Good Morning...excuse me while I hack a lung into my oatmeal.
There are times when the common cold seems worse than being eaten alive by rabid gerbils. I have right now, what I have determined is the worst cold to ever exist on the planet. I feel like I'm trying to swallow a box of tacks and they are stuck in my throat, refusing to budge, and every sip of liquid makes them multiply. Coughing sets them on fire. My 3 yr old is also sick, but having contracted the virus a few days before me and his sister, he has left the lethargic phase and entered the "Hey. I feel better. *cough* I think I wanna play a game. Can we play dodgeball? How about hide and seek? Tag? Wait! I know...we can RACE! *cough-hack* YEAH! MOM! Will you play with me? Can we? Right NOW? *cough-hack-gag* No, I'm not still sick, mommy...PLEASE can we do all of that RIGHT NOW?" phase.
If that isn't bad enough, he has a new favorite word. The same favorite word that every child discovers at some point in early childhood. It is also the very question that drives millions of perfectly reasonable, amazingly patient and unconditionally loving parents to near-homicidal thoughts. The demon that possesses our normally sane children to lose all former concept of logic and take on the personality of a brain-damaged parrot.
That word is "WHY?"
If you are among the pre-spawn population, allow me to give you a glimpse of what you are surely missing. Please note, that the following took place between 7:30am and 9:30am. That's right. A mere two hours. Two hours of pure, torturous, toddleriffic insanity.
I must also note that I had been awake with Isolde until 4:30am. She woke when I was going to bed, crying and miserable from her cold, and after her tylenol kicked in, she decided she was far to awake to even think of sleeping, so I sat up watching her play...wishing I was enjoying a good dream instead of hacking and feeling like I swallowed a handful of carpet tacks. So I'd had roughly 2 1/2-3 hours of sleep. My patience, and my already worn-thin tolerance, were both gone before the day started.
Isolde wakes and smiles at me with that 7 month old sleepy, goofy grin. My favorite part of every morning. She immediately turns a familiar shade of red-purple and grunts. No lounging in bed today. I pull her out of the bed slowly, trying not to wake Nate, who joined us in slumber an hour before and by some miracle had fallen asleep again. With a jolt, he startles and sits straight up.
"Good Morning, Nate"
"Hey.. where are you taking my baby sister?"
"She pooped, so I'm taking her to her room to change her diaper"
"Why?"
really? already? ugh...fantastic.
*sigh*
He follows me down the hallway to the baby's room as I try to navigate the toy-cluttered carpet, stoppng to turn on the house fan on the way.
"Why did you do that, mom?" He asks me every morning.
"So we can open the windows and cool the house." I reply every morning.
"Why?"
*grumble*
I change the baby while he dives into her toy basket, claiming various items as his and exclaiming "I don't WANT her to have these toys...they are MINE!" I remind him that they are her toys. He says, "NO! They are MINE!"
Ahh! What a fabulous day it will be...perhaps it will even be the best day ever. I try to fool my brain while ignoring his ridiculous display of jealousy.
"Nate, those are HER toys. You may play with them, but they are hers."
"WHY?"
*scans room for optimal spot to bang head against wall*
I glare at him for a moment and then proceed toward the hallway.
"What would you like to do this morning Nate, while Mommy gets a shower? Would you like to watch a show with your sister, or play a computer game while she watches her show?"
"Watch a show."
"OK, can you sit beside your sister and watch, so she doesn't get lonely?"
"WHY?"
*clenching teeth*
I reapeat slowly... "SO SHE DOESN'T GET LONELY."
"But WHY will she get lonely?"
"Nate, can you JUST watch a show for 5 minutes so mommy can get a shower? I really feel terrible and a shower will make me feel so much better. Then, we can get some breakfast and go for our morning walk. Does that sound good?"
"Can we go NOW?"
"After a shower and breakfast, ok?"
"But I don't want you to take a shower."
"Nate, this isn't really up fo discussion. Mommy needs a few minutes to get a shower, and then we'll get ready to go."
"But you don't neeeeed a shower mommy. You aren't VERY dirty, JUST...a little little littllest bit dirty." He holds his fingers apart only the tiniest bit, just enough to peer at me through his fingertips, to demonstrate exactly how little-dirty I am.
"But I feel sweaty and icky. The baby's sick and I feel like I've been used as a snot rag for the last day and a half, Nate."
He explodes into laughter.
"A SNOTRAG! MOMMY! You are SO silly! SNOTRAG! Bwaahahahaha!"
Great. Awesome new word to add to the ever-growing vocabulary, Mom. Let's see...where do we stand? Conversation: de-railed. Point: definite casualty. Mom: On her way to bald and committed.
"OK...so I'll be out in five minutes. I can se you from the shower, so just stay in here with your sister until I'm done."
"WHY?"
My head falls forward in defeat and I let out a loud sigh, then turn and head for the shower. While I'm in the shower, I hear Isolde, let out a cry of discontent, immediately followed by Nate's footsteps, which sound more like a fat donkey is running through the house looking for me, rather than the light steps of a 35 lb boy. I rinse shampoo from my eyes, and look out from behind the curtain.
"Mommy...Can you get me chocolate yogurt?" (Of course, he's talking about chocolate pudding)
Sure, just let me reach into my shower fridge...
"Hmmmm...What do you think, Nate? I'm IN the shower. Besides, you KNOW chocolate 'yogurt' isn't breakfast food."
"But, WHY?"
"Because it's JUNK food. Can you please go keep your sister company. She misses you."
"But I really LIKE junk food."
"I'm sure you do, but that doesn't make it a good thing to have for breakfast."
"WHY?"
"Nate! GO. BACK. INTO THE LIVING ROOM. AND TALK TO YOUR SISTER, PLEASE!"
"But I want you to get me chocolate yogurt."
"I CAN'T right now because I'm IN the SHOWER."
"You can get me a chocolate yogurt and THEN get a SHOWER, Mommy. That's a GREAT idea! See? I told you it was a great idea!"
"Nate, it's NOT going to happen.
"PLEEEEASE!!!!"
"But I WANT. CHOCOLATE. YOGURT."
At this point I just glare at the shampoo bottle, imagining myself as one of those cartoon characters with the steam blowing out of their ears.
Feeling defeated by my silence, he turns on the charm. He intertwines his fingers and lifts his hands to his chin, as if about to pray, widens his eyes like a lost little puppy, and says "Pleeeeease Mommy....it would make me SOOOOO happy?"
Instant flashback to my own childhood, begging because I knew my own mother would cave. He totally gets it from me.
"I'm sorry Nate. No. How about some cheerios?"
Here it comes...the morning tantrum. Perfect cure for my already pounding sinus headache.
Isolde is still complaining from the other room as Nate goes into still-sick-but-in-denial full on meltdown. I step over him, and dry off. Isolde is staring at him, with one eyebrow up and a look of alarm on her face. Trust me, little one. I completely agree.
By the time I'm dressed, Nate has decided he "does not want cheerios, Mommy. How about marshmallows?" My sigh has grown a head-shake and a large eye-roll at this point, so I give him choices.
"Nope."
*gasp*
A look of pure devastation instantly appears on his face.
"Marshmallows are junk food, too, buddy."
"But, WHY?"
*grumble grumble hiss*
"Because they are almost completely sugar."
"SUGAR?"
"Yep."
"But I LIKE sugar!"
"I know you do, son."
"OK...here are your breakfast choices. You can have oatmeal or..."
"Nooooooooo!"
"...or cheerios."
"I don't want EITHER of those things. I want sugar."
"Or you can have no breakfast."
"NO BREAKFAST???"
"None."
*GASP!*
In a tiny voice: "I DO want breakfast, Mommy. I DO."
"OK, Mommy...I will have oatmeal. Can you make oatmeal for me? Can you make it RIGHT NOW?"
"Yes, Nate...can you keep Isolde company while I make your oatmeal?"
"OK...I will do that."
From the kitchen I hear Isolde fussing. I look around the corner and actually have to say the words "Nate! Please, son, DO NOT lick your sister on the cheek."
"WHY?"
"Because it isn't nice to lick people!"
"WHY?"
"ARGH!!! JUST DON'T DO IT!"
"But I'm pretending she's an ice cream cone."
What does one even say to this response? I was at a loss.
"Your sister is NOT.FOOD."
"But I'm pretending that she is."
"Well, she's not, so just DON'T do it."
He stops and looks at me...
"Mommy, why aren't you making my oatmeal?"
*glare*
When my favorite, home-made, super-fluffy, cinnamon vanilla oatmeal is done, and I have Isolde's mashed bananas ready, I call Nate into the kitchen to carry his milk cup to the table and whisk the baby up and fasten her into her high chair. I'm amazed that I had six whole minutes uninterrupted in the kitchen to prepare breakfast for the three of us. Nate doesn't come to the table. I call him and he's staring at his sippy cup, with the puppy dog eyes again.
"Mom, can I have chocolate milk?"
"I'd prefer you drink that milk since I've already poured it. You can have chocolate milk for lunch, OK?"
*semi-meltdown*
"But I want CHOC-late miiiiiiiilk!"
Wow. How bad is it to wish your recovering child to be a little sicker and mopier, just to mellow out the group? I feel only half-guilty at the thought. We settle in around the table and Nate finally joins us. Isolde coughs into every other spoonful of bananas until I am covered, managing to sneak in a bite of my own food here and there. I look over at Nate, who is attempting to eat his oatmeal with his spoon upside down...after he's scooped up a bite. Between the three of us, we may as well have thrown our food to the floor and wallowed in it, then licked our hands clean. Had we done so, I'm sure we would have come out with the equal amount worn and ingested as we have this way.
Suddenly Nate goes into freak-out mode over the globs of oatmeal sliding down his shirt, onto his pajama shorts and onto the seat beneath him. He also pleads with me to remove the sticky oats from his fingers and arms. I toy with the idea of leaving it all there as payback, then I give in. I clean him up with the condition that he eats the remaining few spoonfuls of his breakfast like he has held a utensil at least once in his life. He agrees.
I get a few more bites and Isolde starts grabbing at the spoon, apparently having decided I am far to neglectful at mealtime, and she can do a much better job than me, and smears banana slime into her nostrils and hair, wipes it around with the back of her hand in a circular motion, into her eyes and one ear. She then shoves the empty spoon into her mouth, grumbles, then throws it over the edge of the highchair tray onto the floor.
I grab a wet cloth and wonder why I'm even attempting to clean her up, since there's more banana than Isolde at this point. I look over at Nate and see that, while he is using his spoon like a normal human, he has still managed to drop a large hunk, as it is now too cold to be a glob, of oatmeal onto his left knee. I ask him to wipe it with a napkin before it gets smeared onto the underside of the table, or somewhere else I will forget about it and the ants will form an army the size of my van in attempts to move it, to their nest, in the form of a million tiny morsels.
"What Mommy?"
"Please wipe the oatmeal from your knee."
"Why?"
"Nate...seriously. Just get a napkin and clean your knee."
"Where?"
"Your knee, Nate...that thing on the front of your leg with the oatmeal hunk clinging to it. WIPE. IT. OFF."
"My knee?"
*grumble grumble hiss bristle twitch*
"Yes, Nate" I say as I grind my teeth in frustration. "Your KNEE."
He looks at the floor. His eyes are five inches away a directly above the gooey hunk of oats.
"YOUR KNEEEEEEEE, YOUR KNEE, YOUR KNEE YOUR FREAKIN' KNEEEEEE!!!!!!! Right THERE!" I point to it.
"Which knee, Mommy?"
Oh dear God I may have to KILL him.
*As I glare at him, I shoot fire from my pupils, I'm sure of it. It seem he has constructed some sort of fire-proof forcefield.*
He looks up at me again and asks "Which knee, mom?"
I'm amazed that one's head cannot explode from the frustration of parenting. Truly amazed.
Obviously bored with my lack of response, he looks down and exclaims "OH! THAT knee!" He wipes it with a napkin, tosses the napkin to the floor and says "You're welcome, Mommy."
If that isn't bad enough, he has a new favorite word. The same favorite word that every child discovers at some point in early childhood. It is also the very question that drives millions of perfectly reasonable, amazingly patient and unconditionally loving parents to near-homicidal thoughts. The demon that possesses our normally sane children to lose all former concept of logic and take on the personality of a brain-damaged parrot.
That word is "WHY?"
If you are among the pre-spawn population, allow me to give you a glimpse of what you are surely missing. Please note, that the following took place between 7:30am and 9:30am. That's right. A mere two hours. Two hours of pure, torturous, toddleriffic insanity.
I must also note that I had been awake with Isolde until 4:30am. She woke when I was going to bed, crying and miserable from her cold, and after her tylenol kicked in, she decided she was far to awake to even think of sleeping, so I sat up watching her play...wishing I was enjoying a good dream instead of hacking and feeling like I swallowed a handful of carpet tacks. So I'd had roughly 2 1/2-3 hours of sleep. My patience, and my already worn-thin tolerance, were both gone before the day started.
Isolde wakes and smiles at me with that 7 month old sleepy, goofy grin. My favorite part of every morning. She immediately turns a familiar shade of red-purple and grunts. No lounging in bed today. I pull her out of the bed slowly, trying not to wake Nate, who joined us in slumber an hour before and by some miracle had fallen asleep again. With a jolt, he startles and sits straight up.
"Good Morning, Nate"
"Hey.. where are you taking my baby sister?"
"She pooped, so I'm taking her to her room to change her diaper"
"Why?"
really? already? ugh...fantastic.
*sigh*
He follows me down the hallway to the baby's room as I try to navigate the toy-cluttered carpet, stoppng to turn on the house fan on the way.
"Why did you do that, mom?" He asks me every morning.
"So we can open the windows and cool the house." I reply every morning.
"Why?"
*grumble*
I change the baby while he dives into her toy basket, claiming various items as his and exclaiming "I don't WANT her to have these toys...they are MINE!" I remind him that they are her toys. He says, "NO! They are MINE!"
Ahh! What a fabulous day it will be...perhaps it will even be the best day ever. I try to fool my brain while ignoring his ridiculous display of jealousy.
"Nate, those are HER toys. You may play with them, but they are hers."
"WHY?"
*scans room for optimal spot to bang head against wall*
I glare at him for a moment and then proceed toward the hallway.
"What would you like to do this morning Nate, while Mommy gets a shower? Would you like to watch a show with your sister, or play a computer game while she watches her show?"
"Watch a show."
"OK, can you sit beside your sister and watch, so she doesn't get lonely?"
"WHY?"
*clenching teeth*
I reapeat slowly... "SO SHE DOESN'T GET LONELY."
"But WHY will she get lonely?"
"Nate, can you JUST watch a show for 5 minutes so mommy can get a shower? I really feel terrible and a shower will make me feel so much better. Then, we can get some breakfast and go for our morning walk. Does that sound good?"
"Can we go NOW?"
"After a shower and breakfast, ok?"
"But I don't want you to take a shower."
"Nate, this isn't really up fo discussion. Mommy needs a few minutes to get a shower, and then we'll get ready to go."
"But you don't neeeeed a shower mommy. You aren't VERY dirty, JUST...a little little littllest bit dirty." He holds his fingers apart only the tiniest bit, just enough to peer at me through his fingertips, to demonstrate exactly how little-dirty I am.
"But I feel sweaty and icky. The baby's sick and I feel like I've been used as a snot rag for the last day and a half, Nate."
He explodes into laughter.
"A SNOTRAG! MOMMY! You are SO silly! SNOTRAG! Bwaahahahaha!"
Great. Awesome new word to add to the ever-growing vocabulary, Mom. Let's see...where do we stand? Conversation: de-railed. Point: definite casualty. Mom: On her way to bald and committed.
"OK...so I'll be out in five minutes. I can se you from the shower, so just stay in here with your sister until I'm done."
"WHY?"
My head falls forward in defeat and I let out a loud sigh, then turn and head for the shower. While I'm in the shower, I hear Isolde, let out a cry of discontent, immediately followed by Nate's footsteps, which sound more like a fat donkey is running through the house looking for me, rather than the light steps of a 35 lb boy. I rinse shampoo from my eyes, and look out from behind the curtain.
"Mommy...Can you get me chocolate yogurt?" (Of course, he's talking about chocolate pudding)
Sure, just let me reach into my shower fridge...
"Hmmmm...What do you think, Nate? I'm IN the shower. Besides, you KNOW chocolate 'yogurt' isn't breakfast food."
"But, WHY?"
"Because it's JUNK food. Can you please go keep your sister company. She misses you."
"But I really LIKE junk food."
"I'm sure you do, but that doesn't make it a good thing to have for breakfast."
"WHY?"
"Nate! GO. BACK. INTO THE LIVING ROOM. AND TALK TO YOUR SISTER, PLEASE!"
"But I want you to get me chocolate yogurt."
"I CAN'T right now because I'm IN the SHOWER."
"You can get me a chocolate yogurt and THEN get a SHOWER, Mommy. That's a GREAT idea! See? I told you it was a great idea!"
"Nate, it's NOT going to happen.
"PLEEEEASE!!!!"
"But I WANT. CHOCOLATE. YOGURT."
At this point I just glare at the shampoo bottle, imagining myself as one of those cartoon characters with the steam blowing out of their ears.
Feeling defeated by my silence, he turns on the charm. He intertwines his fingers and lifts his hands to his chin, as if about to pray, widens his eyes like a lost little puppy, and says "Pleeeeease Mommy....it would make me SOOOOO happy?"
Instant flashback to my own childhood, begging because I knew my own mother would cave. He totally gets it from me.
"I'm sorry Nate. No. How about some cheerios?"
Here it comes...the morning tantrum. Perfect cure for my already pounding sinus headache.
Isolde is still complaining from the other room as Nate goes into still-sick-but-in-denial full on meltdown. I step over him, and dry off. Isolde is staring at him, with one eyebrow up and a look of alarm on her face. Trust me, little one. I completely agree.
By the time I'm dressed, Nate has decided he "does not want cheerios, Mommy. How about marshmallows?" My sigh has grown a head-shake and a large eye-roll at this point, so I give him choices.
"Nope."
*gasp*
A look of pure devastation instantly appears on his face.
"Marshmallows are junk food, too, buddy."
"But, WHY?"
*grumble grumble hiss*
"Because they are almost completely sugar."
"SUGAR?"
"Yep."
"But I LIKE sugar!"
"I know you do, son."
"OK...here are your breakfast choices. You can have oatmeal or..."
"Nooooooooo!"
"...or cheerios."
"I don't want EITHER of those things. I want sugar."
"Or you can have no breakfast."
"NO BREAKFAST???"
"None."
*GASP!*
In a tiny voice: "I DO want breakfast, Mommy. I DO."
"OK, Mommy...I will have oatmeal. Can you make oatmeal for me? Can you make it RIGHT NOW?"
"Yes, Nate...can you keep Isolde company while I make your oatmeal?"
"OK...I will do that."
From the kitchen I hear Isolde fussing. I look around the corner and actually have to say the words "Nate! Please, son, DO NOT lick your sister on the cheek."
"WHY?"
"Because it isn't nice to lick people!"
"WHY?"
"ARGH!!! JUST DON'T DO IT!"
"But I'm pretending she's an ice cream cone."
What does one even say to this response? I was at a loss.
"Your sister is NOT.FOOD."
"But I'm pretending that she is."
"Well, she's not, so just DON'T do it."
He stops and looks at me...
"Mommy, why aren't you making my oatmeal?"
*glare*
When my favorite, home-made, super-fluffy, cinnamon vanilla oatmeal is done, and I have Isolde's mashed bananas ready, I call Nate into the kitchen to carry his milk cup to the table and whisk the baby up and fasten her into her high chair. I'm amazed that I had six whole minutes uninterrupted in the kitchen to prepare breakfast for the three of us. Nate doesn't come to the table. I call him and he's staring at his sippy cup, with the puppy dog eyes again.
"Mom, can I have chocolate milk?"
"I'd prefer you drink that milk since I've already poured it. You can have chocolate milk for lunch, OK?"
*semi-meltdown*
"But I want CHOC-late miiiiiiiilk!"
Wow. How bad is it to wish your recovering child to be a little sicker and mopier, just to mellow out the group? I feel only half-guilty at the thought. We settle in around the table and Nate finally joins us. Isolde coughs into every other spoonful of bananas until I am covered, managing to sneak in a bite of my own food here and there. I look over at Nate, who is attempting to eat his oatmeal with his spoon upside down...after he's scooped up a bite. Between the three of us, we may as well have thrown our food to the floor and wallowed in it, then licked our hands clean. Had we done so, I'm sure we would have come out with the equal amount worn and ingested as we have this way.
Suddenly Nate goes into freak-out mode over the globs of oatmeal sliding down his shirt, onto his pajama shorts and onto the seat beneath him. He also pleads with me to remove the sticky oats from his fingers and arms. I toy with the idea of leaving it all there as payback, then I give in. I clean him up with the condition that he eats the remaining few spoonfuls of his breakfast like he has held a utensil at least once in his life. He agrees.
I get a few more bites and Isolde starts grabbing at the spoon, apparently having decided I am far to neglectful at mealtime, and she can do a much better job than me, and smears banana slime into her nostrils and hair, wipes it around with the back of her hand in a circular motion, into her eyes and one ear. She then shoves the empty spoon into her mouth, grumbles, then throws it over the edge of the highchair tray onto the floor.
I grab a wet cloth and wonder why I'm even attempting to clean her up, since there's more banana than Isolde at this point. I look over at Nate and see that, while he is using his spoon like a normal human, he has still managed to drop a large hunk, as it is now too cold to be a glob, of oatmeal onto his left knee. I ask him to wipe it with a napkin before it gets smeared onto the underside of the table, or somewhere else I will forget about it and the ants will form an army the size of my van in attempts to move it, to their nest, in the form of a million tiny morsels.
"What Mommy?"
"Please wipe the oatmeal from your knee."
"Why?"
"Nate...seriously. Just get a napkin and clean your knee."
"Where?"
"Your knee, Nate...that thing on the front of your leg with the oatmeal hunk clinging to it. WIPE. IT. OFF."
"My knee?"
*grumble grumble hiss bristle twitch*
"Yes, Nate" I say as I grind my teeth in frustration. "Your KNEE."
He looks at the floor. His eyes are five inches away a directly above the gooey hunk of oats.
"YOUR KNEEEEEEEE, YOUR KNEE, YOUR KNEE YOUR FREAKIN' KNEEEEEE!!!!!!! Right THERE!" I point to it.
"Which knee, Mommy?"
Oh dear God I may have to KILL him.
*As I glare at him, I shoot fire from my pupils, I'm sure of it. It seem he has constructed some sort of fire-proof forcefield.*
He looks up at me again and asks "Which knee, mom?"
I'm amazed that one's head cannot explode from the frustration of parenting. Truly amazed.
Obviously bored with my lack of response, he looks down and exclaims "OH! THAT knee!" He wipes it with a napkin, tosses the napkin to the floor and says "You're welcome, Mommy."
posted by Mo at 5:04 PM
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