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."

I was never hip.

Hippy? Well, yeah...I could stand to lose a few inches. And then a few more.

Hippie? For sure. Not the Woodstock variety, but I am a tad crunchy sometimes.

Hip? Never. Never in a million years, never.

Even worse...

I don't even fit into the "Uncool is cool" category anymore.

My dorky cool expired with the second baby and the saddle bag permanently attached to my belly...the spit-up I never seem to notice, having been chucked over my shoulder and run down across my butt...the giant booger, or the nauseatingly iridescent snot streak on the back of my shoulder or thigh, which my three year old decided to decorate me with, when I wasn't paying attention... the clothes that don't quite fit right because my body adheres to no fashion designer's rulebook, category or size...and my hair, which even when it isn't falling out in it post-hormonal-surge clumps...is at the mercy of two tiny fists with an unbreakable grip. If I had the right shaped head, I swear I'd shave it off, but I wouldn't even be cool then. It's a hairstyle I coveted as a teen and all through my college years. I still get jealous when I see a woman who has the perfect head, who can rock that style. However, from the feeling of my skull, I'm pretty sure they used the salad spoons to get me out! If I shaved all of my glorious thinning hair, I'd have a new nickname: "Lumpy" ...and they wouldn't be talking about the sock stuck in my bra hitching a free ride from static cling.

*sigh*

I've just kind of given up on cool. I don't think 'sexy' is in my vocabulary anymore. And I'm pretty sure graceful was never there anyway. What do I have left? I can rock some geeky, unhip silliness (or at least my kids think so).

So, I guess I'm in the dork category for life.

New Years Resolutions

I don’t usually make resolutions. The idea always seemed silly to me, really. Everyone making promises to themselves that they don’t keep, resulting in feelings of failure and depression. Who needs that, right? Why not simply resolve let yourself down, totally disappoint yourself, and wallow in the shame of your own worthlessness and lack of will power? At least that one you can stick to.

Now, I’m sure there are those few who beat the odds each year and actually lose those pounds, or save that money, even a few who accomplish something truly miraculous, such as completely de-clutter their homes and stick to a strict daily ritual of preventing clutter build-up…you know, that “there’s a place for everything and everything is in its place” kind of deal. But, let’s face it. Those people obviously never had a 3yr old who believes you can make snow from a roll of toilet paper if you unroll the entire thing, shred it into tiny fibers and fling it all through the house all in the time it takes mom to grab a cup of milk. After which, of course, as mom straps her baby to her hip via mei tei carrier to prevent a chorus of cries and screams that would result in the neighbors calling in a disturbance complaint to the local authorities, convinced that she is neglecting her poor child. They forget that an infant has a built-in alarm that signals mom needs to do something…anything…besides shower the wee one with attention, and they have nothing better to do while in that $100 baby swing or equally expensive contraption, marketed in ways to appeal to a parent’s desperate clinging to those last few precious fibers of sanity…

”Hey, you! Yes, you…the idiot with the baby…think about how much you could get done while your baby grows smarter by the second as he sits under a $80 light up, musical star with tons dangly brain-developing toys at his fingertips? YOU MUST BUY THIS!”

And of course, she does…delighted to see her infant’s eyes widen as he marvels at the colors and shapes, then she discovers the problem: the darn lights and music shut off after 5 minutes of play, which kept her baby’s gaze as he giggled and cooed at it, batting at those dangly things with the dilated pupils of a feline overdosed on catnip. She hears a whimper, the sound of discontent and realizes it has shut itself off (to conserve batteries, they say…are they MAD? I’ll buy a hundred batteries a week in exchange for 30 minutes to do a real chore, in completion…within a 24 hour period). She curses the developers of this ‘miracle device’ as she sprints toward the sound, bits of Charmin-y snow following her stride. She taps the start button, hoping the frown will fade and the quivering chin and pouting lip will subside, but no matter how much she hopes, or pleads with her child to engage him in the toy’s many wonderful exciting bells and whistles…it’s over. No amount of encouraging will stop the stream of cries and disapproval that follows, until she picks him up. Obviously her child knows this toy is a worthless piece of marketing crap, and, clearly, his mother is a sucker, just like the rest of us. So she straps the child to her midsection and retraces her steps, picking up a billion shreds of ‘snow’ until she reaches the point of origin, at which she finds the cup of milk she gave to her child, empty, the contents now dripping from the mountain of toys he has assembled in the hallway, so that Superman (beneath the pile of superheroes and cars, blocks and puzzle pieces) can use his superpowers to break free from the pile of rubble which threatens to crush him. Why the milk, you ask? Because no mere pile of rubble is a proper challenge for a real superhero! The sky was pouring acid rain while Superman was being buried, of course! (Don’t you KNOW this stuff?) That’s what happens in the mind of a 3yr old when trying to use all resources to create the ultimate challenge. If in his hands had been a bottle of ketchup, she’s sure it would have been emptied atop the pile of rubble, as well, the result of a killer tomato attack or a mucky red mudslide. A bowl of oatmeal would have been super-cement, macaroni (shells of course) would have been slimy snails… all intended to make Superman more powerful and awesome as he defeats his attackers. And don’t forget Elastigirl, who clings desperately to life, in the toilet, awaiting Superman’s arrival to save her from a horrible drowning (and I’ll spare you the details of the flush status of a 3 yr old’s potty). If only that darn Superman would show up when milk and ketchup, oatmeal and macaroni need to be scrubbed from a zillion tiny toy crevices, and Elastigirl needs to be thrown into the decontamination chamber (that would be the garbage can) now THAT would be awesome! The least he could do is get her child a cup of milk, since he’s yelling from the other room that he’s very thirsty. *sigh*

And with that, I am way off track of my original point, which is exactly my point. As easily as you were swept away into my description of a mere 15 minutes of the life of a mom, that’s how easy it is to become distracted and pulled away from one’s goals, and I’m talking daily goals, like bathing herself and brushing her teeth. She can’t exactly tackle a clutter problem, when her pits are becoming hard to distinguish from her husband’s and her hair hasn’t come out of a ponytail for four days, even for brushing. I think to myself, every year…”What’s the point? What is the point of setting myself up to fail by making a bunch of promises to myself that I can’t possibly find the time to keep?” So I make none. It’s a tad depressing, but it’s not nearly as bad as wallowing in the daily misery of feeling worthless and tired, and tired of being so darn worthless and tired.

So this year, I’m trying something new. I’m making just one big resolution…to accomplish nothing. That way I’ll have to be pleasantly surprised when I do, as I’m sure I will occasionally happen upon the evil plan against Superman, BEFORE a mountain of ketchupy mud slides onto it…and perhaps I will figure out a way to lock up the toilet tissue to avoid a freak snowstorm. And, maybe, just maybe…I’ll figure out a way to keep my infant occupied for a whole 20 minutes to get all the dishes done at one time, or vacuum a complete room all at once. Now, those, my friend, to a mother, are REAL accomplishments. And, if not clouded by the depression and sense of failure that comes with not accomplishing the impossible, maybe I’ll actually feel like rejoicing instead of sitting down to eat my 11pm dinner of cocoa pebbles, in shame and disappointment, when both the baby and my 3yr old finally fall asleep. And in that rejoicing, who knows? Maybe I’ll feel optimistic and burn a few calories getting something done, save a buck on a late night bowl of sugar I didn’t need and get rid of that pile of clutter on the kitchen counter…and sleep well, knowing that at least a few things in my house are in the right place.

Happy New Year!

Ever heard the phrase 'misery loves company'?

It's a huge stinking load of crap.

The genius who coined that idiotic phrase has obviously never been pregnant with nausea, backaches, and the urge to pee every two seconds, suffering from the nastiest of sinus infections, at the same time her son battles bronchitis, all the while her husband battles a stomach bug which keeps him puking for days. Misery, meaning me...let me assure you...does NOT love company.

Nope...I'd rather have locked myself in the bedroom and slept away this awful infection, away from EVERYONE. But I couldn't. My husband was too sick to take care of Nate, so I had to...all day...everything he needed. No rest for me.

Now, don't get me wrong. I love my husband and I hate that he was so sick, but I have felt so bad for weeks with this new pregnancy, and waited with such anticipation for the weekend to get here, so that I could get some rest. Then suddenly we are all stricken with illness last Thursday and Friday. Lovely.

And of course the weekend passes...and on to Monday, everyone is feeling better. Except ME. Perfect. The week passes and the weekend approaches and yep...you guessed it...I'm still feeling absolutely worthless and miserable. Sinus infection still hanging on. I can't sleep because I have pregnancy induced insomnia, and what few minutes I could get here or there are interrupted by a cough equivalent to a 90 year old who smoked five packs a day since she was 6 yrs old. Thanks to the crud that drains down the back of my throat from my sinus cavities every night. And what tiny amount of sleep left after that, is ambushed by the need to pee every hour, increased to a gallon every ten minutes when you factor in the bottles foof water I keep next to the bed at night to stifle that hacking cough and unglue my tongue from the rest of my mouth because I can't breathe through my nose. I have visions of that kid in A Christmas Story every time I wake, thinking "Stuck....STUCK!....STUUUUUUUUCK!" Only my tongue isn't stuck to a flag pole, but my teeth and cheek and the roof of my mouth with what feels like super glue.

And right in the middle of all that, as if that were not enough, nature had to go and throw in some 'morning' sickness. Not the best timing, considering the stuff I'm blowing out of my nose could make even one with the strongest stomach gag and retch over the bathroom sink...and the smell. 'Instant Puke' is what I like to call that smell, because that's what it induces. Funny thing about that smell: I cannot smell a thing right now because of this sinus infection. NOTHING. My poor kiddo poops in his diaper and I'm oblivious. Me. The parent who usually smells the stench of poop from across 2700 sq feet of house and yells "You need to change his diaper...it's making the whole house stink!" while my husband has no idea there is anything in his pants. My nose is that sensitive. While not having to smell poop is a blessing, having to check his diaper every ten minutes, not so much. I can't even smell it WHILE I'm changing it. That's how impaired my olfactory senses are...and I don't need to tell you the power of toddler poo. That can be the smelliest stuff on the planet.

And with smell, goes taste. You can't have one without the other. How cruel is it to take away a pregnant woman's sense of smell? The driving force of a pregnant woman is food cravings. And when a woman gets a craving, God forbid ANYTHING get in her way of that food, because someone could die. And the craving does not pass until it has been satisfied. Nope...it can linger for weeks. And a pregnant woman averages about 10 real craving a day minimum. Raise that to 50 if she watches TV Commercials! I swear restaurants make 99% of their entire earnings off of the cravings of poor unsuspecting TV-watching pregnant women who find themselves driving like starving lunatics, insane and frothing at the mouth, squealing tires into the nearest drive thru to satisfy a craving for the most recent televised snack. The restaurant industry is evil, and it knows our weakness.

Now take those figures for cravings and multiply them by the number of days one cannot acheive that glorious satisfaction, because she can't taste any food...

Ever seen a starving Hyena? I have this feeling that's what I look like. Crazed, snarling, hunched over...taking bites out of everything I have in the kitchen trying to find something, ANYTHING, I can taste. But it doesn't work, so I leave the kitchen with a bigger snarl, claws out, eye-twitching, ready to rip to shreds the first person who mentions food.

Then Nature decided to go and poke at me with a stick. Thursday, while sitting at my computer, I caught the faint whiff of poop when my kid walked by, and nearly killed myself as I leapt from my seat, cheering "I smell POOOOOOOOO! WAHOOOOOOOOO!" It's also warm weather and I have my windows open, so my neighbors probably think I am the most bizarre person on the block after such an incident.

I changed a diaper, washed my hands, then made a mad dash to the kitchen to stuff my face with some gloriously sinful food, only to find that my olfactory powers had kicked in for a mere 2 minutes.

12 days. Almost two weeks without being able to taste or smell anything. It's horrible. Absolutely excrutiating to crave pancakes, or a cheesburger...or even an apple...and bite into it with no flavor at all. Today I made pancakes for Nate and Dan...and I got all excited when I could detect just a hint of maple syrup. But I'm no fool..we'll have to see how lunch goes before I go shouting crazed outburst for the neighbors to hear. Not that I can really do more damage after cheering to the world because I smell poo...

How to give your Mommy a heart attack, Toddler Lesson # 143

"Mom..." *gag* "BUG!"

That's what Nate said as he ran into the room, pointing at his half stuck out tongue, gagging.

Me: "Whaaaaaat?"

Nate: *points to mouth again* "BUG!"

Oh dear GOD! He's got a bug in his mouth!

Me: "A bug where, Nate?"

Nate: "Bug in the moush"

I knew it!

Me: "Well open your mouth, man! Stick out your tongue! Stick it OUT!!"

I sooo do not want to see a bug in my kid's mouth. I'm gonna lose my biscuits if I see even a leg...

Nate: *opens mouth...sticks out tongue...nothing*

Me: "Holy Crap son, did you EAT a bug?"

Nate: "Yes!" *gags again*

*shudder*

Me: "Geez, son! Well, what color was the bug?"

dreading answer...

Nate: "RED!"

ok...maybe it was a ladybug...could be worse

Me: "Was it a ladybug?"

Nate: "Noooo....BLUE?"

Me: "Whaaa?"

Nate: "YELLOW BUG!"

Me: "Son, did you really eat a bug?"

Nate "noooo"

Me: "Are you sure?"

Nate: "No. No eat the bug."

Me: "Are you kidding me?"

Nate: *giggle*

Me: "Get outta my face before I feed YOU to the bugs, you little stinker." *stifling my laughter since he nearly gave me a heart attack and made me hurl*

"Owwa-mommy-POEIA!"

Onomatopoeia This word makes my 2 1/2 yr old laugh with such force he can hardly breathe. I asked Nate if he could say the word yesterday and after about fifteen minutes of "Owwa-mommy-p-*giggle*......Owwa-mommypoe-*more giggles*......and then just "POEIA, Mommy! POEIA!" followed by guffawing and those breathless clicks you hear when a child is still laughing but they've run out of air to actually do so.

After he calmed down to quiet giggles, he finally said it, and then I explained to him what it was, and gave him a dozen or so examples. So now when I ask him "what is an onomatopoeia?" He replies with "Owwa-mommy-poeia....POW! POW! POW! BANG! Pwack-pwack! Moo! Sploosh! Boing-boing! Meow! Woof-woof!" (Insert random noise of choice, he changes it every time)

I'm so proud of him for learning such a big word!

It did, however, ruin our attempt at learning "Hippopotamus" That word, according to Nate, is now pronounced "Hippo-potta-POEIA!" followed by insane laughter.

Let the insanity begin.

I'm pregnant!

The excitement after trying for a year and a half is just too much to take. I'm going to have a tiny new chubbly baby...a whole new beautiful life...a glorious little bundle of joy! A little brother or sister...holy smokes, I'm gonna be a mom to 2.

Clearly I am out of my mind. If I'm not crazy now, I'm on my way there for sure. What was I thinking?

I'm going to be...outnumbered.

My mind jumps back and forth between these two extremes about ten times per hour. The crazy hunger brings the joy and anticipation of the new life within, then the lower back pain from hell kicks in and reminds me that I will be the minority in eight months. One mom, and two crazy children. My husband would make us equal, but since he works, I am left at a disadvantage. Ten hours a day, all alone with two kids who will surely duct tape me to the bed while they raid the kitchen for cookies and chocolate, tar and feather the cats with maple syrup and ketchup and a fluffy coating of bran flakes. They'll use hair gel and sharpie markers to create a masterpiece on the TV and computer screens. They'll stuff peanut butter sandwiches and bananas into the hole on the front of the subwoofer and shove cheese slices into the DVD tray. And then, like good little monsters, they will un-tape me just before their father returns from a long hard day at work, and act as if they are truly innocent, making it look as if I just sit at the computer chatting on CM all day, letting the children run wild like monsters.

Ok..so in reality I figure it can't be that bad, but what do I know? I'm just a mom of one. I keep hoping if I imagine the worst, I can be blissfully surprised when my children turn out to be mild mannered and sweet with only the occasional tantrum and mischievous act. I mean, it can't be that bad, can it?

Wait...don't answer that.

Dust Bunnies and Milk Chunks

I came back from checking the mail to discover Nate had found his stickers and stuck them all over the hardwoods. He'd also eaten goldfish crackers earlier. Well, he ate at least one cracker, the rest he pounded to smithereens with his trains, while shouting "Oh NOOOOOOO, run! Run, fishy, ruuuuuuun! Traaaaaaaaaaain!"...*SMOOSH*

So there were crumbs everywhere so the stickers were coated in goldfish dust and wouldn't stick to the floor. For once happy the floor was dirty with food crumbs, I got on my hands and knees, picking stickers off the floor, feeling lucky because he went through about 10 sheets, and even peeled the sticker borders off the backing, tore them to tiny shreds, and stuck those on the floor too. I figured while I was down there, I may as well pull all of the trains, cars, blocks and a long lost pacifier from beneath the desk. A few dust bunnies came out with it. I didn't realize Nate was standing behind me, wide-eyed over the discovery of his missing red 'yet' (his word for pacifier) and the red one is his absolute favorite. He gasped and yelled "Red Yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaht!"

Before I could grab it, he snatched it from the pile of rubble and popped it into his mouth....grimaced...then pulled it right back out.

The culprit: Dirt.

Nate has this thing about lint, dirt, crumbs, and hair, especially hair. If any of those things get in his mouth, he will walk up to me, gagging and pathetic, and say "Haaaaa" (hair) then sticks his tongue out really far for me to remove the offending element. I generally keep his old infant washcloths handy for such removal, since they have no lint, and I have a bazillion of them. And I can't believe I'm sharing this, but in a pinch, I use the inside of my sleeve. I hate doing it, but there is a time issue. If he isn't assisted immediately he will most certainly puke. The removal of said elements will make him gag and cough right after but then he's fine.

This time, however, he was gagging much worse than usual. There must have been a whole dust bunny wrapped around that 'yet' because the poor kid was 'glurping' as he gagged. And you know a glurp means there's trouble on the way up. He was trying to say "Hair" but it went a little more like this:

"Haa...gag...glurp...Hhhh-HNGKCHHHH!...H--GAG...HGKKKK!" I remembered he'd just guzzled a full cup of milk... my kid was about to spew milk chunks at me!

No time to get up and rush him to the bathroom...I yelled "STICK IT OUT, MAN!!!!" and pulled my sleeve over my hand to swipe his tongue. But every time he'd stick it out, his gag reflex would kick in and he'd involuntarily pull it right back. AGHHHHH!!! I finally grabbed it with me free hand, and went for a quick swipe with the sleeve...

"GAGGGG....URRRP....GLHRRRRNGKHHHHH"

Oh NOOO! NoNoNoNoNoNooooo...

"BLGLKGKRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRP"

So there I sat, showered with sour, watery milk curds. Not a single drop on Nate. He gulped down some juice and handed me his red yet to clean...said "Sowwy, Ma." and poked his little lip out. Poor kid. If only his lazy mom would vacuum, these things wouldn't happen.

Now, Nate has a new ritual. He makes me inspect every pacifier before he will put it in his mouth. As for me, I hereby declare that Murphy's Law be from now on referred to as Mo's Law. Because Murphy's a wuss. Mo's Law could kick Murphy's Law's ass! Even if blindfolded, broke-footed, and sprayed with skunky cat pee, Mo's Law would win.

Unless Murphy is armed with cockroaches, then all bets are off. Cockroaches are like Mo's Kryptonite.

Who knew a 2yr old could roll his eyes and dish out some sass?

I usually walk away from the Disney DC outlet empty handed, but yesterday...I scored.

I stopped by yesterday and I found Nate a 3 piece Little Einstein warmer set (hat, mittens, and scarf) for $4.99. (This is the ONE thing I really wanted to get for him when I worked in their personalization dept) and GET THIS: It had my kids name embroidered on it!!! Nathaniel! How much more fantastic can you get? I figured if I found one, we'd have to ditch the scarf because it would be some other kid's name. He LOVED them and insisted on trying them on immediately.



However, after about 5 pictures, he started getting annoyed and did you know a 2yr old can do quite a stage-worthy eye-roll, disapproving pout and dramatic loud sigh to follow? Yeah, well...here's proof:



and more proof:



He is SO obviously my child...