So You Want to Be a Two Year Old.

Well, it's happened. Nora officially turned two at 12:27 pm on April 7th. At 12:32, the Terrible Twos made their appearance. Seriously. That must have been when all the stuff from the handbook really sunk in. You know, the handbook that Tate studied and culled from for a good, oh, three years. The one entitled "Congratulations! You Are Now Two! Let's Discuss the Best and Most Embarrassing Tactics to Make Your Mother Want to Pull Her Hair Out!"

Chapter 1: Public Tantrums. "This chapter instructs you, the wee little reader, that you must insist on being both inside the cart and walking next to it simultaneously. Never mind that this is impossible, it must still be insisted on. Because, to two year olds, impossible things could maybe become possible if you just SCREAM LOUD ENOUGH. After Mommy gets tired of trying to hold you down in the cart and chuckling nervously as people glare at her as her daughter howls and screeches in anguish, she will then just haul you out of the cart and start to walk away. Now, this is where you plop down on the floor and lay face down. Make sure to throw some ear-piercing shrieks in there while kicking your heels on the floor. Bonus if you're next to the greeting card aisle...then you can grab handfuls of cards and envelopes and chuck them on the floor to share in your agony.

Never mind that Mommy is slowly creeping away. See how she keeps looking back, hoping you'll shut up and get up? She won't actually leave you on the floor at Target, as you know. She would get in major trouble. She's just playing you. So therefore, you can lay on the floor for as long as you like. Try to switch it up a bit. Intersperse some "MOMMMMMMMMYYYYY....NOOOOOOOOOOOOs" in with the general screaming. This will make it sound like Mommy is inflicting great pain on you somehow and make her feel like even more of an idiot when people pop their head around the corner of the aisle to glare at her. Your brother, who has this handbook memorized and who is currently teaching seminars on it, decides to jump in and add his brand of help by wailing "But, Mommy...you can't leave her! I LOVE HER!"

So Mommy will feel pretty much like a gigantic tool. She will then slink her way back over to the Wailing Two Year Old of Doom and attempt to pick you up. You will put into place the patented "Pretend You're a Paralyzed Elephant" move where you somehow go from weighing a scant 23 lbs to being a limp, languishing, floppy, cumbersome load. She is then that mother, the one with a squalling two-year-old tucked under one arm as she trudges to the check-out counter. See how she's trying to pretend that you don't exist at this very moment? Give her a good swift kick in the kidneys. That'll teach her.

And, finally, scream the entire way home and chuck books at Mommy's head as she tries to drive. Because Mommy loves that. It goes without saying that you will continue your week-long streak of not napping. Because you now believe that naps will slowly eat away at your soul til you're but a shell of your former self. The End."

Way to go, Nora. You passed the first induction in to two-year-oldville with flying colors. I'm really freaking proud of you. Yay.

Two Cute

Ok, so there is just nothing to write about in winter. We get up, stare out the window at the snow, the kids drive me crazy, we dash out into the car, go to the store or the bank or some other boring indoor place, dash back into the car, come home, stare out the window at the snow, the kids drive me crazy, I put Nora down for a nap that she refuses to take like 64% of the time, the kids drive me crazy, I make dinner that usually doesn't get eaten by half of the family, the kids drive me crazy, we put the kids to bed, Tate gets up 3957 times, therefore driving me crazy, I drink wine, everyone goes to bed.

Repeat.

It gets old. So it's hard for me to find the humor in it after awhile. I get blue, the kids get sassy...it's just not an enjoyable time of year around here. So it's really great that winter lasts 10 months out of the year. Juuuuust perfect.

But anyway. It's April, the sun is shining, we're going to the park, hanging out with friends on the deck...I am like a little delicate flower that is finally starting to bloom. But the most important thing about April? My BABY GIRL turns two. Eeek. For real. It just happened last week. I was there.

Here's the feminine, dainty little daisy now:

RWARRRRF. CAKE.

Yeah, she still eats like a truck driver. And has no qualms about stuffing the food in her face at a rate that would impress one of those professional hot dog eaters. And the really fun part is that she's a MASSIVE 23 lbs. Yeah, she weighs as much as like one of my feet. And I'd be willing to bet that 14 of those pounds are in her head, considering that her noggin is in the 85 percentile for her age. No wonder I can never get any shirts over her head.

Tate is almost 4, and all of a sudden is...older. He holds long conversations with me about things like dinosaurs and cheese, and tells us how proud he is of us for doing things like putting bird food in the bird feeder. He chuckles at his little sister's antics and shakes his head ruefully, wondering if he was ever quite that young and silly. He makes me happy to be around him a good 87% of the time. That's up a good 53 percentile points from other time periods in our life. He's growing up.

So I will be trying to get better about blogging more. I mean, what else is there to do while sitting on a couch in the evening, drinking wine, watching stupid reality TV, and pretending I don't hear Tate thumping around in his bedroom upstairs?? Nothin'.

I Wish I May, I Wish I Might...

It's a pretty important week around here. Tate is Student of the Week at preschool, so he's kind of a big deal for the next few days. Being Student of the Week basically entails the kid getting to wear a crown, sitting on a special chair, and the parents filling out three thousand little forms, trying to get the kid to draw a picture of spaghetti or whatever their favorite food is, cutting the kid's name out of construction paper and then watching as the kid accidentally tears three out of the four letters in half, and getting the kid to answer questions about themselves when they have no idea what the correct response is.

Like this.

Me: "Tate, what's your favorite color?"

Tate: "Ummm....where's my Thomas the Train?"

Me: "Yeah, Crayola doesn't seem to make that particular hue anymore. Try again."

Or like this.

Me: "Tate, what are your three greatest wishes?"

Tate: "......"

Me: "Ok, like is there anywhere you really want to go or someone you really want to see or anything?"

Tate: "Umm....someone I want to see!"

Me: "And that would be who."

Tate: "Ummm....Luke!"

Me: "So your greatest wish in the world right now is to see your friend, the son of Mommy's best friend, who lives like 15 minutes away and who we see like every week?"

Tate: "Yes!"

Me: "Alrighty."

Yeah, the concept was not completely grasped by this one. That's ok. What was really fun was trying to round up three items that had "special meaning". I know that different things are special to different people, but really, I don't think a cheap toy chipmunk from a Happy Meal or a penny that could very well have been dug out of the garbage really holds a lot of sentimental value. Apparently "special" to this kid means "whatever my little sister is holding at the moment that I can go grab from her, causing her to scream like a little monkey, making Mommy's headache intensity go up about 19 notches."

We finally settled on Snowy the Monkey With No Paw, a little wooden airplane, and some sausage-type stuffed dude that Eric bought him at a Brewer game that they went to together. I figured those are pretty accurate representations. Although so were the Mickey Mouse undies that my sister got him for Christmas that he desperately made a plea to include, but I figured those were better off staying under his pants. Hey, they were still included in the whole experience. Hopefully he doesn't feel the need to drop his drawers and do a little too much sharing.

What the Flush?

Well, huh. Apparently, apparently, you actually do NOT want to flush a small fake food item toy type thingie down your toilet. Like something like oh, say....THIS:


I don't know exactly how it was decided that a miniature bag of flour belonged in a toilet, but there you have it. We had a bunch of little friends over for pizza one night, and the next morning out toilet was desperately regurgitating water in a vain attempt to hark up the small rectangular piece of plastic lodged in it's...throat? Esophagus? What do toilets have??

We had the plumber come over to rectify the situation, since Eric's frantic attempts at plunging the little fucker out of there were proving extremely futile. I wasn't downstairs at the time, but apparently, the only way the plumber could get the Toy of Complete Latrine Destruction out of there was to remove the toilet, carry it outside, turn it upside down and go in from the, uh, rear. Basically the toilet got all kinds of violated. Poor thing. But alas, the offending object was removed, photographed for dexterity, and promptly disposed of.

I did hear Eric trying to turn the whole thing into a learning situation with Tate by kindly instructing him that maybe, just maybe, it's not a good thing to flush hard plastic things down the toilet since it results in said toilet being put in several compromising positions. Tate responded by saying:

"Well, Daddy, I don't think it was me that flushed it down the toilet. I think maybe it was Mommy."

Yeah, I think not. Way to try and throw me under the bus, though, kid.

And since we're on this lovely subject, let me just throw a little public service announcement out there to all the little kidlets of the world. Mothers, you can thank me later.

Ahem. When Mommy goes to the toilet, it just stays like a normal toilet. It doesn't start playing music, flashing lights or handing out suckers. You know that, do you? Well then why do you BOTH have to come and watch Mommy go to the toilet? You are missing NOTHING by staying OUTSIDE of the bathroom. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

That is all.

No, No...Don't Get Up

Sometimes McDonalds makes me feel like a total slacker mom. I mean seriously, who in their right mind willingly takes their children into a McDonalds playland? Where all the badly behaved children of the tri-state area hold their daily conferences? Where sending your kid into the climbing apparatus is basically the same as tossing them into a Hallway of Snot? Where said kids eventually come up to you with some unidentifiable food in their hand snatched from God knows what cranny, and then opens their mouth and shows you the other half of the unidentifiable food object that is probably giving them swine flu or tetanus as you speak?

Well, yeah. That was me today. I couldn't help it, people. I had a gift card.

I tell you what, though. I may feel like a slacker for bringing them there, but I always, ALWAYS leave feeling like, hey, maybe I'm not the worst mom in the world after all. Now, we all know that there have been many, many, manymanymanymany times that I have been that mom with that kid. The one who's hitting or pushing or pinching or performing Chinese Water Torture or what have you. But I've honestly always tried to keep on top of Tate, and if he wonks some other kid's head into a wall, well then..I go up and punish him. He gets time out or we leave or whatever. Crazy, I know. But because of all this, I have a pretty high tolerance for sassy little kids. I get it.

However (caution: I am about to step on my soapbox). I have no tolerance for moms who either pretend not to see what their kid is doing or who see it and just can't be bothered to do anything other than sit and yell "Hey! You better stop doing that or yer daddy's gonna whip yer ass!" and then turn around and eat their 400th straight Big Mac. And all these moms seem to live in McDonalds.

This is what one such lady shouted today.

"Zach! Don't push! Zach! Let's go! Zachie! Zach! Get your shoes! Zach! I mean it! Stop pushing other kids off the slide! Zach! Where are you? Let's go! Zach! I want to go! Zach! Don't kick babies! Zach! It's time to go! Zach! Come over and get your coat and help me up! Zach! Zach! Zaaaaaach! Tell all these other parents to stop stuffing dirty socks in my mouth to get me to shut the hell up!!"

Ok, the last sentence didn't really get bellowed, but if you had given me and a couple of the other parents in there about 1 more minute, it may just have. Seriously. This lady could not get her butt out of her chair. She just sat and yelled so hard she jiggled. For 10 MINUTES. And for 10 minutes her kid ran around like Satan's minion trying to become King of The Germ Crusted Slide by hurling any kid in his path out of the way.

So we left, simply because I couldn't handle the yelling anymore, and because I could practically see bacteria and germs festering on my childrens' skin. Those McDonalds fries lure me in every time, though. I can hear them calling to me frantically whenever I pass by. It's always work avoiding fast food. Even though my mind says "This is garbage!", my mouth says "I like garbage! Put a crapload of salt on it and call it a day!"

Mmmm...salt.

The Snow Hates Me

As I sit here typing this, Nora is upstairs loudly protesting the fact that I had the gall to put her in her crib for a nap. This is the second day in a row she is loudly bemoaning the fact that she got stuck with ME as a mother, this bitch who dares to expect her to take a NAP. I'm pretending not to hear her. Although I do wish she would squeal and shriek at a pitch just slightly higher than the one she's using now, because then only the dogs could hear her, and I wouldn't even have to pretend. Problem solved.

When she's not upstairs madly banging her heels against the sides of her crib and bellowing for me to either come get her or die a slow painful death, she is actually quite funny. She's talking a ton these days, mostly whatever she learns from Tate. So we get a lot of "butt!" and "STOP IT!!!" and of course the timeless "nononononNONONONONONONO!!!". Thankfully, she hasn't yet been able to master "Oh, for God's sake", but it's coming. Just give it time, people. Because my children live to embarrass me. It's their forte.

Did you ever notice how many things no one ever tells you about parenting before you have kids? I'm not talking about how you'll never sleep or go pee in peace again. Plenty of people tell you that. No, I'm talking about the little things. For instance, nobody ever told me that I would actually say things like "No, Tate, you're not allowed to stick Buzz Lightyear in the dog's butt." Would've been nice, is all I'm saying. A little advanced warning is always appreciated.

Anyway. Winter is here with a vengeance. There is snow everywhere. I got stuck yesterday, twice. Once in my friend's driveway, because I cannot drive backwards and therefore went straight into a snowbank at the end of the drive. I should not be allowed to drive in reverse. The main argument for that being that at one point I thought I was putting the car in park and instead threw it in reverse, consequently almost flattening my poor friend who was directly behind the car. Last time she ever invites me over, I tell ya what. The other time I got stuck was when I pissed off the plow dude and he shoved a 56 foot ridge of snow in front of my driveway. I tried in vain to shovel it away, but I shouldn't really be allowed to shovel, either. I basically would lift up the snow, look around frantically for somewhere to throw it, and then just kind of toss it in front of me. 9 times out of 10 the snow ended up exactly back where it was. The other 1 time it ended up in my face and down my neck. So I gave up and tried to ram through the ridge of death. Chrysler Town and Country vans are not made for ramming. I made it about 3 centimeters and then got stuck. It was really, really fun.

What really boggles my mind is when people say "I love the snow" or "Winter is my favorite season" or better yet "The cold is so invigorating and refreshing". I find this disturbing. It's like they're saying "I drag 3 inch nails up my arm for fun" or "I enjoy having my toenails ripped out with a pair of rusty pliers." Sick, I tell you. Sick.

And So it Begins

Things have calmed down. The holidays are over. We were away from home for 4603 days. Or 12, whatever. Mexico was fab, seeing family was great, getting home in our own beds was the best thing ever.

Now life has returned to normal, aka chaotic. We're finally making headway on our basement. There is paint on the walls! And yes, every wall that I did myself needs a second coat on it to cover the glaring spots of white that I somehow managed to overlook the first time around, but that's not the point. It looks pretty! Soon there will be walls and a ceiling! We're planning on having a basement warming party and telling people to bring their own beanbags. We don't need furniture. We need walls. Oh, and the kegerator. But we've got that already. Duh.

Nora has started to become her brother's clone. Gone are the days of watching teddy bears and toy cars go catapulting through the air after being released from Tate's paw. No, now baby dolls and sippy cups are being hurtled to their untimely death thanks to Nora the Intimidator. She doesn't like being told "no"? Here comes Baby Alive, whizzing through space. She hates the state of the economy today? There goes a pink plastic dump truck soaring across the room. It's great. I knew it had to happen but there's always that small, pathetic part of yourself going "Oh, no, she'll somehow become immune to her brother's influence and spend life skipping through fields of clover and agreeing to everything Mommy says." That part of me has now slunk away in shame.

What's really fun? Breakfast. Mornings find none of us at our perkiest, especially her. She demands to go straight from crib to highchair, which is no big deal. Then we have the breakfast battle. She howls at the pantry doors to somehow be opened, and I get to point at every sort of breakfast-type food in there in a desperate quest to satisfy the beast. Everything I point to that she deems simply unacceptable earns a "Noooooooooooooooooooo!!" while thrashing her head back and forth madly. Pretty much everything is displeasing the first go-round. Sometimes it takes two or three tries before she grudgingly accepts the paltry offerings. And when I say grudgingly, I mean it. The only way I know that the current offering is suitable is by the almost imperceptible flick of her finger and minuscule jerk of her chin.

Me: "Nora, do you want these yummy waffles?"

Nora: "NOOOOOOOOARRRRRRRRRRRRCGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH"

Me: "Oookay, how about some cereal"

Nora: "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOTTTTTOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL"

Me: "Sure. Is fruit ok?"

Nora: Flick. Jerk.

It's fun times. Not only is breakfast the most important meal of the day, it's also the one that makes me want to crawl under the table and bang my head on the floor and not wake up again til dinnertime.

Adios!

I know I've been slacking off on writing again lately. I've just been a busy little bee lately, and you all are just going to have to wait a little longer for any sort of update. I know, you're crushed, confused, and completely disheartened. But I'm heading to Mexico in two days with Eric and some friends and you KNOW I'll have some stories.

I'll miss my little kidlets though. Most of the time. Nora's been all sorts of fun lately with her new stripping in public habit. Tate's decided that sitting on my lap and then farting is just the be-all, end-all. So yeah, those things I won't miss.

Date Night

Have you ever taken a 3 year old to any sort of Sesame Street/Disney/Ice Capades type event? I have. Just did it tonight, in fact. Tate and I had a night out at the social event of the...hour. It went surprisingly smoothly, for the most part...pretty much, kinda.

As soon as I sat down, I felt like we were living on borrowed time. You know, where you just kinda sit and watch the kid, observing the initial excitement starting to wane and boredom and tiredness slowly creep in. Now, we had front row seats (yeah, I got an in with Elmo. What can I say) so at least we were RIGHT THERE. The problem was, we were RIGHT THERE at the very far side of the stage, so for much of the performance we had a nice view of furry blue and red and yellow...asses.

The characters did come out on the floor quite a bit though, so Tate got a lot of high fives and hair ruffles. I got a lot of ginormous, rock-hard, freaking 500 lb Muppet feet kicking me in the instep and clomping on my toes. I usually managed to bite my tongue before letting a profanity slip out. No reason to be teaching random kidlets something new besides the alphabet that evening.

Basically, the evening could be broken down like so:

FIRST 20 MINUTES: Tate: "Ooooh! Elmo! Cookie Monster! Let's get up and dance and sing and wave and freak out with general unabashed three-year-old joyfulness!" Me: "Aww, it's so fun to watch Tate enjoy himself. Such a joyous experience for mother and son."

SECOND 20 MINUTES: Tate: "Mommy, that little boy has an Elmo toy. Can I get an Elmo toy? Where are the Elmo toys? I think I need to go potty. Ooh, Cookie Monster just gave me a high five! I love Grover! Where are the Elmo toys?" Me: "Let's wait til the break, honey. There is a break, right? Shouldn't there be a break right about now? How long can these furry beings sing about sharing and the ocean and imagining crap??"

BREAK: Tate: "ELLLMOOOOOOO TOY!!! PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE!! I HAVE TO GO POTTY AGAIN! CAN I HAVE SOME POPCORN? THAT KID HAS POPCORN!" Me: "Oh my God, where are the stupid Elmo toys? Here, lady, here's your $4000 dollars for a cheap piece of plastic with Elmo's face on it. Oh look, and there's a guy walking around with Elmo balloons throughout the audience, 2 inches away from each kid. Hey pal, where's your sign saying 'Parents, if you make me walk right by your kid without buying them a balloon, you're telling them that you don't love them' ?? Awesome. Let's buy a balloon."

THIRD 20 MINUTES: Tate, as he wonks himself absentmindedly in the head with the freaking Elmo toy: "Soooo...Mom. What are you doing? Should I brush my teeth when I get home? Where's my popcorn? I think I have to go potty again. POO. I have to go POO. Does Abby Cadabby go poo? She doesn't have a pee-pee." Me: "Why don't they sell wine at these things? How can they sing 30 songs about the letter K?" Tate again: "Where's my drink made out of red dye and sugar? YOU THREW IT AWAY??? I WANT MY RED DRINK! Watch as I shimmy out of my chair and flop around desperately on the floor trying to suck up any puddles of red!"

All in all, it was a success. I kept myself occupied by snickering each time one of the characters wiped out on stage, which happened surprisingly often. Or maybe not all that surprisingly. Those feet are freaking heavy. I know. I still can't feel my toe from when Cookie Monster flattened it with his colossal paw. Big blue bastard. I also kept busy dreaming up ways to silence the brat behind me wailing "BEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTTT!!!! I ONLY WANT TO SEE BEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTTT!! NO ERNIE! NO BIG BIRD!! SHUT UP, GRANDMA YOU'RE STUPID!!!" Yeah, that kid was really pleasing to be around.

Nora and I had a little time together this morning, as well. She and I went to my friend's house for a little knitting and chatting time. Let's just say I'm a hell of a lot better at chatting than knitting. I would get to a certain point and then completely lose all coordination, patience, and even a minuscule sense of something resembling skill. Pretty much, I suck. I got to the point where I just put the needles down and declared I was done. Funny thing was, nobody really argued with me at that point. I think I may be a knitting failure. Oh well. There are other things I'm good at. Shut up, I'm serious.

Sweet Cheez-its.

Tate's becoming a pro at this whole preschool thing. Every morning as we drive there, he exclaims "I'm SO excited, Mom!" and every afternoon as we drive home, he gives me a garbled rundown of all his activities that day. Usually it's how they learned about dinosaurs or apples or owls, but last week was something rather...unexpected. This was the scene in the car ride home:

Me: "So, what did you learn about today, Tate?"
Tate: "Cheez-its."
Me: "...Cheez-its?"
Tate: "Yep. Cheez-its."
Me: "You mean you had Cheez-its at snack time?"
Tate: "NO! WE TALKED ABOUT CHEEZ-ITS!!"

Now, at this point I'm wondering if the teacher just plain ran out ideas of what to talk about that day and conducted an impromptu lecture on the joys of unnaturally orange snack crackers. Perhaps she had had a ferocious craving for them for one reason or another. Maybe she just wanted to make sure all the little children were able to revel in the wonder of...Cheez-its. I don't know.

Me: "Well, uh, what did you learn about Cheez-its? Are they yummy?"
Tate: "Mom. NO. Don't be silly."
Me: "O...K..."
Tate: "Cheez-its is our friend. Cheezi-its lives up in the sky."
Me: "Tate. Do you maybe, by chance, mean JESUS?"
Tate: "YES. CHEEZ-ITS."

Therrrrre we go. Tate will now be saying his evening prayers to a gigantic box of cheese-flavored squares floating merrily in the sky, looking down on all the little children telling them to do unto others as they would do unto them.

And if anyone knows the patron saint of missing shoes and socks, hit me up with their digits or something. Because I have like no foot coverings of any sort for any person in my house at this point. Now, things are even more cluttered and disorganized around here than usual. Eric's working 14 hour days, 6 or 7 days a week so I'm pretty much Single Mommy these days. The kids aren't much for washing windows or scrubbing down baseboards, and also aren't really fans of letting me out of their sight for more than 3 minutes before pushing each other down the stairs or off the couch. Or out of the laundry hamper, toy shopping cart or clothes dryer. Therefore, I do not get much done. Well, really, anything done. It ain't pretty.

So today, I was in the usual chaos of trying to pin down both kidlets long enough to wrestle them into their clothes. I took a clean pair of matched socks off the kitchen table (yes, we have clean laundry on the kitchen table. It's usually only there for about 5 or 6 days. Then we'll have a different load of clean laundry on the kitchen table.) and put them on the couch. I left for 20 seconds, came back, and there was only one sock on the couch. The other sock apparently got so fed up with the disarray around here it staged a protest and stormed off. I made a quick check to ensure it wasn't stashed in Nora's cheek, and asked Tate if he took the sock.

Tate: "I'll help you look, Mommy. It's ok"
Me: "Gee, thanks. Why don't you tell me where you put it?"
Tate: "Um....your name is Nemo."
Me: "Awesome. That's the next place I was gonna look anyway."

I still haven't found it. I seriously think it made a desperate dash for freedom, to find a world where socks can run free without being stuffed into random cupboards or left in the car under one of the seats for years at a time or chewed on by little girls. A world where Tate's shoe doesn't end up in the clothes hamper, where mittens are no longer hidden inside the broom closet, where my hairbrush doesn't find itself buried under a foot of sand in the sandbox outside. It just unfolded itself, bid it's mate adieu and ran. Goodbye, sock. It's ok. There are days where it's simply easier to run to the store and buy new socks rather than wash and try to match up the ones you already have. There are always more socks out there.

But maybe it's just me and my stance on cleaning. Like the average person out there and I most likely have different views on what exactly "just do it" means in terms of cleaning. For most people, it might mean setting aside an entire day to to clean the hell out of your house: scraping old food off the oven, shoveling the dust out from behind the couches, sweeping out mummified carrots from behind the fridge. For me, "just do it" means finally bending down and picking up that piece of paper towel on the floor instead of just kicking it out of my way 100 times a day. Hey, every little bit helps.

Ok, for any of you who are A) not parents and therefore not used to dealing with this kind of stuff or B) extremely grossed out by gooey things, let's just save you major discomfort right now by saying this: SLIMY GREEN EYE BOOGERS. Oh, and EYELIDS CRUSTED TOGETHER WITH GOOPY, STRINGY, MUCOUS-Y EYE MATTER. And what the hell...DIARRHEA. Yep, you can leave now. I understand.



Yeah, the kids have pinkeye. I started to suspect something when Tate woke up this morning unable to open his right eye due to it being glued together with slimy yellowish glop. Oh, and when Nora's eyes both started looking kinda swollen and, uh...pink. Well, pink aside from the neon-green slime slithering out of the corners of her eyes and instantly hardening on her cheek, dying a quick and painful death. Pretty. Oh, yeah, and the diarrhea. That was fun too. Especially when it got embedded under my fingernails and splattered up onto my neck. I have to say though, you know you're a mom when you can strip your kid naked. scrub the poo off them and you, and wedge them between your knees and wrestle them back into clean clothes, all while keeping the phone firmly wedged against your ear, chattering a mile a minute with your friend, not missing a beat.



After taking both kids to the walk-in clinic where Tate managed to make the nurse almost fall off the stool when he snuck up behind her and lifted the little lever that makes the stool go "pphhhhffft" and drop like a rock, we headed to Target to get the prescriptions.


Holy Hell.


Normally I'm a fan of Target. However, I've realized that this is because I'm normally smart enough to not take both of my kids there at 5:15 pm. But since I needed to get eye drops I really had no choice. So we went. And waited for 45 minutes for eyedrops. Forty. Five. Minutes. I mean, really. Watching Tate hit Nora over the head with a plastic hanger gets old after like 8 minutes, people. So that left a whole 37 minutes to kill. And this is how I killed it.

"Tate, please stop doing that. Tate, I said stop. Seriously, STOP. Ok, really. Will you please stop. Just DON'T. OK??? WILL YOU NOT DO THAT?? COME BACK HERE. Look at me. I'm walking away. Really. No, Tate, I am. Walking. Away. Ok, this is supposed to make you FOLLOW ME. No, follow ME. Not the smelly 500 lb man with toilet paper hanging off his shoe. ME. Ok, where are you. Seriously not funny! WHAT CLOTHES RACK ARE YOU HIDING UNDER?? STOP PULLING ALL THE CARDS OFF THE SHELF. STOP LICKING THE DVD CASES. STOP OPENING THE HOME PREGNANCY TEST BOXES. STOP TRYING TO CRAWL INTO THE PHARMACY. SANTA WILL NOT BRING YOU ANY TOYS IF YOU KEEP SQUIRTING ME WITH KY JELLY"

Yeah. Just imagine 37 minutes of that. And 37 minutes of Tate going:

"No. No! NO! NONONONONONONONONO!!! I want to! I want Nora to cry! I HAVE TO! BYE BYE MOMMY!!! NO! NO! NO!NO!NO!NO! Are you very happy with me, Mommy?"

And Nora going:

"NUM NUM!! MAMAMAMA!!! NUM NUM!! MORE!!! MAMAMAMA! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!"

By the time we left the store I was down to saying three words. It's all my brain could process. "Don't. Stop. Go. Stop. Go. Don't." I do believe it was a glimpse into the 8th circle of hell. Just remember, kids, Mommy is always 2 seconds away from Crazy.

But we got home. I think I got the drops in Tate's eye. It's kind of hard to tell when they're thrashing around like a demented, possessed Jack Russell terrier on crack. I know I got them in Nora's because she just laid there and looked at me like "well, what the fresh hell is this, you crazy woman?" while I dripped them in there. Then she trotted away with her Dum-dum and proceeded to drop it in the dog's water bowl.

Yep, good day. I know experiences like these are a huge part of the job description of being a mommy, but sheesh. This job is so freaking hard, and I have a feeling my performance review is not going to set me up for a promotion. Although, really, what do you get promoted to from Mother? God?

Candy? What Candy?

I'm pretty convinced that toddler ears are tuned to a certain frequency that allows them to hear candy being opened from anywhere in the house. Seriously. I have the Halloween goods stashed away in a corner of the house we're rarely in to discourage the kids (and myself...who am I kidding) from going through it in a mad, sugar-crazed frenzy more than a couple times a day. I swear, whenever I notice the kids are upstairs without me and probably smearing Vaseline all over the dogs, rugs and toilet seats, and creep over to the stash of candy to snag something, it always ends the same way. I open the wrapper. I hear: Thump. Thump. Thumpthumpthudthudthudthud. Pitter patter pitter patter. Then I turn around and my two little angels will be standing before me, bent over with their hands on their knees, panting madly and gasping for breath as they hold a hand up in the air and force out "Ma..ma....candy?"

Every. Time.

But I figure, the more they eat, the less I do. And since my body apparently hates me and refuses to acknowledge that I've been hitting the gym almost EVERY FREAKING DAY, it's probably best I don't stuff my face with chocolate all that often. I swear these days it's like I can gain weight by osmosis. I have to sprint through the chip aisle in the grocery store for fear my fat cells will start expanding just from breathing too deeply near the Doritos. Seriously, it's like my metabolism is sitting in a corner rocking back and forth with it's hands over it's ears going "I can't heeeeeeear you! I don't belieeeeeeeve that you're on a treadmill!!! I've decided to totally screwwwwwwww you!!" And, on that note, why does 30 minutes on the treadmill feel like two and a half hours, while the two and a half hours that Tate's in preschool go by in a 30 minute blink? Just wondering.

Anyway. Back to the original subject. Halloween was pretty low-key this year. Eric worked, as he has like practically every single other day this year, so it was just me and the kidlets hitting the streets. How cute are they?

Uh...good evening folks. This is your Tater speaking.


Heeeere, kitty kitty.

And then there's me, the Friday before Halloween, doing shots at a party with Kate Gosselin and Jessica Simpson. I may have to go platinum blonde on a permanent basis. On account of my sassiness and all. And yes, we're doing Jell-O shots, simply because we are classy in that way.

It was good times...from what I remember, anyway.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

All of a sudden, Nora is really talking. A new word here, a new word there. "Please", "Cheese", "Okay" "Tate" and, uh..."Gracias." I don't know if she's decided to be half Spanish, or if Tate is sneakily teaching her a foreign language in one his late-night seminars on How to Drive Mom as Crazy as Possible in 100 Days or Less or Your Money Back. One of these days they're going to playing in the next room and I'll hear Tate say "Vamos a ir a tomar una botella de vodka del armario y de un paseo en coche." Nora will reply back with "Si, senor diablo!". And I'll sit there in blissful ignorance and all of a sudden wonder why I'm missing a bottle of vodka, the kids, and the car.



I don't know what Nora's trying to say when "gracias" comes out, since she throws it out there at pretty random times. I do know, however, she's trying to say "thank you" when in fact what actually comes out of her angelic little mouth is "fuck you!". Yeah, that's a fun one. If I'm in a punchy mood at the grocery store, I'll hand her a bag of rice or something to play with just so I can watch people's faces as she shouts out "FUCK YOU, MA!!!!" with nothin' but a smile on her face. I have a feeling I'm pretty much known as the Crazy Mother with Strange Children at Festival by this point. Which I'm fine with. It was a long time coming.



She's also still bidding people "Die!" as she leaves them, waving her little hand frantically. I particularly enjoy when I lay her down for her nap, and after she's given me a hug and a kiss she'll lift her head up and holler "DIE, MA!" and then flop back down, curl in a ball, and fall asleep. Gives me a warm fuzzy feeling all through naptime.



Tate's favorite phrase is (get ready to judge me) "Oh...for God's SAKE!". He says it 300 times an hour. We also get a lot of double takes and strange looks in public when he breaks that one out. And apparently it's a pretty universal phrase. Happy, sad, angry, hungry, bewildered...it all merits an "Oh...for God's SAKE!" Examples:



Me: "Tate, can you get your jacket on, please?"

Tate: "Oh, for God's SAKE, Mom!"

Me: "Ok, say goodbye to your teacher before we leave."

Tate: "Oh...for...God's...SAKE!!!"

Me: "Goodnight, Tate. I love you."

Tate: "OH! FOR! GOD'S! SAKE!"

And on and on. Sometimes it's mumbled, sometimes it's shouted, sometimes it comes out of nowhere while he's watching Sesame Street (apparently Grover is extremely annoying). And, yes, since everyone's thinking it anyway, he learned it from me. I know. The Mother of the Year award is on it's way.

It Was Epic

Epic, I tell you. Ep. Ic.

What was epic, you say? Why, I say, the tantrum that Tate threw at the YMCA yesterday, that's what! I have seen more than my fair share of Tate tantrums (Tatetrums?). I've got enough stored up to last me until I am 9802 years old. This one, though, was one to go in the history books. I should totally write a book about the history of tantrums, and how my dear son has committed his very being to the art of sharing tantrums with the world at every possible opportunity, in every possible place, in front of EVERY POSSIBLE PERSON IN THE WORLD. I would rock that.

Basically, I wanted him to put on his jacket before going out in 40 degree weather. He disagreed, somewhat strongly. I told him that we would not be budging from the spot we were standing in until he put on his jacket. He would budge, I would replace him in his original spot, he would wail and thrash and lunge for the handicap button to open the door (his form of crack), I would replace him, etc etc freaking etc for 30 minutes. I know I am prone to exaggeration every once in a great while, but it was literally a half hour. 1800 seconds of hollering, caterwauling, bellowing, trying to remove random parts from Mommy's body with his teeth, what have you. Nora would wander off for a bit, come wandering back, frantically sign "eat" for a few minutes, realize I was not about to magically produce a plate full of ravioli from under my clothing, and wander back off in search of people to beg food from, or tables to scour for crumbs under. She was a peanut on a mission.

Finally I got tired of watching people steadfastedly, pointedly ignore my psychotic toddler as he tried to hurl himself through the front doors of a public venue and decided to get the jacket on, get through the doors, and get home where I could start pouring wine down my throat because I was thisfreakingclosetolosingmysanity. So I did...somehow. I still don't know how I did it, since he seemed to think the jacket was the spawn of Satan, but I ended up with him tucked under one arm, Nora in the other, and wearily trudging out to my car wondering why I ever decided to open my uterus for business. Good times.

Then I took Nora to the grocery store and she dropped a full can of enchilada sauce on my foot. I'm convincing myself, perhaps futilely, that it was not intentional. If my 18-month-old starts trying to break my metatarsals on a regular basis now, I think it may be time to wave the white flag and just letting the kidlets start the dictatorship they seem so intent on cultivating. Hey, I tried. Not many 31-year-olds can say they got their ass kicked by a couple of kids who like to run around naked after bathtime and roll themselves up in curtains. That's something. It IS.

And Unto Tate, A Child Was Born

Tate and I had a fun conversation the other day. Sometimes I just gotta wonder what goes through that brain of his. The rundown:

Tate: Mommy, I have a baby in my tummy!
Me: Oh, really? How did it get there?
Tate: The spaceship flew it into there and then it had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Now it's living in my tummy. Remember when I did that? When I was in your tummy?
Me: Yes, I do remember that. Do you?
Tate: Yes. That was so fun. I'd run around and go "Wheeeee!"
Me: Well, sometimes it certainly felt like that. Do you remember doing your best to dislodge my rib with your heel? Cause that was really fun for me, too. What kind of baby do you have in your tummy?
Tate: A girl. Her name is Hammer.
Me: Always an option for the next kid. Not many little Hammers running around these days.

I tried to get him to continue the conversation but he got distracted by a patch of sunlight on the wall or something and wondered off. Later, when I tried to ask him about Baby Girl Hammer in his tummy, he looked at me like I had been sneaking hits from the bong when his back was turned. I guess it was a short pregnancy.

The four of us went to get our pictures taken this past week. I was not entirely optimistic, seeing as both kids were turning into snot fountains, Eric had worked all night the night before and not gone to bed yet, and I was annoyed at Eric for not being totally excited and exhilirated about getting his picture taken after being awake for like 18 hours. Small detail.

Anyway, things went surprisingly well. Tate had to be...himself, and did plenty of looking the complete opposite direction of the camera with his patented little smirk on his face while pretending he was deaf, but the creepy, ugly, freaky rubber chicken that the photographer waved in both kids' faces did a great job of coaxing a decent number of smiles out of them. I'm really happy with the ones we've seen so far. See? Look how cute we are.



And just for kicks, here are the little rapscallions at this time last year. Sniff. They look so little and innocent. Well, ok, only Nora looks innocent. Tate hasn't looked innocent since he came shooting out of the womb.

Take Me to Your Leader

I took Nora in for her 18 month check up yesterday. In the past 6 months, she's gained a grand total of 3, count 'em 3 lbs, bringing her up to a whopping 22 lbs even. Now, considering the fact that she shoves a total of 22 lbs of food in her mouth every 12 hours, this is somewhat impressive. I've come to the conclusion that she has either A) a hollow leg, B) a tapeworm, or C) some sort of alien DNA coursing through her veins. I have never known a human being to shove this sheer amount of food in their mouth on a 23 an hour a day basis and only gain like an ounce a month. She's from another planet. I gave birth to ET's sweet, plucky, teeny-tiny, second cousin or something.

Tate has learned the fine art of lying. We're extremely proud. I keep insisting that Eric take the credit passing down this laudable trait, but he seems to think it's something that can only be passed from a loving mother down to her mentally pliable, impressionable son. The other day Tate and I were coming in from the garage to the house. I had 4000 grocery bags in my arms and Nora hanging off my neck, writhing and squealing as she tried to separate my eyebrows from my forehead. This was our exchange:

Me: "Tate, can you please open the door for Mommy?"

Tate: "No. My hands are full."

Me: "Is it hard work, carrying all that air?? Open the door."

Tate: "I just CANNOT right now. My HANDS are FULL."

Me: "Oh, right. I failed to notice that gigantic speck of lint on your palm. I'm surprised you haven't been reduced to dragging your hand along behind you, grunting and groaning as you strain to take every step. Please, please let me put down my 600 pounds of groceries and stash Nora down my shirt or something so you don't pull a muscle by trying to balance a piece of fuzz in one hand while wrenching open the door with the other."

Tate: "Ok, Mommy."

Then we have the typical situation where he pushes Nora down while standing 3 feet in front of me, then quickly saying "I didn't do anything!" Right. I may be a little slow on the uptake sometimes but I'm pretty sure he's not able to inadvertently knock people over with an innocent flick of his eyeballs.

I took the kids on a hayride this morning. Nora, as usual, was so thrilled she simply lost all expression in her face. It takes a lot to impress this kid.

What the hell, Ma.

Tate and good ol' One Eye.

I may be a liar, but I'm stinkin' cute, too.

It was a really good time, but the whole getting-in-and-out-of-the-car process made me really, really not excited for winter. It takes 45 minutes to get everyone's crap into the car, and then you get where you're going and take another 3 hours to get both kids crammed into their hats and mittens and jackets and boots and other stuff they insist on wearing because they want to be warm or something. After I'm done getting them ready in their 40 layers of clothes, I'm about to strip all mine off because I'm panting and sweating and about to fall over from fatigue. Then Nora poops in her diaper and Tate starts screaming because he doesn't like the way his zipper smells and I start mumbling that this taking the kids out stuff is for the birds and next time we're just staying home and wearing the same clothes for 2 weeks at a time because even though I remember all the kids' clothes I inevitably forget something of mine, like, oh, my shoes. It's good times.

Can't wait for winter. Can. Not. Wait.

I Got You, Babe

I know. Yes, I know. Really. You all have been tormented and left feeling strangely alone and unfulfilled by the lack of blogging. Well, too bad. I was in a really bad mood for about a month and any nugget of humor in my life was hiding deep under all the clutter in my family room. So I didn't have any desire to put my bitchy moanings and rantings down for all the world to see.

But I'm back now. Clap, clap.


To jump right in, let's start with the recent makeover we had. This is what my dear little Nora had been looking like:
Lovely, isn't she? Just pure sweetness and delicacy. What a little flower, all abloom with dainty and cute. Actually, to get the real picture, you'd have to imagine this 'do with food and lint and, I don't know, baby raccoons hanging off of it. She was like Little Miss Dustmop Head. Plus there was the whole issue of her not being able to, you know, SEE. We got tired of hearing the thumps as she careened into walls and took headers down the stairs. Kidding.

So I took her in for a little snip snip and here she is now:

Or maybe this is her. They've pretty much got identical hairstyles. She's still working on the moustache, though. I'm trying to get her to start answering to "Sonny" and teaching her to sing "I got flowers, in the spring....I got you, to wear my RIIIIING". It's slow going.

She's learning a lot of new words, although her favorite is still "BladabladaBLAHBLAHBLAH". So far that's seemed to have meant "cup", "sponge" "blackened banana peel" and "Mommy's arm fat". But she's also got "Doggie" "Airplane" "Thank you" (which comes out sounding like "Dankmnn"), and still, of course "BOB!!!!!! STOP!!!". She also likes to bid people adieu by saying "bye", although when she says it, it comes out as "Die". So I often hear her sweet little voice warbling "Die, Ma! DIE DIE, MA!" It's a little disconcerting. I keep expecting to turn around and see her coming at me with a stick in her hand or something.

And let's not forget about this little tornado:

I'm sure you'll be shocked to hear he's still the same bounce-off-the-walls, yell-at-the-top-of-his-lungs, make-Mommy-drink-straight-out-of-the-winebox little dude he always was. He's in preschool now and adores it. I've also got him in swimming and gymnastics in vain attempts to burn off some of the energy he has stored. He enjoys those classes too, but refuses to let them tire him out in any way, shape or form. Truly, how daft and moronic of me to hold out any pathetic little morsel of hope. I chalk it up to sleep deprivation and just pure desperation. Can I get an hour of downtime in the afternoon, people? No? How about 20 minutes? 10? Periodic escapes to the bathroom where I feign gastrointestinal troubles? Nope. These children follow me everywhere.

And now, my brief reintroduction back into the world of blogging must end for today. Nora is chucking cut up fruit at the dogs and Tate is trying to crawl into the dishwasher and shut the door. Better I don't do too much all at once anyway. I don't want to pull a muscle.

Show Me Your Booty

We've been busy lately, as evidenced by the fact I have not bothered to blog in like two and a half weeks. I've just heard once or twice that things like fresh air and exercise are supposed to be good for kids or something, so we've been outside a lot. Then we come inside and I herd the kids to bed and all I want to do is sit on the couch and not use any part of my brain. This is why I watch "Dating in the Dark". No brainpower required.

We did, however, make a trek to Minneapolis for my cousin's wedding and then on to Nantucket with the whole fam. It was a nice time. Some things I did not do while there:

1) Meet "the man from Nantucket". I did, however, buy a t-shirt proclaiming that I am the man from Nantucket. I live for irony.

2) Get in any major fights with a family member. This is a big one.

3) Refrain from jumping in the pool with my clothes on. The fact that Tate tipped over in his inner tube and got stuck upside down underwater with his feet flailing madly above the surface may have had something to do with this.

4) Refrain from jumping in the pool with my clothes on again. Tate apparently had a vendetta against the pool after it kicked his ass the first time, so he marched right on back in, only this time he had no inner tube. All that chlorine snorted up his nose must have short wired something in his brain.

5) Manage not to make a fool out of myself on the flight down. I'm what some would call a nervous flier. At this point, my family would call it a screaming, bucking, hyperventilating, looking-like-someone-who-just-got-electrocuted flier. It's not pretty. I thought ahead on the flight home though, and started drinking pretty much immediately. The fact that it was only 11 am played no part in my reasoning.

All in all, a successful trip. My mom, sister and I went on a house tour where we got to mingle with a bunch of snooty women who all got some magic, East Coast memo to wear white capri pants, pastel shirts, sweaters with ropes and gold chain things printed on them slung jauntily over their shoulders, and big straw hats. We did not wear any of these things because we're just lowly Midwesterners. I don;t think I impressed any of them when I yelled "Hey, Joanna, look at me!" and opened my mouth to show off my partly masticated brownie. While at the tour, we also experienced what we dubbed "Booty Gate". All the houses made you put on these shoe-condom thingies so we wouldn't track in our mud and germs all over their house. Imagine the uproar when one of the houses ran out of booties. Not a booty to be found. Then the people in charge started trying to get women to give up their booties as they left the house so some of the sad, pathetic little booty-less people could have some.

No one would give up their booties. It was booty madness. Some of these women were about to start throwing chairs or Louis Vuitton purses or their kicky little wedge heels at people in order to get booties. It was pretty much impossible for my sister and I to not start snickering "Give up the booty! Give me booty or give me death! I'll kick your ass for some booty!!" When we finally procured booties for ourselves, we decided that it was everyone for themselves, bitches. Therefore, as we walked out of each houses, we hid the booties under our shirts and steadfastly avoided looking at any of the booty-less masses as we passed. Hey, I don't give up booty to just anyone. I was afraid at any moment I'd turn around and see some Botox-ed, collagened, Lilly Pulitzer-wearing grandma come sprinting towards me intent on getting my booty.

We also went to the beach, swam in the pool, strolled around the town, chased Tate out of the street a million times because it was made of rock and looked just like the sidewalk, and frolicked on a centuries-old Quaker cemetery across the street. We figured the Quakers were a pretty chill group so they would be ok with it.

I would post pictures of the adventures, but something is screwy and the powers that be that live in my computer are not letting me. Bastards. They're all on my Facebook page anyway. And now, since it's been so long since I've blogged, I must stop, for I am spent. I should have stretched first. Hopefully I'm not sore tomorrow.

Ha HA!

Since his surgery a couple weeks ago (no fevers yet...yay!), Tate seems to have a new outlook on life. Mainly, everything is incredibly freaking funny. He wanders around the house all day going "Ha HA!". He sees something humorous on TV? "Ha HA!" Mom drops something on her foot and hops around cursing madly? "Ha HA!" Nora uses her peanut butter and jelly sandwich as hair mousse? "Ha HA!" He puts his underwear on his own head and runs around like a lunatic? "Ha HA! Ha HA!" At least he finds humor in the mundane. Because at this point, underwear-on-head-running-around is a pretty stock activity around here. It's a strange day when that doesn't happen.

He's changing so much lately. All of a sudden he just seems smarter and calmer and...less toddler-ish. I sit back and watch with an odd mixture of pride and mourning. Everyday he surprises me with something new that he knows and everyday I seem to need to fight back tears as I remember the little baby that he was, and is getting farther and farther away from. He likes to play outside by himself now. I watch him as he plays pretend and as he picks up his toys and dresses himself and writes shaky "T"s on his aqua-doodle, and I'm so proud at what he can do, and wonder what new thing he'll be doing tomorrow. I listen to him exclaim "Oh, my GOODNESS!" as he runs away from me and the face of Elmo imprinted on his big-boy undies peeks at me over the back waistband of his shorts. Soon he'll be in preschool, and then I'll turn around and he'll be in grade school and then all of a sudden he'll be graduating high school. Then he'll get married and have kids of his own and I'll be all old and wrinkly and wondering what the hell happened to my bladder control and when I started needing to wear Depends and to take my teeth out at night and put them in a glass by my bed and then I'll be DEAD.

Ah, good times.

Nora, on the other hand, is still my baby. And really lookin' fine these days. This is what happens when she spills something on her dress and it's late enough in the day that there's really no point in putting a clean one on her and neither of us can really be bothered to give a crap about what she looks like.

Now, that's a special looking kid.

And I'm thinking I may have to do something about her hair. Everytime I put pigtails or braids in her hair these days, they last approximately 2.4 seconds before getting savagely, forcibly undone. Then she ends up looking like this for the rest of the day. Imagine a few chunks of slimy crackers and ravioli hanging off the ends and you've got the perfect image of how great she's looking by about 5pm each day.

Nora, aka the reincarnation of John Denver

You're fired.

I long for the days of pigtails. Ah, pigtails. I shall never forget you. Perhaps we'll meet again someday.

RIP Pigtails. 2008-2009.

Prepare for Battle

Ever feel like life is just a series of battles? Battle here, battle there, battle battle everywhere. I battle with my daughter to take a nap without getting a bottle first, I battle with my house to stop barfing up clutter everywhere when my back is turned, and I engage in a battle of wills with my son just about every hour.

We went to a park today and of course Tate very quickly started making me want to pull my hair our. Par for the course. I just wonder what goes on in his little head sometimes, why he gets so frustrated and impatient that he can only express it by hitting or pinching. We try to tell him that it hurts, it's not nice, he'll get a time-out, someone will belt him back harder and we really won't be bothered to care all that much, blah blah BLAH. It doesn't sink in, he hits again, and we leave. It's a finely choreographed routine at this point. Apparently our family isn't much for spontaneity.

Then of course I notice the looks from other people, towards both me and Tate, and I let it affect me more than I should, because really, you think I'd be immune to it at this point. But he's still my son, stinker that he is, and when I can tell that people are disgusted or annoyed by him, it rankles me. I'm his mommy, and even though he drives me to bury my head under a pillow and scream obscenities that would make George Carlin blush, I grew the kid. He's still my baby.

Yes, he hits and yells and makes me wonder sometimes if his head is about to start spinning, but he also kisses his sister's boo-boos and strokes her on the head as she cries. He picks out the best french fry on his plate and gives it to me to eat. He buries his head in my lap and peeks up at me through his lashes, dimples flashing, as he asks "Are you just so proud of me, Mommy? Did I make you happy?" He gets out of bed sometimes at night when he hears me go into my room and asks if he can tuck me in. He's a series of ebbs and flows, rises and falls, smiles and tears, songs and screams. He's not easy, but he's never boring.

And honestly, I like that he's got such strong opinions. I like that he's stubborn and already knows how to stand his ground. He's tough, which often transitions into being naughty, which I'm not so crazy about, but at least he's not going to crumple into a heap and start wailing everytime someone looks at him the wrong way. He's smart. Quick. You really can't hope for more than that. Although there are days where I look at him and wonder if having a nice, dopey kid would be ALL that bad. Just kinda...bumbling along, singing "doo doo doo", getting entranced by a leaf or a rock...I wonder what that would be like, having a kid like that.

But he's not, so we will continue the battle. Someone's gotta back down eventually, right? Now if I could just get my house to stop refusing to stay clean. This battle's gonna be a bitch. Who am I kidding. I've already lost.