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...

 

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.

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.