Panic

I thought I knew the meaning of panic. Who doesn't? Panic is what you do when you wake up late for one of your finals in college, or when you realize that you accidentally pressed "send" on that bitchy email, or when you realize that your box of wine has but one precious drop left in it and you got a whole lotta sitting on the couch and watching TV yet to do. That's panic, right, people?

Nu-uh. That ain't nothin'.

Panic is when your one-year-old daughter vanishes from your house. Yeah. I'm not kidding. It's when you're standing at the stove, idly shoving ground beef into uncooperative pasta shells and humming the Pajanimals theme when you cock your head to one side, listening to the unusual silence in your house. You know your son is downstairs with his dad in the basement, but you don't hear the usual pitter-patter of your daughter's feet as she trots through the house causing her own personal brand of ruckus. So you go through the house, calling for her and feeling more panicked with each empty room you look in. Then you realize that your son left the door from the house out to the garage propped open, and the garage door is open as well.

Well, that's when a special type of feeling like you're about to crap your pants sets in. So you run outside yelling her name when you hear a panicked shriek that sounds awfully familiar. Then you have that moment of "Call the sheriff! Nora done fell in that there rock quarry!". Never mind that there is no quarry within 600 miles of your house and come to think of it, you're not really sure what a rock quarry is. No, the shriek is due to the fact that your neighbor has scooped your daughter up in her arms so she can deposit her back in your house.

So you run up to your neighbor, who says "Well, I was looking out my window and saw Nora meandering by, and when I didn't see anyone with her, I kinda figured that wasn't how that was supposed to go." She describes how she went outside and picked her up to bring her home and Nora did her usual wig-out that she does when someone she's only seen 200 times in her life picks her up. But, as your neighbor dryly observed "At least she's got the right defense mechanism going."

So you thank your neighbor six billion times while trying to get your heart to slow down, and your neighbor, who has three kids of her own and a very "been there, done that, not a big freaking deal" attitude, consoles you by talking about how her kid once escaped from her house and went into the neighbor's garage and fell asleep in their car.

Then you go home and try not to think about how differently things could have turned out. If she had turned left out of the driveway and not right, and gone towards the cross-street instead of deeper into the cul-de-sac where everyone recognizes her. If your neighbor hadn't happened to see her. If she had cut through someone's back yard into a different street and had swaggered into the bar up the road for a scotch on the rocks. And then you think about what a freaking idiot you must be. How can it take so much brain power to stuff meat into shells? Do you really not notice your daughter strolling right past you into the laundry room and then out the door??

So now not only do I know the true meaning of "panic", I also am pretty familiar with the bona fide definition of "relief". Oh, and "being-so-mad-at-myself-I-want-to-stab-myself-in-the-temple." I got that one down now too.

My little vagabond:

Yeah, I gots to go, people. I gots to roam. Y'all can't tie ME down.

Mommy=Potty?

We had another fun weekend here at the 'bergs. Eric and I are continuing on our quest to turn our kids into the consummate party animals. We're firm believers in the theory that if you party well, then you can do just about anything well. It's a good motto.

Saturday we took the kids to a parade and festival thingie. It was good times, especially since there were about 8 other people at the parade, and all Tate had to do was stand on the curb with his hand extended imperiously and candy would magically come flying through the air at him. That was pretty awesome. It would have been more awesome if we didn't get so much freaking salt-water taffy. Seriously, who eats that stuff? It tastes like salty, watery, chewy...ass. But anyway, we stuffed all the candy into the diaper bag, where Tate promptly forgot about it. Mwa haha. I steal my kid's candy.

Then we went to the festival and went on some rides. I had brief moments where I wondered if putting my child on something that looked like it would fall apart in a slight breeze and was operated by dudes who looked like they could be related to Sloth from Goonies was the smartest idea I've had, but I got over it. You gotta have faith, man. And, see? He loved it.

Ohhhhhh, yeah.

Helllllllp.

Ok, he looks a little petrified there, but honestly, he loved it. They went down that thing like 6 times. Eric had to stop dragging him up the steps by his ankle kicking and screaming after like the third time. Kidding, kidding.

Nora opted out of the rusty, squeaky, creaky, death-defying fun and sat on the grass and ate it. Cause, really, what else is there to do?

Don't even try to tell me this isn't the cutest picture ever. Cause I'll have to cut you.

That night Eric and I went out for date night and had the worst waitress in the history of the world. You know you're in good hands when you ask for a drink menu and she asks you what that is. Apparently she had trouble grasping the concept of drinks themselves, since it took her 25 minutes to bring us ours. I was about to grab something off the table next to us at that point. Ah well. We were sitting outside, sans kids, enjoying ourselves.

Sunday we had people over for a BBQ. It was good times, as BBQs tend to be. See? Here's Tate jumping on the trampoline with his crack peeping out. Really, toddler butt crack and a trampoline are all you need for a successful soiree. Especially when the toddler's swim trunks fall completely down. And then he pees on the trampoline.

Crack is whack.

The kid has issues with shorts lately. I keep the waist loose on them for optimal potty pull-downage, but in Festival the other day we were hurrying across the parking lot with him holding my hand. I noticed he seemed to be walking weird but didn't stop to think much of it. Weirdness is pretty much par for the course with this kid. As I was putting Nora in the cart, I heard someone say "Wow! Do you need help, little guy?" I turned around to see Tate chewing on his finger nonchalantly while his shorts puddled around his feet. Yeah, he was displaying the SpiderMan undies for all the blue-hairs at Festival to see. I wonder how long it would have taken me to notice my kids shorts fell down if someone hadn't said something. I'm thinking awhile, seeing as my powers of observation are pretty weak these days. I'm the mom who didn't notice right away that her daughter was trying to chew on a dog toenail, after all.

And finally, on the subject of pottying, here's a heartwarming story to leave you with. I was sitting on the floor the other day and my dear son came up to me, entwined his arms around my neck and rested his head on my shoulder. I know. Awww. This is what transpired.

Tate: "Mommy?"

Me: "Yes, honey."

Tate: "Can I do something?"

Me: "What would that be, my little pumpkin of sweetness and light?"

Tate: "Can I pee on you?"

Me: "Yeah, I'm gonna say no."

Tate: "But I want to! You can be my potty!"

You know you have your kid's utmost respect and idolatry when he wants to use you as a latrine. It took a long time, folks, but we got there. That's reverence, right there. After a long, drawn-out discussion, we came to an agreement that really, mommies are just so much cooler than toilets and therefore should not be whizzed on. Success.

Whoa

Nora seems to be completely in awe of the fact that she is able to sneeze. It's like she forgets about it in between sneezing bouts. Every time she sneezes, she'll say "WHOA!! Whoa....whoa. Whoa." She's pretty impressed with her ability to project snot from her nose and food from her mouth simultaneously. I don't have the heart to tell her she's not the only one with that talent. We'll save that disappointment for another day. She already had to endure the inhumanity of being informed today that she could not, in fact, eat two-day-old piece of chicken out of the garbage can. And let me tell ya, the day you learn that lesson is a hard day indeed. How can a mother rightfully deny her child the joys of eating a foul chicken carcass and blackened banana peel? Shameful.

Today was difficult for little Nora in more ways than one. I decided to really screw her up and take her to the Y with me and put her in the childcare there while I worked out. Well. She has informed me we will not be doing THAT again. As soon as I handed her over to the lady, she wigged out. No big deal...nothing new there. I walked by the room a few minutes later to peek in the window, and saw her leeched onto one of the childcare givers with her head on her shoulder. Sweet. That's like her favorite position, so I figured she was all good.

Upon my entry to retrieve her, I heard some of the ladies going "Wow, that kid must not like books, huh?". Yeah, apparently when the woman dared to sit down in a chair while holding Nora to read to her, she grabbed the book and pelted it across the room, beaning some poor unsuspecting kid in the melon. I must have forgotten to mention that when Nora is crabby, sitting down while holding her is akin to ripping her eyes out with sporks. Torture. Unforgivable.

Nora then saw me coming and flung herself dramatically onto the floor facedown and sobbed like someone just told her the world ran out of goldfish crackers. I tried to pick her up but she did her patented flop-on-the-floor-like-a-giant-dead-fish move. I swear when I finally did hoist her up, she gave me the death glare. Who knew fourteen-month-olds could shoot daggers with their eyes? Impressive.

Oh well. Perhaps at some point she'll be able to get the indignity of this horrible, loathsome, ungodly day and smile again.

Fun in the Sun. With Some Mortification Thrown in.

So it's finally warm out. It's the middle of June and the temperature rose above 42 degrees a couple days ago for the first time all year. Ok, maybe that's a slight exaggeration, but seriously, this past winter was 9 years long. And that's the truth.

So we've been finally able to hang outside. Although the hanging with my kidlets hasn't been quite as pleasant as my poor deluded mind always convinces me it's going to be. Shocking, I know. Tate was sick AGAIN a few days ago, and as we all know, it takes him a good week to fully recover. This recovery week is what I lovingly refer to the "Watch Out, Tate Has Become Possessed by the Devil and all His Minions And Is Determined To Drive Me To Break Out The Tranquilizer Gun" week. We're on day 2. And it's just been loverly.

Last night we went to an outdoor concert with our playgroup. Tate had gone to bed late the night before, woken up early that morning, spent half the afternoon in time-out, smacked Eric on the cheek shortly before leaving, and fell asleep in the car on the way there. Do I really need to continue with the story? I'm sure you can see where this is going. What the hell. I have no shame.

We got there and he spent the first 25 minutes turning on a spigot that of course he found immediately that was by the water fountain. This spigot did not produce a little gentle, affable stream of water. No, when it was turned out, a gush of water would come frantically spewing out in all directions. It was like Niagra Falls. So Tate loved it and felt he should introduce his little sister to the magic of the Water Fountain Geyser, and then she loved it too. When told to stop wasting 500 gallons of water/second, he freaked. So then Eric took him on a walk. I watched as the screaming, flailing, infuriated toddler grew smaller and smaller and realized we would not be there much longer.

We weren't. Watching Tate steal food from other kids and poke me in the stomach and say "FAAAAAAT TUMMY!!!" really lost it's appeal pretty quickly. He got me in the boob once, too, which was kind of weird. So we left, and he loudly protested being strapped in the stroller the entire walk back. Being strapped in was "only for babies!", apparently. It was also only for our diminishing sanity, but he didn't really seem to care about that. So we got into the car, panting and sweating, and Tate declares "Oh, ME, it's chilly out!! Mom, can you believe how chilly it is??". It was 74 degrees. Whatever.

And then today...yeah. We went to a splash pad to let the kids run around. Tate went up to a kid who we didn't know who was easily the size of Hulk Hogan and who had bigger boobs than me (yeah, not hard, I know, but seriously...this kid was like 6), pulled the back of his swim trunks out and put something down them. I'm not kidding. I think it was a handful of grass. I also think I almost died. He then scampered away merrily while the kid gave him a look like "Oh yeah, you BETTER run before I smother you with my man boobs" and I tried to hide behind a tree. I do not know where this kid comes up with this stuff.

Nora, at least, is fairly normal. She's still extremely cuddly and snuggly, which is great most of the time, but man, when it's hot and muggy out...her nuzzling up to me is pretty much the equivalent of a fat sweaty ass sticking to a leather couch. And the ass is only going to get fatter and sweatier and the couch leatherier (yep, I made that word up) as the summer goes on.

Potty training is going awesome. We've made several forays into the big bad outside world with Tate only wearing undies and we've had no accidents. He is currently laying every single pair of undies he owns out on the couch and examining them with his head cocked to one side and tapping his lips with a finger and musing "Hmmm...I think I'll wear Thomas undies now, and then Buzz Lightyear later. I can wear Molly (which is actually Wall-E) ones tomorrow. And then Elmo. Ok, sounds good."

It's hard work, picking out undies.

Oh Happy Day

We had quite the day yesterday. It started off with the four of us going to A Day Out With Thomas the Train at our local railroad museum. I know you're absolutely dying to see photographic evidence of our train-filled experience, so here it is.

Nora on the train ride. As you can see, she's thrilled.

She perked up, though, and did a little Thomas dance.

Tate dug the train ride right from the start.

Tate with Sir Topham Hat. Nora took one look at the inflated man/giant-mole-baby-with a top-hat and burst into panicked tears. Can't say I blame her.

Looking at this picture, I think it may be time to cut my hair. Or perhaps just, you know...brush it.

Tate doing a happy dance.

It was a fun day. The kids had a good time, we got to dine on hamburgers that tasted like sawdust dipped in ashes (guess Thomas isn't much of a culinary artiste), and we got to see lots of whiny little kids acting much brattier than ours. That's the best way to make yourself feel like a somewhat successful parent.

ALSO....big news. Big, big news, people. You know how we had Urination Celebration 2009 a couple months ago? Well, that's old news. Yesterday, we moved into the big time. Defecation Celebration 2009. Ohhhh, yeah. We were a'singing from the rooftops. We all felt like this:

It was another major day in our house. I was about to call the news stations, but then I realized they'd probably be a little busy preparing for Obama's visit to Green Bay. Although, really...who cares about that??? My kid POOPED.

My Bathroom is Awesome

I know first-hand the exact, complete awesomeness of my downstairs bathroom because over the past two days, I've been spending roughly 8 hours in there at a stretch. It's the potty training, you see. We're kicking it into high gear. Toilet or nothin'. It's been somewhat successful and mostly...not.

I made a chart for Tate with stickers, rewards, blah blah blah. He doesn't quite get the concept. He thinks that he should get to go to Chuck E Cheese EVERY time he pees, not just every 12th or so time. Same with the sucker or the Thomas Toy. So, things normally go as thus:

Me: "Tate, you want to try going potty?"

Tate: "YEEEEEEEEAH!!!!" He then spends 10 minutes trying desperately to pee, complete with a little hip-thrusting and behind-slapping (I think he's trying to propel the pee forward). It doesn't work. "Come ON, pee!! Why is not this working????"

Me: "It's ok, honey. Let's just try again later."

Tate: "NO!!!!" More dancing around in front of the potty. I think he tries to call upon the mighty Potty Training God by doing a special, aggravated dance. "Why is there NO POTTY IN THERE??? COME ON!!!!!!"

Repeat. 60000 times. Too bad I can't fit a recliner in the bathroom. I'd bring in the laptop and a glass of wine (or box. Let's be realistic here) and be perfectly happy. Instead I sit on the cold, hard floor and stare at the base of the toilet. Which, really, isn't that exciting. Which, really, is a good thing, I suppose. You don't want to be staring at your toilet wondering what the hell that thing is growing on it and how exactly you can get rid of it without contaminating your whole being.

Anyway, after a few despairing queries of "why is not this WORKING?" (no, that's not a typo. That's how he says it), and desperate chugs of water from his sippy, he usually is successful. Then he gets a sticker on his chart and freaks out because we're not to the point where he gets a toy or to go to Chuck E Cheese. So, really, he gets excited for nothing, in his eyes. Then he pees in his Pull-Up. So, this is why we are somewhat successful and mostly...not.

But whatever. I really really love saying "Honey, do you have to go potty?" every 4 minutes so honestly, no rush. Truly. For real.

In other news, Eric bought me an AWESOME, KICKASS, RAD camera. I lurve it. See, look at my pretty pictures.

And, I'm sorry, but in those last two pictures, my kidlets look waaaaaay too old for my liking. Like, they're adults in tiny, diaper wearing, tantrum throwing, mostly undecipherable bodies. They're looking so....big. I swear tomorrow they'll be needing help with some kind of science project totally beyond my intelligence level, and next week they'll be asking for the car, and next month they'll be sitting around moaning about their artificial hips and the young hooligans running around next door. Tate's striking some kind of GQ pose or something in that last picture. And Nora is once again looking like John Candy in one of his finest roles.

Barf. Remember? Barf the Dog. From "Spaceballs". Try to keep up here, people.

She actually was looking a little like Hitler for awhile there, which is really not something most people envision or hope for their children. I wasn't too eager to show her face in public. I tried to cover her up with blankets and tarps and whatnot, but for some reason she wasn't really going for that. Kid likes to see and breathe and all that crap. But she had somehow scraped her upper lip in her crib one morning and the resulting scab just looked a little too much like Hitler's 'stache for my liking. Kind of weird to see this kid looking like one of the most evil men in the history of the world running around babbling and pushing her little ball-popper thingy with unabashed glee. Hitler loves all that Fischer-Price has to offer, apparently.