Talking Helper Monkey for Sale

There was a time in the not-so-distant past when taking the Toddler with me to go grocery shopping was sort of like like taking a rabid spider monkey who had never been out of a 3x3 cage to the grocery store, except I do believe I would have an easier time keeping a monkey happy and under control. When I started my current job, I started having the ability to run to the grocery store during lunch, so I all but eliminated lengthy jaunts through the store with the Toddler in tow. A couple of quick trips during the week was enough for us to get by. Life was good.

Last week I slacked on my quick runs to the store. As a result, we were in extremely desperate need of food. Since I was too busy to take a lunch break at work today, I had to go after work. And? I had to take the Toddler with me. I learned a very valuable lesson very quickly.

She has outgrown the spider monkey phase.

In fact? It was almost fun grocery shopping with her today. She might have even been helpful. Well, if I were incapable of seeing whatever was right in front of my face, she would have been helpful.

"Ook, mommy! Cereal!"

"Need gogur, please!" (That's Toddlerese for "Buy me some damn yogurt and nobody gets hurt.")

"Ders cheese!"

"Eggs!"

"DORA!" (Y'know, Dora is in EVERY freakin' grocery aisle now. There are Dora raisins, people. Seriously.)

"Ook, bread!"

"Yay! Beans!"

"Ook! Doggy teats!" (My Toddlerese dictionary says that means "Meg and Jasmine have requested that you pretty please with sugar on top buy some dog treats.")

Anyway, about halfway around the store, I began to ponder how much money I could make by renting out her services. There's lots of people in this world with bad vision. They could most certainly benefit from having a helper monkey yelling out food products while they shop. If I were to open up a training center for toddlers to learn to be talking helper monkeys, surely I could end up rich.

Then, of course, the game changed. Instead of shouting out every food item she could find, the Toddler started to say something entirely different. Over. And over. And over.

"You're gonna get it."

I don't know what I'm gonna get, but I think the vision-impaired people of the world might be a bit frightened of the possibilities.



(I know the quality of that photo isn't great, but I still big pink puffy heart it.)

REMINDER: The contest is still running, and the rules changed a bit. Leave a comment on the contest post about anything, and you'll be entered to win. If you're feeling froggy, try and figure out what feelings Alexis mentions in the video, leave your answer in the comments, and win an even better prize. You don't have to be a blogger to win (Jill, I'm talking to you. Seriously.) and you can enter as many times as you want.

I'm Feeling Contest-ic!

I am SHOCKED at how many of you commented on yesterday's video of Alexis singing, especially the number of you that commented that you had NO IDEA what she was saying. Really? You don't all speak fluent Toddler? I'm sort of sad for you. After all, toddlers say all the best stuff.

Anyhoo, I'm taking a little pity on your confused souls. The video shows her singing two different songs. The first one is "In a House." Here are the real lyrics:

In a house in a home there are
mothers and fathers
sisters and brothers
And there’s me me me

In a house in a home there are
sons and daughters
grandmothers grandfathers
And there’s me me me

I have a family full of people who love me
People who love me
They take care of me
And I know my family is unlike any other
Your family’s made for you
And mine is made for me

In a house in a home there are
aunties and uncles
cousins and cousins
And there’s me me me

In a house in a home there are
nieces nephews
and family and friends
And then there’s me me me

I have a family full of people who love me
People who love me
They take care of me
And I know my family is unlike any other

Your family’s made for you
And mine is made for me

My puppy is nicer to me than my sister
My goldfish is quiet my kittens are cleaner
I think there’s a good chance that she’ll be my best friend someday
Let’s wait and see see see

In a house in a home there are
mothers and fathers
sisters and brothers
And there’s me me me
And then there’s me me me

Now let me whip out my Official Translator Crown that Kent State bestowed upon me back when I graduated college. Sure, the crown says Official Spanish Translator (in fun little jewels, I might add), but that doesn't mean I can't translate a little Toddlerese from time-to-time. Alexis is singing:

In a house in a home
there's sons and daughters
mothers and fathers
And there's me me me.

In a house, in a home
there's sisters and brothers,
sisters and brothers
and there's me me me

In a family there's people that love me
people that love me
they take care of me

In a house in a home
there's sons and there's daughters
there's brothers and sisters
And there's me, me, me.

Then she goes into a whole bunch of repeating the same lines intermixed with some Toddlerese that I haven't learned yet. Somewhere in there she throws in a "there's grandmas and grandfathers," but mostly she just keeps repeating the same couple of lines about brothers and sisters. She might be trying to send some sort of subliminal message. I'm not sure since I have my hands over my ears and am screaming "LA, LA, LA I CAN'T HEAR YOU."

After that she goes into her current favorite song, "Feelings." The gist of the song goes:

What are you feeling
What are you feeling
Don’t keep it bottled up inside
Try try try
Try to tell me what’s inside –side –side
Don’t keep it bottled up inside
Try try try
And tell me what’s inside

Do you feel EXCITED
(Weeeee)
Do you feel EXCITED
I’m so EXCITED

And it repeats over and over, mentioning a new kind of thing that you can feel in each stanza.

Here's the thing: I count six distinct feelings/emotions in the video. Six. If you think you can figure out what they are, there's a little something in it for you. While I'm not telling you what the prize is right now, I will say the value will be around $25, so we're not talking crappy peanuts you would get at a Pirates game, but rather some kind of decent peanuts that you might find while watching the Yankees.

In the comments, list the six 'feelings' that Alexis sings about in the video. If more than one person correctly ascertains the answer then I'll do a random drawing of those who got it correct. You can enter as many times as you like and the deadline is next Friday, April 4th at midnight. I, as the judge, declare my list of six the "correct" answer, so don't even think about trying to argue with me if your list ends up not matching mine. Deal?

OK, go!



Updated to add: Since so many whiners are blaming their computers for their inability to translate Toddlerese, I'm adding a second prize to the game. First prize has to get all six feelings. Second prize will be random from all comments, even if you don't take a stab at deciphering the lyrics.

In No Way Proving My Point

Fine.

She does sing better than me.

Whatever.

At least I know how to say 'love' correctly. "Peepo who nuv me." Heh.

(If you are using a Reader, there is a video here.)


(I could be nice and tell you what she's singing, but that seems like it would require a little bit of effort. Anybody who has listened to Signing Time 'In a House' and 'Feelings' 18,000 times will know both songs right away.)

Notes to the Girls

Dear Alexis,

There's something that I haven't told you because I don't think it's my place to discourage you from doing something you love, even if you are pretty bad at it. So earlier today when you screamed, "NO, STOP! NO! NO! NO!" at me when I started singing along with your beloved Signing Time music, I was not amused. You, my dear, suck at singing just as much as I do. Obviously, though, I am much nicer than you. Meanie face.

Love,
You're Out of Tune but Totally in Touch Mom

****************************************************

Dear Jasmine,

Why? Really, why? You used to be the "Good Dog." I could leave a plate of food on the floor and you wouldn't touch it because you were so well trained and knew what you were and were not allowed to do. So why the gummy bear are you now getting into the trash every day? Those cans have been accessible for your entire life. Why all of a sudden do you need to knock them over and inspect the contents every day? KNOCK IT OFF.

Love,
The Woman Who is Going to Beat Your Ass if You Don't Quit

***************************************************

Dear Meg,

It's not YOUR couch. Quit acting like it is.

Love,
The Woman Who WILL Sit on the Couch Without a Dog Growling at Her

This Can't Be Good

Take a look at this photo:



That? Is the aftermath of Alexis sorting through a few dozen stuffed animals then selecting one to tuck into her bed. I don't think it's coincidence that she selected the Toddler-sized bunny. I do believe the child is already figuring out how to make it look like she's in her bed when she's really riding around in the backseat of some punk's beat-up Dodge Neon.

Anybody know where I can buy some prison bars to install on the windows?

Note to Alexis: I think it's only fair to warn you that I hold a PhD in Sneaking Out and was the Professor of Staying Out All Night 101. You can't come up with a trick that I don't know. Save yourself a hella lot trouble and don't bother trying. Trust me.

We Joined the Pickle Club

I need only type one little word and dozens of people will know exactly where this story is going. Everybody has been there at some point in time, some of you even recently.

The word: bath.

Know where we're going yet?

Just in case, allow me to set the scene.

I was in Alexis' room this afternoon doing a little cleaning of the new and improved saltwater aquarium (which, I'm proud to say, is about 90% mother trucking worm free--100% is an unattainable goal, so I can live with 90%). Daddy was giving Alexis a bath. He has been charged with bath time for many, many months now and it is a task he enjoys. Except, he's not very good at remembering to stay in the room with the Toddler that is immersed in water. It has a little something to do with the fact that she can play in the bath for hours and a lot something to do with his utter and complete lack of an attention span.

So, he wandered into Alexis' room to supervise my work. He was generally being a pest when I heard them.

The Noises.

You know . . . The Warning Sounds.

Mr. Husband has one of those Man Filters in between his ears and his brain, so I knew he didn't hear and/or recognize the sounds.

So, I said, "Aren't you supposed to be making sure Alexis doesn't drown herself?"

He muttered and made excuses and blah, blah, blahed. In the midst of his procrastinating I heard the confirmation.

"I pooped."

Mr. Husband didn't hear it.

He walked into the bathroom and tried to be slick, "Come here."

I responded, "I'm doing something."

"You need to see what your daughter is holding in her hand," he said.

"No, I really don't," I replied.

And that is how our streak of 2 years, 1 month, 29 days, 23 hours, and 17 minutes of poop-free baths came to an end.



(The photo is from three weeks ago. I wasn't about to go look at the scene in the bathroom, let alone photograph it!)

A Letter for Two

Dear Two,

Hi, there. How have you been? I have been fantastic. Frankly, it's because you haven't been around for a while. I'm sorry, but you really aren't my favorite body snatcher. If we're being honest, and I think we should be, I could have done without ever seeing your face again. The Toddler is just SO FUN when you aren't controlling her little body.

The funny thing is I almost didn't recognize you, what with that new two-faced mask you've taken to wearing. That's pretty clever how you look and act differently depending on which parent is in the room. I admit it's been slightly humorous for me to see Hissy only come out for Mr. Husband. He, however, is not amused. It seems he's not a fan of when you make the Toddler throw temper tantrums. You might want to be careful with that one, Two. He can be a bit irritable.

Saving Nora for me? That was genius. Really, I have to give you full credit. The first few dozen times I saw Nora, I had no idea how to respond. My generally agreeable kid suddenly saying "No" to my every request certainly threw me for a loop. But you know what, Two? I'm not going to take it anymore. Just to be clear, if I say, "Alexis, put your toys away, please," your options are:

a) Allow the child to say, "OK" then start cleaning up the toys,
b) Allow the child to say, "Yes, ma'am" then start cleaning up the toys,
c) Remain silent, but start cleaning up the toys.

There is no option d. There is no "None of the above." And responding with a "No?" Absolutely not acceptable. Period.

Go away, Two, and take Hissy and Nora with you. Thanks.

Sincerely,
The Lady Who Will Not be Told No by a Two-Year Old

Feel Free to Explain it to Me

I found myself really struggling with something this Easter: Why? Seriously--why? Of course I understand the reason for the holiday, but how did it turn into the massive commercial thing it is now? Why do parents feel the need to drop buckets of cash on Easter gifts? Since when did Jesus die so that kids could get new bikes? Or DVDs? Or stuffed bunnies? Or whatever random toys the stores claim that we are supposed to buy our kids for Easter? And why do people who aren't Christians celebrate it? I'm all for a cute bunny hopping around and hiding a few eggs while we spend time with our families, but I don't get how it has anything to do with Easter. I'm very confused about the whole thing.

Anyway, I had zero plans for putting together an Easter basket for Alexis. I figured she really wouldn't care since she's not old enough to know the difference. However, Mr. Husband thought I was a communist for even thinking about skipping out on a basket of crap, so we ran to Target on Saturday and picked up a few things. As in, she got about $20 worth of candy and Play-Doh. That's all. Somehow, I feel like it was plenty.

I'm not totally a non-conformist; Alexis and I did spend about an hour dying eggs. Well, actually she told me what color to use and I died the eggs because it's probably the last time she's going to let me help with that little project in any way. I figured I might as well enjoy it.



Of course Dora managed to invade Easter. I owe that pleasure to the one and only Anglophile Football Fanatic. Oh, and why yes, Alexis did manage to smother an egg with an entire sheet of Dora stickers.



Yummmmm . . . eggs!

The Burghificaton* of the Toddler: Part 2

* Burghification: Exposing a child to all of the things that make Pittsburgh great.

****************************************************************
I know, I know, I know. We're usually all "Steelers, Steelers, Steelers," but really, we are some Pens loving fools around this house and have been for many moons. It's just that hockey season is so LONG. If I talked about it all the time, I wouldn't have time for anything else.

Anyhoo, we ventured to a Pens game last night. Many a person would think we were crazy to take a 2-year old to an event that involved sitting still for a really long time. To that I say: It wasn't her first game (she went to one last year, too) and we knew she could handle it. Think about it, there's lots of lights, cute boys moving around really fast on the ice, clapping, popcorn, and M&M's. That sounds like a recipe for a good time. And it was.

One of the people who thought we were crazy was the very sweet woman seated next to us. When she first saw that we really were going to sit in those two seats next to hers, she gave Alexis her best, "You're really cute, but I'm going to want to hurt you in about an hour, aren't I?" face. Sorry to disappoint, fellow Burgher. Yes, my daughter rocks and actually watched the game. Well, she watched the first period anyway.

She spent a good portion of the second period trying to figure out what happened to the blimp they fly around the place that drops free stuff on people's heads. It had long been put away, but it didn't dawn on her until a few minutes into the period that it was gone. So she kept asking me. And asking me. And asking me. And that is how I missed a goal that was scored no more than 20 feet in front of me.

Near the end of the second period, I had a glaring reminder of why the Penguins are far classier than the Pirates. Not only are the players good peeps who make the best commercials ever, but the organization as a whole has its head screwed on right, all the way down to the mascot. While the nasty ass Pirate is single-handily responsible for the Toddler's phobia of large costumed people, Iceburgh (the Penguin) was very sweet to her. He snuck up behind her and planted a big ol' smooch on her noggin. Initially, I have to admit I thought it was Mr. Husband planting his lips in dramatic fashion, but then I realized he's not quite that fuzzy. Iceburgh was kind enough to back away a few feet when he realized Alexis wasn't as charmed by his lips as I was, and even tried to play peek-a-boo with her. She didn't buy what he was selling, but he still gets some kudos for not being a jerk and getting a kick out of scaring her (like the jerkface Pirate did). (Anybody else ever notice that the Pirate reeks of cheap beer? Do you think it's because he's drunk or because a ton of girls have thrown beer at him after he groped them? Both?)



After her run in with Iceburgh, Alexis was pretty clear on how she was going to spend the rest of the game: keeping an eye on him. He stationed himself one section over from us the entire third period, making it pretty easy for her to make sure she knew where he was at all times. She talked to him (from afar, of course), showed him her little Iceburgh baby, and kept making me look at him. That would be how I missed all but one of the third period goals (For those of you keeping track, I missed five of the Pen's goals because Alexis kept making me look somewhere else. If you would like to get some of our good luck karma around for the playoffs, feel free to buy us some tickets.) Even when the Toddler's little body started to alert her it was time to just go to sleep, she managed to keep one eye open, just to make sure no mascots tried to accost her.

After the game, we celebrated Alexis' re-birthday. (Note to the people who decide who has to have a ticket for these kind of events: If the kid isn't heavy enough to sit in the seat without getting folded up, I ain't buying her a ticket. Screw your "Two and up" rules.) We vowed to return sooner, rather than later. It will be a few years before we can go through the Steelers game portion of the Burghification with Alexis, so she'll just have to enjoy lots of Pens games until then.

Random Notes:

- There is ALWAYS some jagoff wearing a Steelers jersey at a Pens game. This games' jagoff had good enough seats that I have to think he can afford to drop a few bucks on a Pens jersey. Get with the program, Mr. Jagoff.



- Most amusing conversation I overheard:
Kid: Dad, what do the players do after the game?
Man: The take showers then go out drinking.
Kid: Do they get dressed before they go drinking?

(Useless trivia: There are three prominent Pens players who aren't old enough to legally go out drinking--Crosby, Stall, and Letang. As such, I won't be touching the fact that clothing might or might not be optional for that there drinking.)

- Second most amusing conversation:
Guy: Starting that one out early, huh?
Me: Pshaw, she went to a game before she was one.
Guy: That's how you do it. Hey, maybe she'll get to see the Bucs win in her lifetime.
Me: I don't think anyone is going to see the Bucs win in their lifetime.
Guy: Probably not.

****************************************************************

I hope everyone had a happy Easter!

The Burghification* of the Toddler, Part 1

*It is a word because I say it is a word.

Another Fakin' It Friday

Once per year, a rare breed makes its appearance: The Irish Bulldog.

If You Need Me, I'll Be Worshipping at the Church of Dora

I think it's a pretty well-documented fact that I loathe the little Latina known as Dora. It's not that I'm opposed to her Spanish-speaking ways. After all, I speak Spanish and have started to teach a little to Alexis (She's been known to proclaim, "Claro que si" for no apparent reason--I did that, thankyouverymuch!). It's not that I have a problem, per se, with commercial characters. I tolerate Mickey Mouse and Pooh just fine. My problem with Dora is that I have no doubt that her puppet masters have smoked a whole lot of crack. If those scripts aren't written by a bunch of drunken doped up teenagers, then . . . I don't know what. You'd have to be blind and deaf not to realize that Dora's writers are about as in touch with reality as Britney Spears after a night of hanging out sans underwear in a gas station bathroom.

And yet, I suddenly find myself suddenly MADLY, DEEPLY IN LOVE with Dora. Really. I want to give her a big wet kiss on the lips. I want to stroke her hair, hug her, even caress her very-kickable, football-shaped head. I want to make out with Dora. There, I said it.

Remember how we bought Alexis Dora bedding? Remember how I made a big deal out of the new sandpaper sheets? Guess who has bought into my sales pitch?

Oh, yes.

My kid? Has been staying in her bed all night. She has even resumed sleeping through the night. In fact, she has only called for me in the middle of the night twice since we bought the tacky linens.

I have actually gotten a solid eight hours of sleep several times in the past week. And for that, I will forever worship Dora.

Long live Dora! And her crappy bedding!

Ants: The Backstory

Last night when I mentioned my little ant problem, I thought I was going to be able to link to last year's drama. Turns out, that post is on the other (super-secret and super-scary) blog. So, let me just tell you about last year's ant drama.

We get invaded every year. It's been going on for as long as we have lived in Pittsburgh (six years?). So, there was no shock when I started spotting a couple around the joint. As usual, there were a few in the kitchen trying to steal the Bulldog food (they don't touch the Iams, just the extra-expensive Bully food--I don't want to know why). I practiced a few little Earth/pet/baby friendly removal methods on their butts, and away they went.

Upstairs, however, was a different story. Those ants were big. Those ants were malicious. Those ants LAUGHED at my non-chemical attempts to shoo them away. I couldn't figure out where they were coming from, I couldn't figure out what they were looking for, and I couldn't figure out why the hell they were in our house in the first place. All I knew was that they were big (as in one could not fit its whole self on a key on your keyboard--seriously), they were ugly, and I wanted them out.

After I exhausted every non-chemical remedy known to man, I decided to go for something a little bit more powerful. I spent hours scouring shelves at Home Depot, trying to find a product that claimed to be kind-ish to kids and pets. I finally found one. It was some sort of powder that claimed to kill on contact and that you just had to sort of squirt into crevices wherever you saw ants.

Somewhere along the line, I learned that when you have ants in your house, they are probably spending their free time wherever you have pipes. They can't survive without water, so if you strike at their water source, you'll get them. That meant if I wanted to kick some serious ant booty upstairs, I needed to squirt my powder gunk in the wall between Alexis' room and the bathroom. So I unscrewed a electrical outlet cover and squirted away, chuckling to myself as I imagined all those little creepy crawlies withering away in misery.

Not so much.

The "alleged" ant killer was more like ant REPELLENT. And HELLO! there were not just a couple of ants living in the wall, but LITERALLY THOUSANDS. How do I know this? Because they came pouring out of the wall. POURING.

Thousands of carpenter ants.

Walking around my hallway.

Covered in alleged ant killing white powder.

At first I figured it was just going to take a minute to take affect. So I stood around, dodging ants and thanking all sorts of deities that no animals or a certain troublemaker had decided to come upstairs.

And I waited.

And I waited.

OK, not really. I did absolutely no waiting, I just spun around in circles spraying the alleged ant killing powder on every single ant in my vicinity. Until I ran out of powder. Then I figured I would vacuum up the thousands of ants that were marching all over our upstairs, even if they were still alive. Two hours later, our see-thru canister vacuum was full of creepy crawlies and looked like it was alive.

As I am occasionally really stupid and very naive, I still figured the alleged ant killing powder would kick in.

Not so much.

Getting rid of the canister full of still living ants covered in alleged ant killing powder? Tons of fun, let me tell you. I've never had such a good time never, ever, ever.

At that point I went a wee bit crazy (OK, crazier). I ran to the store and bought the Serious S%*t, guaranteed (by an exterminator, no less) to kill the suckers. I'll tell you, Sevin dust did work, but I still get eeked out when I think about all the other stuff it can kill.

No matter. This year I ain't screwing around. The ants will go marching two by two all the way to ant hell. Because seriously? If I find them crawling around on the floor next to this one? I will go all Chuck Norris on their asses.

Signs of Spring

The daffodils have made an appearance,



as have the tulips.



Even the hyacinths are poking their little heads out.



The Pussy Willows are looking boo-tee-us. (Quit snickering, Mr. Husband.) (Mr. Husband can't talk about or hear about Pussy Willows without giggling like a 14-year old boy.)



The surest sign that Spring is just around the corner? The mother (&$#^*(% ants have invaded our house AGAIN, like they do every.single.year.



But don't worry, I am ready to fight this war. I learned from my errors last year and went straight for the good stuff. And lots of it.



Anything that promises to kill "crazy ants" should do the trick. After all, the dumb little things must be crazy if they think they can come into my house. (Are these scientific names? Who the heck came up with them?)



I wonder if it works on crazy aunts, too?

Happy as a (Boiling Hot) Clam

*Caution: Random Acts of Whining Ahead*

Yesterday afternoon as we ran all over town, as we are wont to do on a weekend, I took notice of the fact that the snot running from Alexis' nose seemed to be trying to work up enough momentum to make a run for the Mexican border. I coupled that with the fact that her forehead felt like she had turned up the thermostat on that kick butt little heater she had installed before birth and, like the genius that I am, deduced that my rarely ill child actually has a cold. It's the first time in . . . um . . . I dunno, a long time. At least four months. As I knew we were long out of Tylenol or any other sort of fever-reducing magic potion, I made a run into the grocery store to stock up on some pharmaceuticals.

When I (finally) located the child appropriate drugs, I was met with labels that pointed out that OH NO SHE'S TOO OLD FOR THE INFANT CRAP now. Besides the insulting implication that I should stop referring to her as my baby (you can't make me, Tylenol), this revelation posed a problem. There were several flavors to choose from and did you know I don't do decisions? Especially not life-changing decisions like what flavor of drugs to buy my baby. I tried to think like Alexis and eventually narrowed it down to the berry flavors.

Then I noticed that -OH NO!- I had to give her the drugs in a cup. My girl is admittedly not much of a spiller, but you know darn well that if you give a generally good kid a little cup full of super-staining sugary liquid, that will be the day that she decides to pour the liquid all over the only remaining clean spot on the carpet. So again I put on my genius cap and opted for the dye-free formula.

Oops.

It took about a millisecond to discover that my genius was wasted on she who was not willing to drink so much as a drop of medicine, despite the fact that she has been known to call up her dealer in the middle of the night for a little hit just because she thinks medicine is fun. But, you know, I'm smarter than a two-year old, right? So I dug out one of those little syringes from the kitchen drawer and made it look like her old baby meds.

She didn't fall for it.

It took two adults over twenty minutes to administer one teaspoon of fever-reducer to a child who's booty hole claimed she was running around 101.8. That, my friends, was a good time.

Fast forward to this morning, and it turned out that this particular cold has decided to take up residency for a little while. Alexis' diaper was dry and her temp was over 102 degrees. So, she and I spent the day at home together. I knew I could drug her and send her to daycare, but I also knew the drugs would wear off and I would just end up picking her up early. I didn't see a reason to spread her germy love to the other kids (one of which is probably the one that gave it to her in the first place, but whatever). Besides, I wanted to make sure she drank enough liquid to grow a few humps (like a camel).

We have spent the greater part of our day fighting over medicine. I have tried diluting it in water. I have tried slipping it in a cup of juice. I even tried chocolate milk. Every time I prepare a sneaky snake concoction for her, we end up having a conversation like this:

Alexis: I want juice.
Me: Here you go.
Alexis: No, I want milk.
Me: Of course you do. Here you go.
Alexis: Water, please.
Me: You're kidding, right? Fine, here's some water.
Alexis: No, thank you.

Yeah, she gets props for the whole polite thing, but I swear on my Girl Scout cookies, she can stop with the women's prerogative crap right about now.

So right now my dear child is sitting at her little table tossing Lima beans into the air, trying to catch them in her mouth, and then getting mad when Meg the Bulldog has the audacity to actually eat the ones that fall to the ground. Alexis worships at the church of the Lima bean, so I'm not really sure why she's leaving even a tiny opportunity for anyone to steal them from her. It must be the untreated 102 degree fever getting to her brain.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to buy every single flavor of fever-reducer under the sun, including the suspicious looking dissolving tablets, in hopes that she will take something.

Never Satisfied

It occurred to me today (thanks, Karen for the reminder!) that I never did post Alexis' two-year portraits. Nor have I sent prints of the darn things out to family members (yet--I swear, it will happen!). The reason for my delay is that I had full intentions all along of getting another set taken. Between my brain going on spontaneous vacation and various little setbacks, two months later I still haven't gotten on the ball.

The primary setback has been that Alexis has not managed to go more than a few days without having some sort of major bruise on her noggin. She's always a walking accident, but I would prefer our less-than-annual family portraits to not make it look like we punch our kid in the face. The first bruise was a lovely little black eye she obtained while pushing a truck around at daycare. Her little feet slipped out from under her and she inadvertently ended up pushing the truck with her eye.

Now she's sporting an even bigger bruise on her forehead. I find this bruise particularily fabulous because while I know it happened at daycare, nobody seems to know how. I'm pretty funny about that whole thing where nobody knows how she managed to get a bruise on her forehead the size of a dollar coin. And by "funny", I mean PISSED. When she got the black eye, I honestly just figured that's the kind of thing that happens. It was no big deal because THERE WAS AN EXPLANATION. This time, all I know is that it happened in the first hour she was at daycare, before her favorite teacher (and BFF) arrived. That teacher was right there with me, all sorts of ticked off that a kid managed to whack her head without anyone knowing what happened. There's no doubt she screamed bloody murder when it happened, so it's not like it could have gone unnoticed. The most annoying part is that the owner of our daycare is out on medical leave, so I can't go throw a fit to the appropriate party. (And yes, I did just write that entire paragraph for no other reason than so I will remember to throw a fit.)

Anyhoo, just as soon as this latest proof that my kid is a klutz (or got smacked by another kid, which is actually what I suspect happened) starts to fade, there will be family portraits and there will be more two-year portraits of the Toddler. Hopefully this all will go down before she turns three.

(BTW, you can tell me these portraits are fine, but I won't be able to hear you as I have my fingers shoved in my ears to block you out. Her hair was a hot mess that day, and that's that.)

What a Girl Wants

I know every woman does it. In fact, I do it all the time. I might even be a master of the art form. So it should come as no surprise that my daughter would start a wee bit early with the whole It's a Woman's Prerogative to Change Her Mind at Any Moment thing.

A few months ago, if you had asked me how Alexis felt about the cats going in to her room, I would have relayed to you her habit of giving birth to a very large cow every time she caught one in there. She has been known to literally kick them out and slam the door on a tail or two in her haste to get them to "GO OUT NOW!"

Her middle of the night complaints about cats entering her sacred quarters had gotten so bad that I had to start closing her bedroom door at night, thereby ensuring that her toes would be blue from her sleeping in a meat locker. I don't know why the heating vent in her room blows so bad, except that it's probably more like it doesn't blow. It's frackin' cold back in her room, so an open door is her only hope for warm tootsies. No matter, it turns out that my child came equipped with a kick butt internal heating system and a preference for icy cold air over any creatures entering her room at night.

But that was then. Now? She has changed her mind. Suddenly. Without warning.

One night last week, I forgot to close her door and later discovered that Coal had been sleeping right in that wee little toddler bed with Alexis. I stared in awe because this was truly a monumental occasion. She's been known to rip a cat's head off for even looking at her bed. I know she's a light enough sleeper that she knew he was there. And yet? He survived the night and he even got to keep his head.

A few days later, I discovered the Toddler sitting on her bed reading Coal a story. He's a goofy little thing who is desperately starved for attention, so he was playing along in hopes that her pudgy little fingers would somehow end up rubbing on his little head. He was granted his wish, and Alexis was delighted when he awarded her by making obnoxiously loud purring noises. It seemed my little girl had finally discovered there's a critter in this house that is always game for a cuddle and will do whatever he has to for a little love.

Tonight, I witnessed something I would have never thought could happen. She who once screamed, "MOMMMMMMMY, KITTY GO AWAY!" in the middle of the night, using a tone of desperation I personally would save for a knife-brandishing intruder, gave birth to a very large cow for a whole new reason. It wasn't because the cat was in her room, it was because he wasn't. Tears and screams and howls flew out of her mouth after I tucked her in for the night. It took a while for me to decipher her complaints amongst the blubbering sobs, but I finally figured out what she was saying,

"I want Coal Kitty."

The kid would not go to bed without her cat.

So, I searched the house, high and low, trying to find the allusive and really tiny Coalio (that's his rapper name). I finally found him whisker deep in a bowl of kitty food. I scooped him up, against his will, and hauled his little behind up the stairs. Miss Mega Meltdown was so upset she was oblivious to the little bundle of cuddles that I had tossed onto her bed. He was so freaked out by her sobbing that he took off running. Cue a bigger meltdown. Cue the cat running faster and farther. Cue Mommy ripping every hair out of her head as she chased a freaked out cat and tried to calm a freaked out Toddler.

Eventually I was able to soothe the cat enough to convince him to stay put, and then turned my energies towards calming the child enough for her to notice that she had gotten her way. Now, as I type this, they are all cuddled up in the tiny little bed, both as happy as can be.

Yup, my kid is officially a member of the We Change Our Minds All the Time Girls Club.

Not Even a Little Bit Interesting

I could write about my latest foray into Loony Loon OCD Land, where I am the Queen of all things Obsessive AND Compulsive. I could casually mention that I WIN I WIN I WIN SHE STAYED IN HER BED TWO NIGHTS IN A ROW I WIN I WIN I WIN. Or, I could talk about how the Girl Scouts of America should rename themselves the Pansy Scouts of America. However, it's Friday night. On Friday nights, in case you haven't noticed, I suck. I poof into a lazy blogger who can hardly muster an entire paragraph, let alone write about anything even remotely interesting. So, in keeping with the status quo, I bring you a painfully boring video of my dear child singing a little KC and the Sunshine Band. Enjoy.

The Line Has Officially Been Crossed

The Toddler Talks, I Laugh

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Me: Why are you licking your toes?
Toddler (while thrusting feet into my face): You want some?

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Toddler: I want to sleep with Dora.

(She was referring to sleeping in her bed that is currently oozing fluffy Dora goodness in the form of sheets, pillowcases, and blankets. Even though I know that, it still cracked me up.)

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Mommy (as we were driving through a thick cloud of Eau de Skunk): Alexis, do you smell the skunk?

Toddler: No, french fries.

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Alexis (at 4:00 am, after literally bumping into me in the hallway): I go to bed.

(I smell victory coming around the corner. If I can just get complete cooperation from all the troops to stand our ground, we'll be there soon.)

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Toddler (upon realizing that Mr. Husband was driving the truck in front of us as we were on our way to drop it off for repairs): Hi, Daddy!

Me: He can't hear you, honey.

Toddler (yelling): HI, DADDY! HEAR ME?

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Yup, She Was a Breastfed Baby--I Have the Mileage to Prove It

I don't usually participate in this sort of thing, but Sarcastic Mom encouraged peeps to share their breastfeeding stories today, and I thought it seemed like a good opportunity to throw a little something under a nice big bus. I've always been pretty quiet about my biggest challenge associated with breastfeeding because it seemed just so plain ridiculous. Well, that, and I didn't want to give any hints as to how I was managing to lay low.

Let's start at the beginning, shall we?

Right from the start, Alexis was a breastfed baby. I was home with her for essentially the first six months of her life, and while I wanted to use her head as a hockey puck a whole slew of times in those early days when latching felt like an alligator clamping down, we really didn't have any major problems. She never had a single drop of formula and I was able to build up a decent stockpile of frozen liquid gold. Then I started working. Along with that, of course, came the need to pump at least twice per day.

That topic was one that I had discussed with my future boss when I interviewed, so I wasn't really expecting to have any problems with it. I was very, VERY wrong in my expectations. At first, I was told that I could just use a vacant office for those two brief disappearing acts. But midway through my first week, I learned that the office was slated to get an occupant. My supervisor didn't have any ideas for alternatives, so I emailed the Human Resources Department. Nothing. So I emailed again, this time copying the HR Representatives supervisor. I got an answer quick, but it basically said, "Use a restroom or reserve a conference room. The end."

Now, I don't know about you, but I'm not game for making my own food in a bathroom, so I wasn't really game for making my kid's food in a bathroom. Besides the fact that it's a gross idea to me (I compare it to taking the Foreman grill in there and cooking up a hamburger--would you do it?), it was a logistical impossibility. The restroom housed two stalls, neither of which had an outlet. The only outlet happened to be right by the door. Silly me, I've never had aspirations of putting on a peep show complete with wondrous sound effects. So, the bathroom wasn't happening. The conference room idea was just plain dumb given that there is a major shortage of conference rooms in that particular building, so they are impossible to get. Oh, and there's the small manner of most of them having windows in the hall and none of them having working locks on the doors. Again with the discrete issue.

Maybe now would be a good time to mention that my former employer was a very large hospital system. As in, one of the twelve largest and one of the most profitable in the United States. There are over 45,000 employees, including over 4,000 physicians. Last year, that particular non-profit organization reported NET profits of well over $500 million. I worked in the Corporate Headquarters, just a few stories down from one of the best paid CEO's of a non-profit in the nation. Anybody else see a wee bit of a problem with the lack of appropriate accommodations?

Anyway, when it became clear that the Human Resources Department was full of useless idiots, I devised a plan. I would go down to my SUV twice a day, every day, and sit in the back seat and pump. It was an underground parking garage, so it was relatively dark and my tinted windows afforded for a small amount of privacy. Of course, I can tell you that at least four people saw things they probably wish they hadn't, but it was a livable option.

Then I was told I needed to move over to a different building. It made a fair amount of business sense, but the new building was a warehouse. With even less in the way of accommodations. And no parking garage. The only viable answer was still the car, but this time there was an outdoor lot complete with LOTS of traffic (for you Pittsburgh folks, it's on the South Side right between the FBI building and Carson Street--yeah, high traffic). Obviously, I couldn't just sit in the parking lot with my boobies hanging out and various machinery hooked up. So, I went cruising for options. I ended up finding a car wash where I could park my SUV in a stall and only have potential traffic on one side of me. So that's what I did, every day, twice a day, for months. Four months in fact.

The lack of accommodations severely hindered my ability to be efficient in my breaks, I was less productive at work, and I was constantly stressed. Trying to maintain a professional schedule and needing to drive ten minutes just to pump milk really put a strain on me. I skipped lunch to make up for the lost time, I pumped in the morning before leaving for work, I pumped in the evening after work, and I nearly always brought work home with me in a feeble attempt to balance it all. I can tell you that many important people at big giant hospital system were aware, and not a single one actually gave a crap. Not a one made any attempts to make some sort of accommodation. In fact, when Alexis was nine-months old, a high-level manager told me, "Isn't your daughter almost a year old? It's time for her to quit getting breast milk anyway."

Moron.

*smoke comes out of ears*



*deep breaths*



*more deep breaths*



OK. ANYHOO, Alexis and I made it to 13 months. She never once drank a single drop of formula, and overall, I'd say we had a very positive experience. Our only real challenge was making sure she had ample supply while I was at work. THAT was a significant struggle every.single.day. Looking back, I have no idea how we made it, other than to take it one day at a time. It sure wasn't with the help of one of the nation's leading health care systems.

Yes, I Would Like Some Cheese with My Whine

Did this weekend seem weirdly short to anyone else? Oh wait, it was. I know it's been whined about endlessly by just about everyone today, but can I just pile on the I Hate Daylight Saving Time Bandwagon? Because really, I hate it. Let me count the ways:

1. Just like kids all across North America, Alexis was very uninterested in me telling her what time it was last night. Her little body said it was too early to go to bed so her little mouth told me NO NO NO every time I said it was bedtime. I have to admit, I absolutely agreed with her.

2. It's impossible to convince my stomach that it's time to eat at 11:00 am. Impossible.

3. I really don't care whether it's light out when I leave in the morning. Early o'clock in the morning is still early o'clock, it doesn't matter where Mr. Sun is shining or not.

4. We don't just lose one hour with the whole DST thing, we lose TWO. Maybe you're more efficient than me, but I know it takes me a full hour to trounce around the house and change all the clocks. Well, OK, technically it takes Mr. Husband an hour to trounce around the house and change all the clocks, but it takes me an hour to supervise his progress. I can't handle when two clocks in the same room don't agree, so I have to make sure he does a good job.

5. Until I figure out a way to teach a dog to read a clock, I'm going to have to deal with two annoying mongrels trying to go out on their regular schedule.

6. There are timers on the fish tank lights and changing them requires a feat of balance and skill that I do not possess when I have been deprived of an hour of sleep. That means the tanks are still dark when we leave in the morning and I just plain don't feed the fish.

7. I can guarantee that I will forget to change the time on my watch for at least two weeks. Once per day, I'll glance at it and freak out that the day is going by WAY too slow, but it won't dawn on me that my watch might be wrong. It always takes some major event before I put two plus two together and realize I'm a dork. Every year.

8. Who had the bright idea to do this whole Daylight Saving Time thing on a weekend anyway? Shouldn't it be on a Monday or Tuesday? If ever there was a day that deserves shortening, it's Monday, not a day on the weekend. Period.

9. It's very hard for a toddler to put on her coat and get out the door for school in the morning when she falls asleep on the couch:

Lessons of Love

Once upon a time, there was a Toddler who loved to play with gel clings. She would meticulously arrange them just so all over the patio door.



One day, her mean, mean Mommy decided to join in the fun. She tried moving a bunny over to the field of flowers. The Toddler was not amused. The Toddler ripped the bunny off the window amidst a flurry of words that Mommy did not understand, but she thinks they were, "You @@#%#, how dare you touch my (*&(*^( bunny. You @#%#@. (*&*(^%) _)*&%$%$ )*)&* and die, you (**&^%%."

The bunny was injured during the tirade. But all was well, for the bunny's boyfriend loved her all the same. He saw past the missing ears and knew she was the bunny he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. They kissed.



Everyone who saw the bunnies was filled with love. Even the baby chicks stopped pecking the ground to give each other a smooch.



The Toddler resumed her precise placement of the gel clings and Mommy learned to never interrupt a girl and her bunnies.



The end.

Think? On a Saturday Night? Uh, No.

- Undoing the warm fuzzies from last night was a piece of cake for one rotten Toddler. After walking through a store with her face up my butt for a solid ten minutes, she very loudly proclaimed, "Stinky bum!" Whatever, kiddo. I'd rather be pretty than fresh-scented. Next time try maintaining a safe distance.

- I'm sure you will hear about it on the news, but I will soon be honored by the Academy in the category of Best Actress from my breath-taking performance in, "You Got Dora Sheets, Little Toddler!" Even I believed that I was genuinely excited and thrilled about those tacky pink Dora sheets. And we all know that I plan to assassinate the bossy little Latina just as soon as I find someone that will sell me a shotgun. That was some impressive acting, if I do say so myself.

- Where are the mother truckin' Girl Scouts when you need them? I went on a hunting expedition today armed with mucho cashola and couldn't find a single lazy Girl Scout sitting at a table while her mom sold cookies. I need some darn cookies, people. It's going to get ugly if I don't get some lemon thingys tomorrow. (Why did they change the names anyway? I was fine with "Caramel Delights" and "Peanut Butter Patties." I can't remember that cutesy crap.)

- You with the Georgia license plate driving through Pittsburgh at 8:30 this evening: Slam on your breaks like that again, and I will tell my husband to intentionally ram into your butt. Snow + Ice = No slammy slam the breaky breaks. You very nearly caused a twenty car pile-up when you suddenly realized you weren't comfortable driving 50 mph through the snow.

- Alexis had a play date with the one and only Dylan today. Peeps, he's even cuter in person than he is in pictures. I kind of wanted to nibble on his ear, but his mom was keeping a close eye on me. Darn the luck.

- Earlier this week, I shed real tears when this happened to the very last Girl Scout cookie in our house:



Rest in peace, you beautiful little Dos-Si-Do.