend to get along. I'm really not very good at it. I usually end up with 3/4 of my food burned onto the bottom of the pan, and the 1/4 that's left isn't edible. (So why did I think frying fish would be a good idea?) But somehow, it worked. Maybe it was because it was small pieces.

With my little fishlets done, I was ready for the real test: would the toddlers actually eat them? Particularly my son, who doesn't eat well, anyway. (Who am I kidding? Neither of my kids eats well unless it comes from McDonald's.)

The verdict: Yes. Fishlets apparently are agreeable to the one- and two-and-a-half-year-old palate. (Peas, on the other hand, are not. All my son did was smush them. Squish. Squish. Squish.) We will be making this again.

But I'll make sure that the fillets are boneless and skinless, next time.

Fishlets

12 oz boneless, skinless white fish (a little more than 12 oz if there are bones & skin)

Cornmeal type seafood breading

Enough oil to cover the bottom of a frying pan about 1/2 cm

Cut fish into small pieces. Pour about 1/4 cup breading into a bowl. Coat about 10 pieces at a time, then, when oil is hot, put those 10 pieces in one at a time. Cook a minute or two, turning halfway through, until the fishlets are golden brown. Transfer to a paper-towel-covered plate to cool and drain.

Makes 3-4 servings (if two of the people being served are toddlers).

Movin' On Up

Have I mentioned that my Baby Guy is a tiny thing? He was a whopping 6 lbs 9 oz and 18.5 inches when he was born, and he's stayed on the small side ever since. He's consistently in the "less than 3rd" percentile in both weight and length/height when we go to his well-baby checkups. So, although he has a low weight, it's consistent with how short he is. He's healthy, just small.

(Although since he has switched from primarily nursing and being fed from jars to drinking rice milk and self-feeding, his weight has dropped a bit, but we're working on that.)

We went to church tonight (we typically go on Saturday evenings, which is so much easier with parents who like to sleep in two young children). We were running a bit late, so my husband dropped the three of us off near the door and went and parked while I dragged hurried my children in, while praying there would be room in child care for both of them.

As I got to check-in, my heart sank temporarily. We go to a somewhat larger church, and I was dismayed to find a surprisingly long line (although why I was surprised, I don't know - it's not like we're the only family with small children that tends to run late sometimes). My turn came up, and I checked my children in - my son into "Suite C" and my daughter into "Suite E."

Suite E? I thought. That sounded weird, but figured I was just confused. That happens frequently from time to time.

This whole time, my daughter had been whining. "I want my Daddy! I want my Daddy!" Sigh. Then it became, "I want my Kitty!" and I realized we had potentially made a grave mistake - we had left her Kitty at home. My daughter and Kitty are inseparable, and there was a good chance we were in for a rough ride since we had left it behind.

As she was sniffling, red-nosed, beside me and I was trying to figure out where she was supposed to go, a volunteer walked up. She gave my daughter a sticker, cajoled a little smile out of her (which disappeared the moment she walked away) and smiled at my son, whom I was holding.

"It's Promotion Weekend," she informed me.

Huh? My cluelessness must have shown on my face, because she continued, "Your daughter will be moving up to the next class today. Your son won't be moving, though."

Ahhh. That's right - two weeks ago we were told that our children would be moving up in two weeks. That would make it today. That would also explain the reason "Suite E" sounded odd. Since my children are only a year apart (from a school perspective), my daughter has been in Suite C for a year, while my son has been in Suite A. So "Suite C" still sounded familiar because that's where she has been, while Suite E sounded weird because neither of them has been in it before.

Promotion Weekend. What a funny thing to call it. And then I realized something else hadn't sounded right.

"Why won't my son be moving up today?"

She smiled. "Oh, he'd have to turn 1 by October 1st to move up today! How old is he?"

Uhhhhh...."Fourteen months."

Blink. "Oh! Well, you're a little guy, aren't you?"

Yup. My little bitty guy.

But...wow. October 1 is still a month-and-a-half away, and she thought he still wouldn't be a year old yet. I know he's little, but does he really look that much smaller than he "should?" Wow.

Anyway both of my children "moved up" today. I actually thought it was strange that my daughter was moving up so soon...until we got to the room and I realized she was moving into the two-year-old class. She'll be 3 in December.

When I picked up my son after the service, I had to laugh. Clutched in his left hand was - you guessed it - the green ring from their stacking toy.

And - bonus - it was star-shaped.

Toddler Terrorism

I want to share something special with you. This is the story that started it all. The original Toddler Terrorism. There's just one thing about it.

I didn't write it.

That's right. My blog's catchy title? I may have forgotten to mention this, but I didn't come up with it.

My husband did.

And now he's insisted I confess that - and share the story he wrote. So, without further ado, I give you the original

Toddler Terrorism

by Daddy

Does anyone else have a toddler who does things like this? This morning I took my daughter into her room to get her ready to sit on the potty, shutting the door behind me to keep my son from following us in and pulling all of her clean clothes out of the laundry basket. After removing her (already disgusting) diaper (and wondering why she still needed to sit on the potty) and heading toward the door, I discovered something was missing. Something important. Namely, the doorknob. It's a type that requires tightening with an allen wrench, and had been loose for several weeks while I was too busy to retrieve said allen wrench from the downstairs workshop. Apparently my daughter had found time to remove it this morning when she wasn't strewing the contents of a new box of diapers all over the room. So now I am trapped in a bedroom with my naked-from-the-waist-down toddler (she needed to sit on the potty, remember?) who is now prancing around the room and singing Veggie tunes.

"Where's the doorknob?" I asked my daughter. Silence. Also a look that clearly says, "I have no idea what you're talking about but will try to humor you anyway."

"Do you remember where you put it?" Pause. "No." Sigh.

At this point, with my focus largely on finding the doorknob/getting us out of the room, I somehow FORGET that I have a half-naked toddler who needs to potty in the room with me. Continuing the search, I discover a decent-sized puddle right next to the laundry basket that I am pretty sure had not been there previously.

"Did you pee on the floor?"

"Yes."

"Why did you do that?"

"Oops."

Here we paused in our search for the missing doorknob to clean up the pee puddle........ Having cleaned up the pee, the search continues without success. I try other options. How about putting two books around the doorknob stem to gain some leverage? No dice. Same result with everything else I try. I call my wife to advise her of the situation and my plans to deal with it. She is not amused. Time to dial 911.

"Mom? I have a small problem." My mother is incredulous that I have managed to lock myself in a room with a toddler while my 10-month old son is enjoying the rest of the house to himself. She agrees to come over and release us.

In a last ditch effort to save my ailing mother a trip over, I start digging through the folded laundry to see if my daughter could possibly have stowed the $%)!! doorknob in the basket. Lo and behold, with a loud THUNK the thing comes plopping out of the laundry onto the hardwood. We are saved. I phone Mom with the good news and turn my attention to the half-naked toddler.

"Are you ready to sit on the potty?"

"I want some apple juice."

"Of course you do." Ain't kids great?

Toddler Tidbits

I'm lounging on the couch with my laptop (love laptops!) doing two of my favorite things: writing a new blog post and drinking hot chocolate. Mmmmmm.

It occurred to me today that it might seem odd to my readers that, despite the name of my blog, I often post about things other than my children. The reason for this is simple: I never intended my blog to be entirely about my children.

What? Then...why did you call it Toddler Terrorism?

Because it's catchy! Don't you think? Is there really any better reason than that? And I do have toddlers (officially two, now, as my baby guy has been walking on his own for about a week). And I am going to post about them a lot. Just not exclusively.

Just thought I'd get that out there for all of you who were wondering. Because you were wondering, right?

I do, however, plan to talk about some toddler terrorism tonight.

Toddler Timing

I took the kids out for a walk with my in-laws tonight. Of course, first I had to get home from work, then we had to eat dinner, then I had to chase my son around with a bottle because he had to have it (whine, whine, whine!) until the very moment I gave it to him, at which point it was time to play. By the time all of that was finished, it was approaching 8:00.

Yes, I leave the house with my kids after 8:00 sometimes. So sue me.

I called my in-laws and told them I needed to change a couple of soggy diapers, then I'd be ready to go. Changed diaper #1. Changed diaper #2. Herded the kids into the living room to get my daughter's shoes.

Then, when we were two minutes from getting out the door - we had almost made it - I heard the last thing a parent wants to hear when they're trying to leave the house. Seven dreaded words that (at least in my house) mean it's going to be a minimum of another fifteen minutes before we can even consider hitting the road.

"I need to sit on the potty."

My initial response was some wishful thinking. "No you don't." (Yes, yes. I know. Bad Mommy. But - fifteen minutes. At least.)

"Yes I do!"

Sigh. Yes, in fact, she did. And she went on the potty. And I didn't have to change a dirty diaper. I should have been thankful for that, but all I could think about was that we had been this close to getting out the door.

We did go walk, even though it was getting close to 8:30 by the time we left the house. It was 9:30 - and dark - by the time we finished walking, but it was a nice night and a pleasant walk and we even got to see a deer.

I know you're jealous.

Toddler Logic

As part of my daughter's bedtime routine, she sits with her daddy and drinks a cup of warm milk. Sitting on the couch. In the living room. (Remember this. It's important.)

While waiting for him to get her milk ready, she started complaining remarking that she was cold. I was sitting on the couch giving my son his bottle and she commanded politely asked me to get her a blanket.

Me: "I can't get it right now. It's in the other room."

Her: "It's not in the other room!"

Me: "Then where is it?"

Her: "In my bedroom."

Toddler Terrorism Turned My Brain To Mush

After the kids were in bed, as I was putting together in advance my son's midnight (or 2 a.m.) bottle - yes, yes, my 14-month-old still gets a middle-of-the-night bottle, at least he's no longer nursing for an hour and a half every night - I conscientiously followed the instructions on the rice milk package and shook it like the kid in first-grade music class who gets to play the tambourine vigorously.

I discovered that those instructions excluded one thing that this mind-numbed mom apparently needed to be told, as she wasn't quick enough on the uptake to figure it out on her own.

Hold down the cap while you shake it, because the seal isn't strong enough to withstand maniacal vigorous shaking on its own.

My husband walked in shortly after I finished mopping up the mess.

Me: "Make sure you hold the rice milk closed before you shake it."

Him: "I already knew that."

Oh, reeeeeeeeally.

Me: "You didn't find that out the hard way, too, did you?"

Him: "No comment."

Heh.

Keep your eyes on the road

Have you ever been driving along and, all of a sudden, a police car pulls out behind you? When that happens, everything important in life narrows down to one question:

Is he going to pull me over?

So if you're on the interstate, you slow way down, hoping he'll get tired of the game and pass you. If you're on a two-lane road, you stick it at the speed limit and pray.

But what if he follows you?

What if you're turning into your neighborhood, and he turns onto the street behind you? Did I just run that stop sign? Was I going too fast?

Do you breathe a sigh of relief when his lights remain dark, but start to get antsy when he stays on your tail anyway? Do you think, I can't wait to get to the end of the street, because surely he'll keep going and I can continue on my merry way?

But what if, when you get to the end of the street, he turns behind you?

Does your pulse pick up even though you know you came to a stop at that last stop sign, he can't possibly have a reason to pull you over, he'd have done it by now if he were going to, why is he still following me?

Then you get to the stop sign for your street, and you breathe easy. It's practically a dead-end street, so you're in the clear. He'll continue on, and you'll go home and play with your babies. You're still shaking a little, but ready to relax.

And then he turns behind you. Again.

Okay, okay. More coincidence. You know by now he'd have already stopped you if there were something wrong. But maybe you have a tail light out? Maybe he is making sure you go home (curfew, anyone?) Maybe he thinks you're driving a stolen car? Maybe there's someone hiding in my back seat waiting to kill me the moment I stop?

Let's not get carried away.

Finally, after the longest thirty seconds of your life (because you're creeping up the street at 5 mph just to make absolutely darn sure he doesn't have a reason to turn his lights on) you reach your house. You turn into your driveway.

And he pulls up in front of your house and stops.



This happened to me yesterday as I was coming home from work. The friendly somewhat taciturn officer got out of his car and started up my driveway. As I got out, before I could say anything, he grunted, "Your alarm was going off."

Alarm? Oh, our alarm. We got a house alarm about a month ago, and we're still working out the kinks. The police had already made one visit to our house, a few weeks earlier when my mom was staying with us.

I won't tell you who set the alarm off.

As the officer approached, I said something idiotic like, "Oh, I wondered why you were following me," and let him in the house. To my surprise, it was a somewhat legitimate visit, as neither my husband nor I had been home when the alarm went off. The best we can figure is one of the cats managed to knock something over and set it off using the motion sensor downstairs.

He checked things out, made sure everything was fine (either it was or whoever was hiding in the closet has now been there for over 24 hours and apparently isn't planning on coming out anytime soon) and left.

And I finally relaxed. But I did look out my window one more time to make sure he had gone.