Dressed for the store

Shoes? Check!

Shirt? Check!

What else do you need at the store? I don't know how long she'll sit until she figures this out...

Child Neglect = Going to the Bathroom

It is so hard to hear a child screaming for his mother, in any condition.  And when he's outside, alone, and screaming so desperately over and over, you just want to run out and give him a hug and find his mom and lecture her on what the heck she was doing.  And you will do that, once you finish in the bathroom.  Poor kid.  Outside.  Alone.  Screaming.  Yelling "Mom!  MOM!  MOOOOOMMM!  MOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMM!"  That could be anyone's kid.  That could be YOUR kid!

It sure sounds like my kid, you think as you dry your hands.

Wait, that IS your kid!

And he's barefoot, rocking his Iron Man costume.

Screaming outside.

Because you went to the bathroom.

And of course the police are driving by on their patrol.  And now they're laughing at you.

Knives and Kids

Audrey brought me a butter knife from the kitchen because she wants fudge for breakfast. She will have something else because I don't want her to think that chasing me with a knife is an effective method of communication.

Then she will probably have fudge after.

Bedtime Busted

"Hey Mom," he says, "My tummy is grum-bul-eeng.  It is telling me to tell you I need some juice."
"Well," I say, noting the time, "Rest for a few minutes and maybe I'll bring you some."

Sometimes he goes back to sleep, sometimes he shows up ten minutes later in the hallway, peeking around the corner to catch my eye with the one eye he will allow to show.  Any more than one eye and Daddy sees him, stands up to remind him it's bedtime and he should be in bed.  That's when I stand up and try to pretend like I didn't completely break down in the face of bedtime rituals and promise our son a cup of juice.  They go back, I tiptoe into the kitchen and craft a cup in a hurry to drop off "on my way to check something" after Daddy returns to the living room.  It's an unspoken agreement, and Sebastian plays his part well as he's reminded to stay in bed after bedtime, knowing I will bring the contraband in only a moment.

But no longer!  I am joining the ranks of strict parenting!  Maybe not strict, but at least transparent!  I swear I will, at the very least, make Aaron aware of my deviations from any sort of routine!  I am NOT the servant of some CHILD who continues to use the SAME delay tactics EVERY NIGHT!  I will take a STAND!

Tonight, Sebastian could not catch my eye, and it was 9:45, far past the bedtime hour.  He sauntered into the living room, wearing his glow-in-the-dark Iron Man shirt like he owned the place.

"Mom," he said, "You and I need to have a talk in my room."

I was caught.  I looked directly in his eyes - both this time, and right at the arm of my chair.  I felt Aaron's narrowed gaze burning into me.  "You and I need to have a talk," he had said, in front of God, Aaron, and everybody.  I ignored the fact that I just got completely bossed around and decided to just bring my weakness out into the open.  Transparent parenting, I thought, I will act like this is an actual thing.

"Is this about what your tummy told you earlier?" Too subtle for a toddler, you moron!  "About the juice?"
"Yes Mom,"he said steadily, visibly relieved as he held my gaze, "You forgot to get me my juice."

I jumped up to get it, then slowed to walk in the kitchen lest Aaron notice how quickly I did our child's bidding and have more fuel for the discussion we would surely have later.  He is always the Bedtime Bad Cop, and my lack of support was just reprehensible.  Feeling the weight of my crimes, I struggled to craft a defense while I retrieved the juice - in a sippy cup to avoid spills!  There was no way to make this any better: I knew the whole time that I would have to answer for this once the little one was back in bed.

I took the cup in, handed it to the child who should have been sleeping hours before.  He wore a grin, of course, and a victorious giggle caught in his throat as he said "Thanks Mom!"

I trudged to the living room, aware of what awaited me.  I deserved every minute of it.  I was a fool, I had not conducted any type of discipline or routine to grow our child into a normal, functional human being.  Slowly, I turned the corner and tiptoed as if past a sleeping giant, to my seat.

"I paused it for you," Aaron said, as he resumed our show, took a swig of his water bottle, and rested his chin on his hand to watch.

Well... okay then.

Cats Don't Like Rice Cakes Either.

Our cats sleep on little fuzzy beds that are tucked into end tables in our living room.  One end table provides the utmost in cat privacy - the kids can't get back there - while the other is between the couch and the computer desk, right out here for God and everybody.  Our cat Piano likes to sleep in the corner and occasionally allows Forte in for some snuggle time, but most of the time Forte is chancing the open end table, where she gets petted and hugged and pushed by the kids.  They believe themselves to be excellent cat bed movers, no matter how many times I object.

The benefit of the open-air cat bed is that you do get treats.  This includes actual cat treats, bits of cat food, and, occasionally, a little bit of the kids' food.  Sebastian knows to give meat (most of the time), but Audrey, not so much.

It came to my attention, just a little bit ago, that there was a pile of food on the edge of the cat bed, and that the cat was pressing herself farther back into the depths of the end table.  Audrey was walking away, humming.  Upon further inspection, I discovered that the food was, in fact, all of the mini apple cinnamon rice cakes I gave Audrey for lunch, broken up for the cat.

"Audrey," I said, "The cat doesn't like rice cakes!"

She raised an eyebrow, shrugged a shoulder, and turned away, humming again, and completely unsurprised.

It was then that I realized a few important things about my daughter: she loves to share, she doesn't understand cats' dietary needs, and she doesn't care for rice cakes.

One Month of Stocking Stuffers

Today's the day our favorite stocking stuffer jumped the shark, precisely one month after Christmas.  I have no idea how much scrubbing this bit of artwork is going to take, but at least they had fun!

And apparently Sebastian is getting really tall, a fact I failed to consider when I handed over bathtub crayons and finished a Sudoku.  This was all done in about 5 minutes so dang...

My kids are so awesome.

Quick update: A wet washcloth takes the crayon off the tub and tiles.  KaBoom Foamtastic gets the marks off the grout in one try with some extra spot treating.  No real scrubbing involved.  The rest of the crayons will live to see several more baths! 

My Underwear Looks Like Saturn!

I get it, when little boys go to the bathroom, they have to get completely naked from the waist down.  This means they take off their pants, which may or may not get back on.  Okay, I'm over that.  They also take off their underwear, which saves us all a lot of laundry.  Then the underwear gets inside-out (or "inside-in" if your kid is almost 4 and only listens to half of what you say before he runs with it and says the wrong thing over and over).  It's my job as the parent to discreetly fix the underwear and hand it back to him so he will put it back on like it's no big deal and then, maybe, put his pants back on.  But I'm not making a big deal about anything because he shouldn't be ashamed of the potty or his body or whatever.

So now he comes out of the bathroom, naked from the waist down, swinging his underwear in circles and shouting "MOM!  LOOK!  MY UNDERWEAR LOOKS JUST LIKE SATURN!"

Do you have any idea how hard it is to be discreet when you are getting brushed in the face with a little boy's underwear while he is half naked and yelling at you?

We can never go out in public.

NOT Singing for Sundaes

I spent half of dinner promising sundaes for dessert.  I'm not ashamed to admit that is how I got both children to eat an entire plate of vegetables, and it was mostly because I really wanted to show off the bottle of Chocolate Magic Shell I bought at the store.  When I was shopping way off any semblance of a shopping list.  I thought it would be cool.

It only took 45 minutes of begging and shoveling forkfuls of room-temperature veggies into two small distracted mouths, but finally I had all the dinner dishes and I was in the kitchen making sundaes.  Audrey joined me, of course, because that's what she does.

She was over by the table, dancing in circles and singing to herself.  Obviously, I figured it was because I was holding some awesome magic chocolate in my hand, but I was wrong - very wrong.

There was a small red box in her hands as she twirled.  I almost missed it.  Then I heard her song and one coherent English word: RAISINS!

She took the opportunity while I was busy making SUNDAES to sneak herself a box of RAISINS.

WHO IS THIS CHILD?

Weel Cheese

Sebastian was checking out our fridge to scope out the breakfast possibilities.  He closed the door,  walked the the table very matter-of-factly and declared: 

"Mom, I need weel cheese."

Okay, so the kid has a bit of a three-year-old boy speech impediment.  It's been especially endearing during the holidays, as Fwosty and Wudolph have been in rotation, and I hope I get to hear this little voice for a LONG time.  Then I have moments like this...

"Mom, I need weel cheese."
"Real cheese?"
"No, weel cheese."
"Wheel cheese?"
"NO! I need weel cheese like WEEL cheese like CHEESE that is WEEL because it is WEEL and the WEEL cheese is in the fridge!"
"This cheese?"
"Ugh... I guess I'll have ceweal instead."

One day, when he's a gourmet chef, I'll visit his five star restaurant and he'll turn to me and say, in a slightly British accent cultivated from years of culinary study abroad,  "Mom?  Remember that time I was trying to guide you to a more substantial breakfast?  Well, THIS is WEEL cheese."

THANKS MOM!

I was asked to help him put his pants back on.  This is what happened:

In my defense, it is very hard to correctly put a child's pants on when he insists on dancing while you do it.

Actually, there is no excuse.  I am ashamed.  He thinks I did it to be funny, so I still won the day!

Hulk Smash! Hulk Stop Tears!

I put Audrey down for a nap, which meant I was listening to some rather unnatural screaming.  This normally means she's exhausted and it will end suddenly, so I've finally gotten used to completely ignoring it.  Sebastian naps in my bed on days like this, so he can sleep in the quiet.  I just have to run back there every so often to make sure the dog bed hasn't moved onto my bed and confiscate any iPads or iPhones.  Within the first 5 minutes, his nap proved useful: I confiscated my cell phone, which had been missing since last night.

Back at the computer with my phone, I vaguely heard HULK SMASH!  HULK SMASH MORE! and AVENGERS ASSEMBLE! which meant that Sebastian had found one of his own electronic toys that needed to be confiscated and Audrey was asleep, since I could hear that toy three rooms away.

"Mom!"

I jumped.  He was right next to me, holding the armrest of the computer chair and shaking his little heiny with a big grin on his face.  Hulk continued to talk in the background.

"Mom!  I shared Hulk with Audrey and now she's not sad!"

Rats!  Foiled again!  There's nothing I can do.  My nemesis in my fight for quality parenting and naptime routine is a grinning little boy shaking his heiny.

(Also, I love the word heiny.  It cracks me up.)