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

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.

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...