On punching, dictatorships, and stress

I think our decision to call Rex our 'Dominator-inator' miiiiiiight have backfired.
(Don't get the extra "inator"? Watch some Phineas & Ferb, or read about the Inator Inator, and come back.)

Lately, he has taken to punching any and all things resembling his father's face. Unfortunately for Steve, the only thing that resembles his face is, well, his face. He is starting to develop an abuse victim's persona.

"Me? I wouldn't hurt a fly... just a Dada."

I should preface all of this by saying that Rex only punches when he's really excited, or is being tickled... but I just don't think that matters to Steve, who seems to have been targeted by our youngster's two chubby fists. Why, then, can I not stop myself from tickling his chubtastic sides or running my fingers up his back like a spider while my Man Mate is holding him? Do I have some twisted desire to see him beat down by an 8 1/2 month-old? Or - and what I hope is much more likely - do I just enjoy hearing Rex's "uh-HYUCK"-like chuckles when I find a particularly tickle-prone spot?

Bruce, in timeless toddler tradition, has taken to giving direction. Lots of direction. Lots of direction followed by the stern threat of "... or I give you spank." Our decision to call him our 'Little Dictator' doesn't seem too far off, either.

"DO MY BIDDING!"

I don't know if other moms feel this way, but one of my biggest fears for our Little Dictator was that he would, instead, be more of a Little Punching Bag. He was never one of the wild, crazy, who-are-your-parents-and-why-are-they-letting-you-use-that-word-in-public? kids at the playground/mall play area, preferring instead to keep to himself and visibly flinch whenever someone ran too close to his personal space. The idea of someone picking on my Dookiedoo (ignore that - probably a source of mockery later) just makes my blood boil... but I just wasn't neurotic enough to fight his battles for him. I use past-tense because, now having TWO adorable little male loin-fruits, the desire to Hulk out and smash-bash any and every offending party has increased exponentially. Luckily for the little bullies on the playground/mall play areas, I have no desire to go to jail.

To wrap-up the post, I must give thanks for something that I realize I have taken for granted all my life:
A warm house.
Our brand-spanking-new gas furnace decided to crap out last Tuesday, leaving us with a frigid house and no idea what to do about it aside from drink homemade lemoncello (Mom and Dad), cry (Rex), meow (CatKirk and Butters), and ask to watch more 'Little Einsteins' (Bruce). Okay, I might have joined Rex on the crying front.
Turns out all that snow and rain the week before led to the spontaneous creation of Lake WhatTheHell in the crawlspace under our house, a lake that the sump pump wasn't prepared to deal with. The waters rose (to over a foot high) and flooded our furnace, and *POOF*! No more heat. Buh-bye warmth, hello layers.
After numerous emails, voicemails, text messages, and phone calls... and the passage of an entire week... we have heat once again, and no longer have to live in fear of one of the space heaters sparking and burning our house down while we're at work. It would just be too much to take right now.

SO, there you have it! A mini-update from your favorite mini-family. Until next time, be sure to floss and color inside the lines.

- Krystal

(Formal & Belated) Introduction of Chunkasaurus

Well, um, he's here!
(6 months, 2 weeks, and 4 days of being here, actually... but, hey, LIFE HAPPENS. Move on, people. Move on.)

I've gone back and forth on whether I should write out his full "labor story", but ultimately decided that, yes, it should be committed to (cyber)paper just like his big brother's (The Squish) was. Fair is fair... and, honestly, I don't want to emotionally scar one and not the other.

The PrequelOn Monday, May 23rd, I reported to my OB's office for the mind-numbing procedure known as the "non-stress test" (NST), which I had been partaking in twice a week for the previous four weeks. Upon checking in, the receptionist promptly congratulated me on my impending c-section!
... I wasn't going to... have... a... huh?!
Thinking that it's what my OB wanted/recommended (giving the CRAPTASTICAL way the pregnancy was progressing), I went ahead and scheduled it for that next Saturday, May 28th and started telling friends and family about the development.
That Wednesday, the 25th, I went to Valley Medical for an amniocentesis to determine whether Little Dude's lungs were mature enough to handle the Anti-Womb Zone. My OB was there, thankfully, but gave me the weirdest look as she walked into the room; I figured I had spilt coffee down the front of my shirt (again) or something along those lines, and shrugged it off. The procedure went well, save for the whole sticking-a-huge-effing-needle-into-my-uterus-through-my-side part... or when Mini-Man reached out and grabbed the needle. He GRABBED the needle. HEGRABBEDTHENEEDLE. I tell you, folks, sometimes you just don't want to see what's happening on the ultrasound. Suffice it to say, we all yelped.
Afterwards, my OB walked me to the maternity ward to make sure Chunker and I didn't have a bad reaction to the procedure. On the way, she dropped this little bombshell: "Um... I didn't say to have you scheduled for a c-section. I said "induction" - they must not have heard me correctly." Kind of explained the funny look, huh?

The Show
After waiting at home all day, Man-Mate and I reported to Valley Medical's Birth Center around 7:30 p.m. on Friday, May 27th to begin the induction. The nurses tried a couple of different options before we switched to a pitocin drip early Saturday morning... and that definitely got things started. By about 12:00 p.m., we had turned the drip up a few notches, and I was ready to get an epidural.
**Moment of silence for the wonder that is modern medicine, and Dr. John Bonica - inventer of this particular slice of heaven.**
When the anesthesiologist showed up to start the epidural, The Husband and I joked with him about the doctor who gave me the epidural I had with The Squish; how the meter is only made for women 5'10'' and under, and how he gave me too much medication so that my blood pressure dropped down to something low enough to have a nurse rush in with a crash cart (not needed - a shot of epinephrine was enough to bring me back to Happyville). Yeah, well, turns out it was THE SAME DOC. I would never have known, if it wasn't for The Husband telling me after he left the room.
When the nurse checked me around 1:00, I was 7cm and about 90%... so we figured it was time to call Man-Mate's mom and have her come down for the birth. Well... an hour later, I'm feeling awholelotofpressuredownthere and convinced that a baby (or a small rhinocerous) was going to come flying out any second, and Mom wasn't there yet, as she was taking care of The Squish. Man-Mate went to get a nurse (WHERE WAS SHE??) and, sure enough, the nurse delivered the age-old advice of "Don't push... just hold it in..." before she (wisely) fled the room to find the doctor.
Right as the doctor was suiting up and nurses were adjusting the bed, Mom came in carrying The Squish! I didn't have the time - or the care - to worry about whether seeing his brother emerge from his mother's nether-regions was something that would haunt him into perpetuity... but The Husband took Bubba and kept him up near my head, and having Mom at my side enabled me to focus and not let fly with a string of especially creative curses. With only a couple of pushes, our new little guy was born.

The After Party
Ugh.
Okay, so he was an amazingly cute newborn; no funky-shaped head, bright blue eyes, and pink all over, but I. Was. DONE. Bubba asked to cuddle with me, so I got to spend the first few minutes of Baby 2.0's life with both boys snuggled next to me, and I tell you this: I have discovered what Heaven will be like. It was amazing.
Mom spent the night with me so that Man-Mate could get some rest, and we all went home the next day.

So, how's that?

Life with our little Chunkasaurus has been amazing. The Squish loves him, and acts as if he has been in our family as long as The Squish himself... and even our cats have accepted him, bless their furry little hearts. So far, his favorite things in life are watching his brother (do anything - seriously), farting, attempting to clap, watching someone else clap, holding their hands while they clap (sensing a pattern?), snuggling, taking baths, chewing on his fingers/other people's fingers/burp rags/anything he can reach, and farting some more.

... he's perfect.



"Uh-HYUCK!"



An open letter from The Squish to his Parents...

Dear Mama and Dada,

As I'm approaching the big two-point-five years of life, I thought it might be time for a little progress report. I overhear you talking about all of my accomplishments (of which, of course, there are MANY), and airing your frustrations (are you INSANE?)... so I think it's only fair that I, your benevolent Little Dictator, chime in at least once.

Here are some things I want you to take note of:

1. When I say "down", but am pointing 'up', don't be an ass. You know what I want, so why correct me? You're just embarrassing me in front of Bobo the monkey and the rest of my toys. Not cool.

2. Why must you call me out when I am pooping? I picked that corner of the room for a reason; it allows me the best view of the television while just hiding me from your sight so that I might do my thing. If I really wanted to learn how to use a potty, I'd ask you. Have you heard me asking you? No? Then back off and let a boy soil his shorts in peace. (P.S. - That potty, you know, the one with the duck face on it? IT CREEPS ME OUT. Not gonna use it.)

3. Mama, I know something is changing. Your belly is fat, it kicks at me when I'm sitting on your (increasingly smaller) lap, and you're eating more ice cream than ever. But whatever is going on, I don't believe you for one second when you point to your belly and say "There's a baby brother in there for you, Bubba...!" Oh, there's something in there, sure, but it sure as hell ain't for me. If I don't like it, I'm sending it back.

4. So what if I like crackers and chips? So what if that's all I want to eat? Maybe I'm proteinphobic... ever thought of that? You keep telling me that eating chicken and fish and that loafed meat stuff will make me grow big and strong like Dada... but have you ever stopped and LOOKED at Dada? The man's a hairy beast! Sure, I want to look like Dada one day, but I also want to enjoy my few years of hair-free bliss, thanks... and for all I know, he's hairy because he eats his protein.

5. Dada, tickle me more. I love it.

6. Dada, if you don't laugh when I punch you in the nuts, I'll stop doing it.

7. Dada, I think I love you the most... don't tell Mama.

8. Why am I allowed to color on my desk, table, and body, but not on the refrigerator, the floor, the couches or the cats? Is my skin less important to you than the food-cooler??

9. It's cute how you think you'll get me to sleep in my own bed when the "baby" comes. You're stuck with me, guys.

10. Have you noticed that I no longer scream bloody murder when you attempt to trim my nails, dislodge a booger, or change my poopy diaper? A little praise would go a LONG way.

11. Mama, I know I'm really independent right now... but I still love it when you squat down, throw open your arms, smile and say "MY BABY!" so that I can run to you. I think I love you the most... don't tell Dada.

12. I know that Granny is "Granny" or "Granmama", not "This"... but she's so fun to tease. I think I love her the most... don't tell Graddy.

13. You know why I'm not hungry for dinner? Graddy sneaks me cookies when you're not looking. I think I love him the most... don't tell Granny/Granmama/This.

14. I'd never tell you this to your face, but I kind of like signing things while I talk. Can we do more of that, please?

I love you both, even though I can't always show it. Then again, if you allow me to have a popsicle for dinner every night, I could be convinced to show it a liiiiittle more...

Mwah,
The Squish/Bubba/Dookiedoo/SquishFaceButtNugget

Your Loving Little Dictator...

 

My, what a big brain you have!

As the Mother o' The Squish, I have never felt anything other than pride and acceptance towards my sweet son's ability to assimilate into this world and learn as he goes. Okay, maybe there have been times of worry, awe, fear, uncertainty, elation, bewilderment, terror, surprise, and sheer blankness... but, mostly, pride and acceptance.

Over the course of the last week, however, we've moved into what can only be described as "Toddler Brain Hyper Speed", with my silly Dookie-Doo at the helm.

It all started last Friday, when Bruiser woke up (from his Mama's incessant tickling and kisses)... and here is the conversation that resulted:
Bruiser: Dada?
Mama: Dada went bye-bye, sweet love.
B: Where Dada go?
M: Um... Dada is at work. He took the bus.
B: No, Dada wow-wow.
M: Nope - Dada rode the bus to work today, so Mama can have the car. What does the bus say, Bubba?
B: Bus... bus... bus beep beep!
M: That's right! The bus says "beep beep"! Good job.
B: Mama?
M: Yes, buddy?
B: Dada no wow-wow, Dada go a bus. Beep beep! Bye, Dada bus!

This may not seem epic and/or post-worthy to some, but to the Mother o' The Squish? I was elated! Stoked! Impressed! And, most startlingly, terrified that I might screw up his newly emerging language skills! I mean, here is this little guy, finally stringing more than two words together, trying to communicate an entire, complex thought to another human being. How amazing is that? I just felt like the tides were turning... and I was right.

As I said, this has been a week of insane brain growth. It's like our Little Dictator has been saving up all of these lessons and observations of the English language, and finally decided to put them to use. Case-in-point, here are some of the new words/word combinations he has started saying:
1. "gicky at" (kitty cat)
2. "m'ow" (meow)
3. "guh ACK" (come back), or usually just "ACK"
4. "ick" (um... ick)
5. "wuv" (love)
6. "I want dis" (I want this)
7. "I a me" (I am me)
8. "Who's dis?" (Who is this?)
9. "Dada a bye-bye a bus a beep beep!" (Dada goes bye-bye on the bus that goes beep-beep!)
10. "Dada a door, guh ACK" (Dada went out the door, come back)
11. "Bye-bye, Mama/Dada!" (Duh.)
12. "I want a MINE" (I want it, it's mine.)
These are only the ones I can remember off the top of my 7 1/2 months pregnant, sleep-deprived, work-stressed head.

He has also started counting things out loud... even if every number is the number '9'. Going down the stairs... ("9... 9... 9..."), repeating back to me how many minutes he has left with a toy before it's someone else's turn... ("Mama, 9")... it's adorable and, although we are sure to use the correct numbers immediately afterwards, I really don't mind if thinks every number is the number 9. Go right ahead, Love Bug. Go right ahead.

Finally, he has started incorporating head nods and smiles when he agrees/understands/wants to say 'yes' to something. Up until this point, Man-Mate and I have been laughingly trying to expand his vocabulary assent of "please" to include "yes", "yeah", or "ok"... or something along those lines. Again, within the last week, Bubba-Gumpy has started this new skill and I love it! He's adorable already, but when he smiles... well, let's just say that I can see signs of a future in Not So Little Dictator-ship. The kid has charisma up the chasba.

Um... you need to eat, kid.

It has become embarrassingly apparent these last few months ("few" meaning "six-plus") that Man-Mate and I are, in fact, raising a little dictator.

No, he doesn't make numerous demands regarding the state of his playroom upon arrival, or require Evian water before making an appearance at church, but he has certainly developed preferences - very distinct, well-vocalized preferences - on what food is good enough to enter his system. Thankfully, our Little Dictator's Mama has found out that she is not alone... and just in the nick of time.

Oh, sure, everyone has heard the story about the kid who would only eat chicken nuggets or peanut butter and jelly at every meal. As parents, I'm sure most of us started off on this journey with the mantra of "N'uh-uh... not MY baby", armed with a foodie arsenal sure to appease the pickiest of pallets. Yeah, well, our arsenal now consists of the following (given in Bubba-isms first, with translations immediately following):
1. "Gack-gr" - Crackers
2. "Fiffef" - Goldfish crackers
3. "Az-zah" or "Ass-zah" - Applesauce
4. "Go-gurk" - Yogurt
5. "Tettup" - Ketchup (Hey, he's my kid... ketchup is practically one of our food groups... even if I don't serve it on its own).
6. "This" - Popsicle
7. "Muh" - More... of anything that he has had in the last few days that he feels we should remember and have in ready supply if not already have presented him with or else burn in the fires of Mordor.

... and that's just the list of things that our sweet Bubba-Squish can vocalize by name. Also add to it peanut butter and pretzels, chicken nuggets, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and french fries.

We're hoping that, one day (SOON), our little man will eat more like a, um, little man... instead of a finicky squirrel. He's not at risk for malnutrition; at 35 lbs and 36'' tall, I'd say he's doing just fine - but all those self-imposed dietary staples are interfering with Girly's Goal of Gastronomical Gusto! Is it really time to employ sneak tactics? Must I resort to "hiding" healthy foods in his everyday favorites? Do I really, really have to make an avacado smoothie and tell him that it's just like the nummy milkshake he's occasionally allowed?? *sigh*

Son #2, due in late May/early June of this year, is going to have some hiiiiiiiiigh expectations to live up to, if his brother has any say in the matter.

A Toddler Turns Two

If our post about "swamp monster-esque poo" didn't gross you out, chances are this post won't either... but you never know. This is a mother's recount of some of the highlights, low lights, and sepia tones of the last couple of years leading up to our son's second birthday because, really... every mother and father of a toddler need a recap.Or twelve. Sorry for the thing we missed... blame it on SpongeBob.

Day One

• It feels like just yesterday that I was waking up at 2:00 a.m. with the worst cramping sensation I had ever felt, followed by 6 hours of pacing the living room feeling like insides were using a battering ram on my girl-parts. That, apparently, is the "Joy of Labor!!!!!" that every about-to-be-mother has to look forward to... and something not adequately described in the one all-day birthing class Man-Mate and I took.
•  I remember the intense satisfaction upon hearing "Oh, wow... you're 5 centimeters dilated already. You're getting admitted..." from the triage nurse at the hospital. After two weeks of false labor, you had better believe I wasn't leaving, not without an epidural sticking out of my back. 
• I remember the intense fear and shock at seeing Dr. Herman, or, "He Who Shall Not Be Allowed To Practice Medicine Anywhere Near Me" in the hallway while the nurse wheeled me along to my room, praying that he wasn't the doctor on call for the day. 
• At some point, the anesthesiologist came in and worked his magic... leaving me pain free in just under 20 minutes. Then, about two hours later, my blood pressure dropped to around 65/40, and I started thinking that I was in Russia. Never been to Russia. Scary time.
• During this entire time, Mr. Baby kept squirming away from the belly monitor. We'd be hearing the steady wub-wub-wub of his heart and, then, "BEEEEEEEEEEP!!!! BEEEEEEEEEEP!!!!", which would bring a nurse or two at a run. They hooked our little man up to a scalp monitor (which he promptly twisted his way out of), then threw in the "You might want to consider a c-section" bomb.
• After 6 minutes of pushing, with the help of a vacuum and Dr. Jolly unwrapping the umbilical cord from around our Squishy's neck, our Sweet Boy was born at 8:51 p.m., to an audience of Mama, Dada, Granny, Dr. Jolly, and the entire Neonatal Intensive Care Unit of Valley Medical Center. 
• He still likes to make an entrance, the little Goober.

Days Two through How The Heck Should I Know?

• It was on the second day of his existence that Man-Mate and I could ignore it no longer; our son looked more like one of the aliens from "Mars Attacks!" than either one of us, or any possible human ancestor. 
• We had a steady stream of visitors that second day, and I was practicing all the self-control in the world when I let anyone other than, say, ME, hold my precious Li'l Bug/Li'l Buggie... which was, in fact, the first nickname I ever gave him. It's still the one I use when he's sick or sad or extra cuddly.
• Unfortunately, time from then on out is a blur. Literally. Have you ever tried to focus on the trees whipping by your car window when you're going about 60 miles per hour? Well, hopefully you weren't the one manning the vehicle, but you get my point; it's impossible. I could say that it was all a blur because I was so in love with our Bundle o' Joy... or even that it was due to New Parent Sleep Disorder... but, no. I had the worst postpartum experience ever. 
• My thyroid, which had been on the low side of 'wonky' for years, decided to sky rocket after giving birth. Having no clue this would happen (or had happened), I continued to take my thyroid supplement at the high dose I was on. Guess what happens when your body gets too my thyroid hormone? You go crazy, that's what. Couple that with your body already having to adjust to fluctuating hormone levels after giving birth and, well, let's just say that Girly lost 37 lbs in 2 weeks, couldn't be left alone for any period of time, and thought the world was, quite literally, crushing her into the ground whenever she held her son. It was the most horrible time of my life, when it should have been the best. 
• Now you see why everything sped by so quickly...!
• Around his 3-month mark, I came back to the Land of the Sane... and started noticing some adorable, endearing, and heart-stoppingly wonderful things about our Boy, and have been in love ever since.

Days _____ through One Year

• He cooed, he laughed, he farted, he smiled, he drooled, he peed, he snuggled, he nursed, he pooped, he clapped, he rolled, he spewed, he stabilized, he stood, he crawled, he scooted, he cried, he tantrum-ed, he hiccuped, he ate, he gummed, he walked, he signed.
• We cooed, we laughed, we farted, we smiled, we drooled, we peed, we snuggled, we nursed (him), we pooped, we clapped, we rolled, we spewed, we stabilized, we stood, we crawled, we scooted, we cried, we tantrum-ed, we hiccuped, we ate, we gummed, we walked, we signed.
• Right before he turned one, Man-Mate and I took him to visit my Grandfather near Orlando, Florida... over the course of a weekend. Never, ever again will we attempt taking an 11 month-old on 4 flights in under 48 hours... no matter how well-behaved said 11 month-old is.

Days One Year through Two Years

• From words to short sentences, from walking to running, from eating to inhaling... the kid is a force of nature. We've lost track (but not really, thanks a certain Mother-of-the-Squish who is obsessed with documentation of Life Events) of how many things our little Dookie-Doo has done that has made us stop and go, "Whoa". Very Keanu, and very appropriate. Here's our attempt at putting some of them down to paper, er, cyberpaper:
• This was the year of "Chowder", the year of "SpongeBob", of knocking on doors, giving kisses and hugs both on demand and freely, of climbing stairs, discovering slides, building towers, getting haircuts, visiting the dentist, learning names and roles, discovering Chicken McNuggets, learning how to be gentle, throwing a ball, taking off coats and shoes, swimming in one (and only one) pool, seeing hydroplanes, and doodling on tables. 
• Words under his belt now include: 
• Please, thank you, mine, no, up, down, Mama, Dada, this, why, what, SpongeBob, Chowder, uh-oh, wow-wow (car), dog, guy, lady, baby, bus, choo-choo, away, move, bye, nigh-night, me, ball, book, applesauce, juice, spoon, cracker, cookie, num-num, Bobo (his monkey), hot, brr, around-around, more, water, boat, dirt, shoes, socks, stop, vroom, roar, weeeeee, airplane, and nine.
• These are just the words he can say on his own... not counting the ones that he seems to know, but is unable - or unwilling - to try out.

I used to hate it when parents would ramble on and on, listing the accomplishments of their children (toddlers especially), as if it were some great race that had to be blabbed about to every (un)willing ear.

I used to swear, over and over, that I would just let my child be a child and experience life on his or her own terms, without feeling pressure from me to perform to a certain level.

Part of that still holds true; I still want our Little Man to grow at a healthy, happy pace where he feels comfortable, loved, and valued just as he is... but I've also matured enough as a Mommy to get where those other parents are coming from. 

If we don't share, in some way (whether verbally, written, or ____) with other, comprehending adults what our child has grown into, how else are we to remember it?
Our best reminders aren't the little sticky notes that we leave, scattered all over our homes, cars, purses, and bottoms of those gym shoes we swear we're going to use sometime in the next millennium; they're other parents, sharing their stories, which trigger the most fond, warm memories of our own Bundles o' Joy doing the same exact thing.

Happy Birthday, my Li'l Buggie... I love you forevers and evers, now and always, near and far.

So... about that "reading" thing, kid...

Oh, Bruiser-Bear.

There are times when all he wants to do is sit in our laps, snuggle, and read "Hop on Pop", "Mike Mulligan and the Steam Shovel", or "Ten Apples Up On Top"... and then that brief moment passes, and it's back to "Bunbamb? Bunbamb?"

If I never see another episode of SpongeBob, it will still be too soon. Even armed with this vehement belief, I was still in for more of a shock this weekend.

After spending some time at a friend's house for a playdate, I had one of those "Mommy a-HA!" moments where the earth slows down, things become clear, and the guilt of thousands upon thousands of moms everywhere come crashing down upon my very soul:
Our son will not learn to read just by sitting on our laps during some (increasingly sporadic) story times. Actual effort will need to be put into this feat.

Me? I'm okay with that.
Man-Mate? I'm fairly certain he shed a tear (or twelve) when I said that SpongeBob has got to be severely reduced.

Luckily, our friend showed us this amazing website that she had just started showing to her son - StarFall.com. There's a section entirely devoted to the alphabet, and learning it phonetically... something that I could feasibly see myself doing with our little Dookie Doo! (See picture) My friend's son, a month younger than ours, was already pointing at the letters of the alphabet, saying what they were, and really getting it!

Anyway, this moment of Mom-Terror was fairly short lived. As with anything, both Man-Mate and I feel that it's best to have things in moderation. Yes, it's okay if the Little Dictator watches SpongeBob... but not nearly as much as he had been before. Yes, it's okay that he's not reading Dickens or Shakespeare at 22 months... but he's going to start prepping for it...!

Oh, the joys.

Popsicles... how I love you.

There are three things in this world that are sure-fire "Tantrum Busters".
Am I proud of employing them, instead of sticking to my guns and riding out Bruiser's reign of terror? No.
Will I continue to use them as I see fit - and implore Man Mate to do so as well - as a method of preserving our (rapidly depleting) sanity? You'd better believe it.

1. SpongeBob SquarePants
How can one animated, yellow sponge bring a toddler so much joy? How can our sweet Dookie-Doo sit for hours (yes... I've let him on occasion, ok??) smiling and clapping along to the same theme song over and over again? How can Man Mate and I stand to watch another episode, knowing that it will be full of the shrill, "Bwaaaaaaahaaaahaaahaaahaa!!"?
I'll tell you how: Bubba loves it.
Whether he's tired, sick, or needing a distraction while I finish making dinner, SpongeBob has become his favorite pal. I would feel guiltier than I do, but he is already phasing him out in favor of his books... so, really, nothing to beat myself up over.

2. The Unexpected Tickle-fest
"What's that, Little Dictator? You're mad at me because I won't let you touch the insanely hot stove, and want to show me your anger through the medium of a tantrum? How about... TICKLES TO YOUR TUMMY!" He can be in the middle of telling us off (as demonstrated by pointing to the offending party and saying "No", before doing his best umpire impression, saying "bye-bye", scowling, and hitching his thumb out to the side)... and all we have to do is aim our wiggling fingers at his neck, armpits, ribs, or waist, and the kid turns into a giggling mass of hilarity. Stove? What stove?

3. Popsicles
Cherry, strawberry, grape, lime, orange... our kid eats 'em all. A recent discovery at our household, popsicles have become as much a part of his nightly routine as his 7:00 p.m. tubby-time. (P.S. - Any other mommies wish THEY could have a regularly schedule tubby-time?) What started as a means to get more fluid into our son during his last bout of sickness quickly turned into Squishy's most loved time of the day. Since we are trying, however, to limit anything containing sugar after he brushes his teeth during tubby-time, Graddy bought him some sugar-free popsicles so that the joy may continue. Granted, Bruiser does look at the sugar-free popsicles like he knows something's different - again, genius - but down the hole it goes, regardless... well, after a brief stint as a paintbrush (he just has to decorate his pajamas in swipes of bright, sticky red) or microphone.

Out of all of the Little Dictator's vices, I'm still pro-tickle. Let's see how he is in his teens...

The Swamp Monster ate my baby!

Or, rather, it ate something and left the remnants of the poor creature in my son's diaper. Repeatedly. And with gusto.

Turns out, daycare isn't the best place to take a child when you want him/her to remain healthy. Go figure, huh? I know that, in the long run, our Little Dictator will have the immunities of a staunchly hardcore Tea Party supporter (i.e. nothing will ever get to (or through to) him) but, until that magical day, our son seems to attract illness like Hot Topic attracts the perpetually emo. Ok, so it isn't as bad now as it was when he first started going to daycare - ear infections every month, diaper rashes that looked like he sat in red paint - but I still feel for the little guy.

Right now, he's just starting to get over a nice round o' Puke & Poop. This current ailment has him pooping what seems to be yellow, watered-down cottage cheese that smells even better than that sounds... and puking when he eats half of his normal amount of anything.
A handful of pretzel Goldfish crackers? Just fine.
Add a half-cup of applesauce? Mount Vesuvius has NOTHING on my son.
It's rare when I can stay home with the little Squish-nugget, but I was able to do so yesterday and take him to the doctor for a quick, panicked, "WHYYYYYY?????"-fest. An hour and a half later, we walked out with an anit-nausea prescription and advice to keep him away from all dairy except for hard, yellow cheeses.

Um... his favorite food is yogurt, and he has been asking for it non-stop. This will not bode well, Doc.  

The real kicker? Night time.
When sick, Bruiser doesn't like to be in his crib... far from his dear Mommy and Daddy, no... he likes to be **thisclose** and snuggle, cuddle, and flip-flop the night away. Unfortunately (for said Mommy and Daddy), he has now added a strange whine-cry-sniffle combination (hereunto known as "The Whicryniffle") to his flipping and flopping. Two nights ago, I believe this lasted for roughly two hours. Two hours in which I repeatedly tried contacting any deity that was awake at the un-deity-like-hour of 2:00 a.m. and promise them eternal fealty if they would just calm down my poor son.

If this is a foreshadow of what he'll be like when he gets sick as an adult, well, may God have mercy on his poor wife's soul. I'll be sure to bring her ear plugs.

9, 9, 9...

PROS
The Little Dictator LOVES to count.
The Little Dictator LOVES to read.
The Little Dictator LOVES to point and identify.

CONS
The Little Dictator thinks every number is the number "9".

The Little Dictator thinks every word is either "Mama", "Dada", "Bobo" (his favorite stuffed monkey - and yes, there are multiple... three, at last count), "No", "SpongeBob", "Chowder" (both are cartoons), "Bye-Bye", and "Mwah".

The Little Dictator thinks every object that he points to and identifies - no matter how inaccurate it may be - exists solely for his enjoyment... or terror.

EXPLANATION
Like many parents in Toddlerville, we have a book (or several) on counting. This particular book has buttons that *insert toddler's name here* can press to hear the number said out loud, with corresponding pages full of 1 cat, 2 dogs, 3 balls, etc. For wahtever reason, Bruiser has zeroed-in on the number "9", and has now decided that every number that he sees has GOT to be the number "9". Until recently, this was limited to times he actually saw numbers... now he counts things - his deck of cards, especially - using his patented "9, 9, 9!" approach. I do not see a future in mathematics.

Just last night, our little Dookie-Doo was reading the newspaper - the weather section, to be exact. He was sitting on the couch, leaning back, and scanning the page with a thoughtful expression on his face. The next thing we know, it's

"Mama Dada Bobo No SpongeBob Chowder Bye-Bye Mwah."

... over and over and over. Oh, sure, there was plenty of inflection, intonation and enunciation, but I could not stop laughing! (Which, of course, goaded him on to repeat, repeat, repeat.) While my son may know over 40 words, I just wondered what made him choose those particular few. The world may never know.

We took Bubba to the Puyallup Fair this weekend for a little outdoor, greasy-food, ride experiencing fun. While the Man-Mate and I took turns sliding down the Giant Slide with him nestled in front of us, the really wasn't much else to occupy his mind. He was, technically, too young to go on ANY of the rides (I told the Giant Slide ticket collector-man-guy-person that "Yes, in fact, my son IS two years old. He's 25 months, even!"), and there are some rules that you just don't want to push when it comes to your child's safety on a ride. Plus, who knew if he was emotionally ready for the terrors of "The Peaceful River Raft"?? Speaking of terror, we took him in to see the 4H cows and pigs. Guess who isn't fond of bacon's origin? When he wasn't cowering in fear, our little Squish-Face would shake his finger at the offending creatures and tell them "no, No, NO!" from behind his beloved Mama.

I can't wait to tell him all about his toddlerhood quirks...

On bananas and diapers

This weekend - yesterday afternoon, more accurately - our son discovered bananas.
Now, he didn't just discover that They Exist, notice that They Are Funny Shaped, or take A Small Bite... no, Bubba proceeded to eat 2.75 bananas in under 15 minutes.

Flash forward to 2:30 this morning. I am just finally feeling the effects of the narcotic-grade pain reliever my sweet Man-Mate brought me to ease my back/neck pain... when I hear a loud "pop-POP!!" sound erupt from my sweet son's diaper. Eyebrows up, I struggled to hold back a scream of "SNIPERS!" when... "Mama? I poop."

Did I comfort The Squish and offer to change his shorts? Nope. I poked The Husband until he woke up. At that time, Bruiser managed to get up onto his knees and repeatedly reiterate what that lovely "pop-POP!!" sound meant, while raising his arms into the air for someone, anyone, to pick him up.

A few minutes later, freshly diapered, he snuggled back against me and passed out once again.

Flash forward to 3:34 this morning. I am just finally getting to the good part of my dream with Ryan Reynolds, when I hear an even louder "pop-POP!!" followed by a series of rapid-fire pops. That's when it dawns on Man-Mate and I both; "The bananas," we say, with a mutual sigh. "Poop," chimes in the toddler.

Thankfully, His Gassy-ness was able to sleep the rest of the early morning away, even though he did manage to have one final "pop-POP!!" before heading off to daycare.

Even when they start doing what you want them to do (i.e. eat fruit...), you still get feedback.

A Letter to Bruiser, Vol. 1

In an alternate blogging world of mine, I maintain a blog called "The (Not So) Lovely Letters", in which I write letters to people (groups, individuals, classes, stereotypes, etc.) that I would likely never send. Hopefully. Um, yes.

Here is one that I wrote to our sweet Dookie-Doo back in March:

My Sweet Son (v.1)
Dear Bruiser,

While I'm sure you have a very valid reason for standing up in your crib in the middle of the night, shaking the bars and screaming in a way to cause the cats to hide in fear, I simply do not get it.

The last I checked, the following apply to you:
1. You do not work in a sweat shop in Taiwan.
2. Your diapers are changed regularly.
3. Your food is not only non-toxic, it is not found in a trash can or other such receptacle, nor is it comprised of feces, the flesh of other babies, or anything containing olives (which are equally as disturbing to your dear Mother).
4. You have ready and immediate supply to Infant's Motrin for your teething concerns... which appear to be many.
5. Your bed is not made of rock, nor is it outside in the elements.
6. Your clothes are made from comfy things, such as 'cotton'... not 'barbed wire'.

I fail, then, to understand why screams of terror and perceived abandonment were flowing from your sweet, little toddler-sized mouth.

However, since I am a loving Mother, I have brainstormed a (brief) list of solutions.

1. Go work in Taiwan.
(That way, your screams of mistreatment will be justified.)
(Mommy and Daddy could also use even a fraction of the money spent on your diapers back, thankyouverymuch...) Which brings me to:

2. Potty-train yourself.
(That way, your diaper will not only NEVER be of concern again (and, believe me, my son... your diapers produce a stench that is of considerable concern)).

3. EAT. MORE.
(That way, you will stay full longer... and not feel the need to suck down more milk than a freaking newborn at 3:22 in the morning.)

4. I really do feel sorry for you about all those sharp little teeth pushing their way through your gums. I do. Could you just find some way of communicating that that is the cause of your tantrum?
(You've mastered the 'feed me' sound of smacking your lips... you have a great handle on the sign for 'please' and can even say the actual word from time-to-time (even if it does sound more like 'mezz')... so is pointing to your mouth while you scream really that hard?)

5. Consider using that nice crib of yours for something other than a podium from which to spout your shrieking monologues.
(That way, Mommy and Daddy will have had the chance to do one (or more) of the following - sleep, have sex for only the third time this year, and/or have conversations that don't necessarily revolve around how ketchup somehow got in our hair after your lunch, the consistency of your diapers, or our rapidly depleting bank account thanks primarily to your rapidly depleting wardrobe. Which brings me to:

6. Consider the fact that Mommy had two older brothers as well as an older sister, meaning that she got boy hand-me-downs as well as girl hand-me-downs... which means, ultimately, that Mommy had to freaking cross-dress for a couple of years. You, my sweet son, are so, so lucky you don't have an older sister.
(This does, however, pose a budgetary dilemma. The rate at which you are growing - lack of sleep and erratic eating habits apparently aside - is freaking us out. You're only 15 months old, and yet you're about one french fry away from 24 month old sizing. Easter is next weekend, and I'm starting to worry that you won't be able to fit into the nice Easter shirt that I bought you last month... even though I bought a bigger size than you currently were.)

All-in-all, I'd say this was a very therapeutic letter. I was able to get things off my chest and, if you were able to read, you would (of course) take all of my suggestions to heart and magically transform yourself into the shining Beacon of Babyhood that I know you have inside of you.

In all seriousness, I love you with all that I am and then some. You are the most amazing creature I have ever met, and I would gladly spend the rest of my life (and have a strong suspicion that I WILL...) looking after you in any way I can. You are the best son a Mommy could ever have, and I love you now and always.

Now, sleep through the night again or Mama is going to lose her damn mind.

Hugs and Lovies,

Your Mommy

Sad thing is, a lot of that still applies...

Fieldtrip to The Fires of Mordor... or, Introduction toThe Squish

Our son is brilliant. I'm sure every mother thinks so at some point but, really, what are the odds of every boy-child possessing the intellect of a Fortune 500 CEO? Squishy, on the other hand, is brilliancy personified. Don't believe me? Well, it's your prerogative... however wrong you may be.



1. He walks (or, rather, a complex stomp-run-trip-slide hybrid).

2. He talks (well, more like a rambling stream of the following: dada, mama, pez (please), day-do (thank you), up, down, no, mine, me, baby, this, 'way (away), muh (more), muhhhhv (move), dogf (dog), Bobo (his monkey), wow-wow (car), bus, beerbong (airplane... we hope), uh oh, help, wee, gung-gung (swing... or a war cry), adur (water), juice, beep-beep, hi, hello, bye, nigh-nigh (night-night), dirt, knock, num-num, gacker (cracker), brr, hot, teef (teeth), stuck, ow/ouch...)

3. He signs (please, thank you, up, eat, water, more, move, away, no, mine, I'm going to punch you in the effing face if you don't give me that g-damn thing that I want that you can't seem to discern from my series of grunts and pointing, etc.)

4. He sings (granted, until very recently, it consisted of the words "doh doh doh" over and over, while strumming a pretend guitar held vertically).



But, best of all, he cuddles. Oh, the cuddling; my mommy-heart melts into a puddle of A&D-scented goo when our little Bruiser decides he needs a hug. This brilliant creature wants to take time out of expanding his already-gigantic brain to fit in a snuggle with the ol' Mom?! I'm in!



One thing both the Man Mate and Girly could use a little less of? The Toddler Temper.

Have you ever heard the saying "Red skies at night, sailors delight. Red skies in morning, sailors take warning."?

Where is OUR early warning system?

What I wouldn't do for a quick little "Hey, Girly? Your son is going to have a meltdown in 3.2 hours... you might want to get home to the safety of SpongeBob SquarePants and some Garden Herb Ritz crackers if you want to keep a grip on your sanity." Instead, it's smooth sailing through the mall, poster child for good behavior at the climbing toys (where children three times the height limit are jumping off of the play structures, coming mere inches from landing on my Sweet Squish-Face... but that, and Sweet Squish-Face's reaction, is for another post), and then *WHAM!* A fairly accurate, if not overly dramatic, reenactment of Chernobyl at the restaurant when he's made to sit in a high chair.



All in all, our son is brilliant. He is learning in leaps and bounds, and impressing us with his sheer ability to stomach any and every food we put in his path. He holds his father's Wariness of New Situations, but still manages to embody his mother's Desire To Befriend Everyone in The Room. He is equally at home in front of the television (again... SpongeBob SquarePants is his religion) as he is out playing in the dirt with Grandma (whom he calls "Hi" and "This", alternately).



His temper is one to be feared, but his cuddles are those to be craved.