One Bad Mother

So, I don't know if it's a good thing or a bad thing that my two-year-old can use the word "reciprocity" correctly.

Good, because he needs to know about reaping what you sow. If he wants me to respect him, he needs to treat me with respect, too. Which is something we struggle with on many a day.

I only sing the first and last verses (I leave out all the risque parts in the middle) but still. At least it keeps me sane.

My Son is a Preacher Man

Meet Rowdy, the itinerant preacher. He's holding a camp meeting revival in every room in the house this week, and he is on fire with the spirit. He's got his "Halleluias" and "Amens" down. He takes his microphone into every room with him, so the good news will be heard by all. (In case you don't recognize it, it's the toilet paper holder from the loo.)

His sermon, while short, is pretty theologically sound:

"Jesus on CROSS," he growls, gesticulating wildly, his index finger pointing to a spot on the wall behind his head, where my wedding photo hangs. "Jesus come DOWN!"

Amen Brother Rowdy, Amen.

Batteries Not Included

Every morning, around 10 AM, the middle school marching band bangs and stomps and squeaks past my house. Tom, at two, is enthralled. He is convinced that his purpose in life is to bang the big bass drum.

And so, we've started music time. We play piano. We pluck, strum, and occasionally bang the guitar. Tom has a blast pounding away on his Fisher-Price plastic drum. He's been known to pick out a tune (albeit more in the style of Coltrane than Mozart)on his rainbow-colored xylophone.

He can play (or at least make a lot of noise on) the recorder, the Irish penny whistle,and our dilapidated harmonica.

So earlier this week, I dug my father's trumpet and my saxophone out of the basement. Tom was very impressed with my improvised version of Happy Birthday, and decided he wanted to give the saxophone a spin. He huffed and puffed, but he just couldn't get a sound to come out.

"Saxophone broken," he sighed. "Need new batteries. No music in it."

Uncle Donald's

When I found my toddler in a full-on lip lock with a 6-foot fiberglass clown, I realized it might be time to change the family eating habits.

Keep reading at Crunchable.

Made Service

"I made!" the Tominator exclaims, examining his handiwork. We have guests coming in 20 minutes to celebrate this day of independence, and my entire first floor is now baby powder fresh, thanks to a toddler and a two-pound can of talc.

On top of each of the 88 piano keys is a carefully arranged pile of powder. The piano bench is smeared with powdery handprints and streaks. The baby's basinett is half-full of powder, and tom even sprinkled the couch, but it actually makes the cream-colored fabric look and smell better, so I can't complain too much about that.

At the foot of the stairs, he has lovingly applied white diaper cream to our dark gray carpet.

The baby is squalling, covered in spit up and demanding his bath. SuperHubby has finally met his archnemisis - the Influenza bug - and is trying valiantly to sleep it off.

Lord help us all.

What I Learned at Dinner Tonight

When we pray before dinner, we close by thanking "the Fadder, Swon, and Howy Spit."

Dinner is best accompanied by "pwo-no" music such as "woa woa boat" which is sung in "wownds."

Tom likes "penny pata" with alfredo sauce and "bwoccoli." He also likes "zoo-kee-nee quash!"

He loves "huggins" but will not say "I wuv you" unless prompted, one syllable at a time.

He's such a boy.

Miss Communication

I have been stumped for some time by the Tominator's reluctance to speak. He makes a lot of noise. He makes a lot of very interesting sounds. But speak -- in actual words that we can understand? Not so much.

His friends at playgroup, all boys, all within a few weeks of Tom's age, all speak in sentences. They have no trouble stringing multi syllabic words together in sensible, rational ways.

Tom ... again, not so much. He can identify and sound out more than half the letters of the alphabet - he can even pick them out of text. But put them together to make a word? Not gonna do it.

Well, today I figured out what the problem was. And apparently, it was my problem.

You see, I don't speak Spanish.

Tom does.

We were in the bathroom, getting ready to wash our hands, and Tom looks up at me and says, clear as day, "Agua! Agua!"

So all that nonsense, with the trilled r's that he's always spouting? I guess I'd better get myself some Speak in a Week and figure it out.

No Means No

A play about a mother’s spiral into insanity at the hands of her toddler son.

Characters:
Mama: Loving, but frazzled, hugely pregnant twenty-something mother.
Tom: Spirited, intelligent, pre-lingual eighteen-month-old boy.

Act I

At Rise: (A bathroom somewhere in Pennsylvania. It is dawn. Mama is brushing her teeth at the sink. From offstage she hears the sound of the refrigerator door opening and closing. Toddler son, Tom, appears in bathroom lugging 2-liter bottle of Coca-Cola.)

Tom: (Holding bottle out to Mama)
Ugh ugh ugh!

Mama: No Tom, that’s Mama’s juice. Tom may not have that juice.

Tom: (Making drinking motion with bottle)
Ugh ugh ugh!

Mama: (Sighing)
Mama said no.

Tom: (Running out of bathroom and sliding down the stairs, still clutching bottle)
Ugh ugh ugh!

Mama: (Following Tom downstairs into the kitchen, sees that Tom has found a cup and is holding both the Coke and the cup out to her.)
I know that you want that juice, Tom, but you may not have it.

Tom: (Making the American Sign Language sign for please)
Ugh, ugh, ugh!

Mama: (Gets apple juice from fridge.)
Here Tom, you may have this juice.

Tom: No, no, no!

Mama: (Giving in)
Ok Tom. Let's compromise.
(Mama fills Tom’s cup with water and adds a splash of Coke for color.)
Here. You may have some of Mama’s juice.

Tom: No, no, no!
(Falls to floor, crying and kicking. Will not take cup.)
No, no, no!

(Tom continues kicking and crying inconsolably. Mama sighs and pours Coke down the drain to avoid further conflict. Lights fade.)

Act II

At Rise: (Brightly-lit kitchen. Tom is sitting in his highchair playing with his spoon and awaiting his breakfast.)

Mama: Here’s your waffle, Tom.

Tom: (Crying)
No, no, no!
(Stuffs waffle greedily in mouth.)
No, no, no!

Mama: (Sighs.)

(Lights fade.)

Act III

At Rise: (Administrative office of a church, drab, full of filing cabinets. It is lunchtime. Brightly colored children’s toys are scattered on the floor.)

Mama: Tom, it’s time for lunch. Let’s heat up your soup. Do you want to push the buttons on the microwave?

Tom: (Carrying bowl of soup and running towards the microwave)
No, no, no!
(He begins crying.)

Mama: Tom, do you want to help Mama? Give Mama the soup.

Tom: (Wailing)
No, no, no!

Mama: Here, let me help you.
(Attempts to pick up Tom, but he slides to the floor, tears streaming down his face. He kicks the floor.)

Tom: No, no, no!

(Mama heats soup, and Tom calms enough to climb into his highchair, where he proceeds to eat with gusto.)

Mama: Tom, do you want some cornbread?

Tom: (Reaches for cornbread.)
No, no, no!

(Lights fade.)

Sunday Snow Day

We had planned to go home today, but the snow started falling during church and just kept falling and falling and falling ... so instead we went sledding.

All bundled up ...


I love sledding with Dada!






And building snowmen with Grandpa ...


And we rounded out the weekend with some tickles from Mama. Here comes the tickle-monster!

He's gonna get you!

(And yes, my son is part piranha. Look at those teeth!)

No, no!

The Tominator has learned the "N" word, and sad to say, I find it hilarious. Mostly because he uses such inflection when he demurs. It's never just "NO!" instead, he says "no, no, noooooo" with a long shake of the head.

Often it's in response to a question.
Mama: "Tom, do you want some juice?"
Tom: "No, no, nooooooo!"

Other times, it's in request for the book But No Elephants. This is a tricky one.
Mama: "Would you like to read a book?"
Tom: "Book! No, no, NOOOOOO!" as he runs to fetch above mentioned book.

Today, it was in response to some lyrics on a Veggie Tales CD.
Bob the Tomato: "God answers prayer, God answers prayer ..."
Tom: "No, no, NOOOOOO!"

I have no idea what this means, but it sure is funny. I think.

Will He Ever Know?

Our house is full of pestilence. The Tominator is sick with a nasty cold, I have a (so far) less virulent version, plus some sort of itchy rash on the inside of my right knee. It looks like a poison ivy rash, only, well, it's February. I'm pretty darn certain I haven't been exposed to any rash-inducing vegetation.

As a result, our normal routines have been chucked, in favor of snuggling on the sofa while rotting our brains with too much TV.

Last night I found myself pinned to the couch under a 25-pound ball of snot and drool. He snuggled up to my chest and snaked his arm around my neck, fisting his little hand in my hair. My hair apparently holds some magical healing and calming powers. Tom has sought out a handful of my hair in times of stress, illness or fear since he was a tiny infant. I put Samson to shame. Oh the power.

As he slept on my chest, soaking through my shirt, I listened to his ragged breathing, and a sense of calm washed over me. I wonder if he will ever know this heart-shattering love?

Amazing.

Vignettes

Winter has made herself known here lately, even though she has been stingy with her snow, hoarding it so that only children west of the Mississippi get to build forts and make snow angels.

Instead of glistening, glittering snow, she has sent icy cold winds that bite at your skin and freeze your nose. Cold so bitter it seeps through the cracks and wrinkles in our nonagenarian home, leaving a thin film of ice on the dog's water bowl as a breakfast greeting. Cold that freezes your fingers to the metal of the doorknob and the iron stair railing when you step outside so the dog can relieve himself.

I bury myself under blankets and those little packs full of beans that you stick in the microwave for two minutes to get toasty toe warmers. I fill my belly with hot tea, hot cocoa and more hot tea, but part of me is still frozen.

*****

The Tominator has discovered hugs. Every once in a while I'll be washing dishes or cooking or otherwise occupied in the kitchen, and I'll feel a sudden attack on my legs, a 25-pound linebacker aimed right at my knees.

"Hugs, hugs, hugs!" he says, and then he's gone, and I hear him crash into his ball pit. "Boom!" he chuckles. "Boom!"

*****

The Tominator has also discovered the potty, without any effort on the part of myself or SuperHubby. On Monday, Tom was having a fit trying to turn the doorknob on the bathroom door. I finally figured out what he wanted and opened the door for him. He walked over the toilet, lifted the lid and tried to sit down.

Being a bit slow, I had no idea why he was doing this. "Do you need to potty?" I asked, confused.

He stared at me with a look that clearly said "DUH!" and continued to try to sit on the toilet.

So off came his diaper, and I got into the age-old holding toddler over potty pose. And sure enough, he had to go.

I was pretty sure it was just a fluke, but when he asked to go again this morning, we headed out to the store to get him his own seat for the toilet. We'll see how this goes.

das Vorlagenrennen

If you were, say, a power-crazed dictator bent on creating a master race, you would not chose myself and SuperHubby to be in your breeding stables.

Between the two of us, we have the genetic capability to create bald, diseased, mutant children who like superheroes.

Seriously.

We're talking family histories of at least three types of cancer, heart disease, diabetes, glaucoma, Crohn's disease, hairy arms -- you name it, we got it.

I was feeling pretty bad about this, especially for Tom, until my mom told me the World Health Organization (or some agency like that) had released a study saying that children raised in overly-sterilized environments are more prone to a variety of health conditions, including Crohn's.

So at least we've got that one licked.

The Hulk

A while ago, Gramma taught the Tominator how to "show his muscles." Now, on the command, "show me your muscles" he clenches his fists and bends his arms in the age-old body-builder pose. My son will be no Mr. Milktoast.



Usually he does his muscles when he's really mad or frustrated, so we get a hilarious grimace going on with the arms. But he's grinning like a fool in this shot.

Reason #642

why I love my son -

He is convinced I am this chick.



We have a box of Ritz crackers with Rachael's picture on it. During snack time today he looked at the picture and then back at me. His face lit up and a devilish smile stole across his lips.

"Mama!" he exclaimed, poking poor Rachael in the eye. "Mama!"

No matter what I said, he could not be convinced that the girl on the box was not, in fact, me. Don't know what that says for his eyesight, come to think of it.

But hey, he thinks I'm cute, famous, rich and an excellent cook. Can't beat that.

Nerd Squared

Further evidence that we are raising a nerd:

At 17 months, one of the Tominator's favorite pastimes is to take himself up to his bedroom, climb up in his rocker, turn on his CD player (which we keep stocked with Mozart) and read a book. To himself.

I am both extremely proud and afraid for him.

So far the score is:

Jock: 1 - He likes to watch football. He's the only one in the family who feels this way.

Drama Geek: 1 - He has an unhealthy fascination with my blush brush.

Nerd: 2 - Aforementioned book/music thing; also the superhero obsession.

Puberty is going to be so hard for him.

Calling All Superheros

We have a small obsession with superheros in our home, and it seems to have transferred to our offspring.

Tom, while proficient with more than 50 baby signs, isn't really speaking yet. He tries, except that most everything comes out sounding like "daptzzzz," with a long, spitlicious raspberry at the end.

Everything, that is, except for the names of superheros. We don't let him watch any superhero DVDs - they are pretty violent, even though they are cartoons. But boy, does he love to look at the pictures on the DVD cases. "Man!" he will shout, pointing frantically to high shelves where we keep the audio/visual supplies.

What he wants, of course, is this:
After he flips through the cases a few times, he usually loses interest and heads over to the nearest phone to make a call.

"Highs!" he says, waving away. "Batzz! (Spits forcefully all over the mouthpiece.) Mannn!" He continues having the same conversation over and over for about five minutes. The caped crusader must have the patience of a saint. Either that or my son has an in with the leaders of the Gotham underworld, and Bats is getting some good information.

His other favorite superhero is this guy:

For those of you who are not giant nerds, this is a superhero called The Flash. His superpower is that he can um ... run really fast. I know, creative.

Well, Tom LOVES The Flash. Tom has a bowl with a picture of the flash on the rim, and he'll carry it around saying "Fash, fash" and running around in a circle. He thinks it's great. I have no idea how he knows what The Flash's superpower is, since he's never seen a show featuring The Flash, nor is our precocious son reading comic books - yet.

I think it's hilarious, although it has SuperHubby a bit worried.

I say he's just getting a head start on his career. He's already training as Indestructible Boy. This child can run his head into the side of toilet, fall down a flight of stairs, and keep trooping like nothing even happened. Seriously folks, he once gave himself a black eye while removing a shoe, and didn't even cry. Hot cheese spilled on your hand, leaving a first degree burn? Brush it off! There are more important things to destroy do than worry over a little scalding.

And really, what career has better bragging rights for mom?

"Oh, your son's a pediatric cardiologist? That's nice. My son saved the entire world from an alien invasion last week."

What more could I want?

Splish Splash

Don't you just love it when you are using a public restroom and you are wrestling yourself and your coats and bags and toddler out of the teeny, tiny stall, and you look down to realize that he has reached into the partially-flushed toilet to splash in the water, soaking his shirt up to his elbows?

What, that doesn't happen to you?

Spicy

This song is stuck in my head.

The Tominator and I were busy making chili this morning, when I noticed he had gotten a hold of one of my spice jars. The lid was on, so I let him play.

When I looked over a minute later, he had removed the lid and liberally shaken the herb all over the kitchen floor.

"Oh no!" I said. "Let's keep the thyme in the bottle."

And there it was.

The Itsy Squishy Spider

I crawled my hands across the floor, imitating a spider as I sang "the itsy bitsy spider." The song is one of Tom's favorites, and generally reduces him to a rolling ball of laughter.

But today, Tom had other plans for spidey. With great concentration, he raised his right foot and stomped down, just inches from my fingers. When he saw that he had missed, he picked up the foot and tried again.

Spiders of the world, beware. My son is out to get you.