Knock Knock

You've figured out 'knock knock jokes'.  Sort of.  Here's how your's go...

You: Knock knock who's there.  

Me: No, just say knock knock.  I say who's there.  

You: Knock knock who's there.  

Me: Ok.  Who's there.  

You: Cock-a-doodle-doo who.  

Me: Cock-a-doodle-doo who who?

You: (Eruption of laughter)

Apparently I've just figured them out as well, or at least can't remember any of the good ones, because here's my version...

Me: Knock knock.

You: Who's there?  

Me: Apple.

You: (Laughter)

Me: Say apple who?

You: Apple who?

Me: APPLE IN YOUR FACE!!!

You: (Rolling on the floor laughing and no, I will not abbreviate that.)

(Cartoon)

No title makes sense for this.

Remember the scene in Ferris Bueller when the creepy principal thinks he's found Ferris, but really it's a pretty lady who sort of resembles Justin Bieber?  I'm not asking you, Jack, I'm asking your fans.  Anyone?  That's what this reminds me of...  

That is all, carry on with your day. 

We should buy you some new underwear.  

The Big Hand!

You are obsessed with two things these days. One, a little show you like to call "The Big Hand Show" (otherwise known as The Voice). You actually can point out "Bake Shetton" and now, whenever you see a girl with platinum blond hair, you say, "Kiss-tina!" But mostly, you're obsessed with making "the big hand"...


It's not easy for your chubby little fingers, so you actually prefer it when Mama or Dada do it. Which brings me to your second obsession: taking pictures. I think you might actually have an eye for it! This you took on an airplane...


You caught me trying to watch Top Chef...


Over it...


At home...


While drinking...

Back!

As of late, when you don't want me near you (I know, I don't get it either) you sort of shove me with your hand and say, "Back, Mama, back."


Back where? Back where I came from? Well I've got news for you, Buster Brown, YOU came from me! So if anyone is going BACK where they came from, it's you. Into my womb. Huh? I don't know what I'm saying, I'm tired...

3 Strikes and Child Services comes a'Knocking

You are almost 2 years old, and I assume by this point you've gathered enough information about me to realize that I am not the world's most "put together" mother. I don't know who is, but I do know that she showers more than twice a week, ALWAYS changes pee pee sheets instead of just throwing a blanket over the wet stain, and has never, EVER done any of the following three things...

1. Forgotten to pack baby's jacket when flying into a Blizzard.


We flew to New York during one of the 37 blizzards they've had this winter. Naturally, as Californians (and as a Minnesotan who has blocked cold weather from her memory), we were plenty concerned with warm clothing. Your dad brought his massive Raiders jacket that could fit 3 eskimos inside. I looked like this:


But your jacket? Forgot it. Your dad shoved you in his coat to keep you warm but mainly to hide you so it didn't look like we had a toddler without a jacket wandering around in a wintry mix of sleet and snow. We made it safely to the hotel, and the next morning I braved the 10-foot high snow drifts in search of a jacket. Did I mention this was the day after Christmas? THE STORES WERE EMPTY! No one had returned anything yet because they were still drunk off blizzard hot toddies. I went to 5 stores before settling on a 12-16 month (you were 21) girl's jacket (you're a boy).

2. Changed baby into shorts on the floor of the NYSE after baby wet his nice "business casual" pants.

A picture of the floor of the New York Stock Exchange is perhaps next to the word "BUSINESS" in the dictionary. Men in suits, women in suits, period. Visitors are asked to dress "business casual." We had the opportunity to visit the floor over Christmas break, and I fussed over making you look like the perfect future stock broker/GQ cover baby. Miiiiiight have paid too much attention to your clothes and maaaaybe forgot to change your morning diaper. By the time we reached the NYSE, you had wet yourself a billion times over. NO MATTER! I AM SUPER MOM! I COME PREPARED! I HAVE BACK-UP CLOTHES! Err, I have back-up clothes for California surfer baby, not future stock broker/GQ cover baby. F. So I was forced to change you into blue sweat shorts for all to see. Don't worry, pictures were taken.


3. Failed to clean up pee on playground equipment with other mothers watching.

Now we're back in California. It's easy and breezy and calm and warm and everything is cool. No need for a jacket, surfer boy back-up shorts a'plenty in the diaper bag... all is right in the world. Until one day we're at the playground and I look down to text your father and I hear, "I think your son is peeing." I look up, and you are peeing. You are peeing on some piece of playground climby thingy. I go to pick you up and realize I have nothing on me, the diaper bag is in the car and the car is far away. I grab you and sort of kick sand over the urine-contaminated spot, avoid eye contact with the other mothers, and run away. It sort of reminded me of this.


p.s. I realize a lot of this letter had to do with pee. What. You pee a lot.

Picasso.

Are you ready for another installment of My Kid's A Genius? Just look at that artwork:


You have been drawing nearly perfect circles for months. Now, you're including small circles inside of the larger ones! Most of the time, as you're drawing, you say, "two eyes!" Bravo, my son, bravo!!

p.s. They also sort of look like boobs.

p.p.s. Please disregard the Jack Daniel's chalkboard we bought after seeing it in a bar.

Dancy Dance Time

Hi. I am your crazy happy mother.


These days, unusual things amuse me. You poop in the bath tub, I'm laughing. You look at me, shrug, and say, "I don't know, mama." I'm dying. You repeat a swear word. Wait that's not funny. (Ohmygoshyesitis.)

So when we went to Yo Gabba Gabba Live, I was on CLOUD NINE. I mean it, best time of my life. You had fun too, but this is about me, I mean it's about you, I mean I want to go again.

p.s. Those glasses I'm rockin' were made of paper, but I kind of like them.

Color.

You love to color. Thankfully, you no longer seem interested in eating crayons. However, you also have zero interest in coloring on paper. Instead, you like to color on things. Like your grandparent's floor, for instance...


How did I let that happen, you're wondering? I was busy coloring in a Dora coloring book. Obviously, I was enjoying it far too much and ignoring you.

Monster Mama

I walked in on you and your Daddy drawing a picture last night. Your Daddy asked me who I thought it was, and naturally I said a Monster Lady...


Look at her. She has scary teeth and crazy hair and garbage all over her. Then, Daddy asked you who it was.

You said, "Mama." Naturally.

E-I-E-I-Oh.

Hey Buddy,

It's been awhile since I've written to you, but I swear I'm only neglecting you in bloggy blog world and not in real life. We've been up to SO many fun and interesting things!! Here's an update...

HITTING


This one falls in the "interesting" (said sarcastically) category and not the fun one. You've hit your mama (moi) and more than once. It happens when you're a combination of frustrated, angry and exhausted. As a 15 month-old, you're not exactly sure how to handle these emotions yet. So you hit me in the face. My response has been a very stern NO (which causes you to sob) followed by a gentle (I think) explanation on why you don't hit your mama. This should work. Right? Right.

SLEEPING


You have 4 teeth coming in right now, which has been interrupting your sleep habits. (Don't worry, if I had 4 poky things piercing through any part of my body I would scream in my sleep too.) The only thing that seems to sooth you back into a peaceful slumber is when I sing Old McDonald Had a Farm. However, I'm a little koo koo at 3:30 in the morning, and sometimes it's hard for me to remember what belongs on a farm. The other night, my rendition of the song went something like this...

Old McDonald had a farm. E-I-(YAWN)-E-I-O. And on that farm he had a (LARGE PAUSE) folder. E-I-E-I-OOOO. With a fold fold here, and a fold fold there. Here a fold, there a fold...

You get it.

TALKING


You've been saying lots of new things! Step, truck, beach and of course, DADA. What woman's name have you uttered? DORA. That's right, not mama, but DORA. The EXPLORER. It's okay, I'm not bitter, because it is adorable when you say your girlfriend's name. Dooooooooooh-rah! (As long as I'm next...)

Photos HERE, HERE and HERE.

Snout Mouth

Last night, I went mental. Let me explain...

You woke me up around midnight, not exactly crying but stirring in your crib. I sluggishly turned to the monitor, half asleep, to take a look. (We have a video monitor which has come in very, very handy... i.e. when it sounded like you were coughing but instead you were throwing up on your back.) It took a second for my eyes to open even halfway, and that's when I started to panic. You looked strange. Your mouth was very dark, and in a weird shape. Almost cartoonish. It looked like a pig's snout. Like this:


What was wrong with you, I started wondering?!? Oh my god, you looked swollen and weird, and where were your eyes?! Suddenly all I could see was this darkened, odd-looking snout mouth. I threw off the covers, ready to make a mad dash for your room. And that's when my eyes opened fully, and I realized what I was looking at.

Your feet. You had moved and your feet were where your head usually is. You had them pressed together and I guess the movement of your stirring combined with the nighttime shadows combined with the fact that my eyes wouldn't open made you look like a pig monster.

I quickly checked your actual face. It looked fine. I went back to bed.

What's the Name of That Song?

I can't describe to you the joy I feel when I rediscover a classic Sesame Street video. This morning, during breakfast (when I have to show you YouTube videos on the computer to get you to eat food), I found this little ditty:



Instantly, I traveled back in time and was a 4 year old girl in pigtails again. Somehow I knew every word, like I've been singing this song all of my life. I got reeeeeeally into it, absurdly so, as if I was competing for a Tony Award (that's a contest, right?). You just stared at me, like you didn't know who I was. It was me, your mama! Only from yesteryear when I couldn't tie my own shoes and liked to tell strangers I was a boy.

Attack of the Birds

We took you to the beach yesterday to see the "birdies." I put that in quotes because that is only how I refer to them in front of you. If you weren't around I would call them "dirty freakish nasty terrifying creatures" aka pigeons. You were sitting on the ground and your father accidentally dropped a french fry in your lap. Did you know that a pigeon will scoop up a french fry from just about anywhere, including a baby's lap? It ferociously came at you and the fried potato, spastically flailing it's ugly wings, until it's gross, pointy beak snatched what it was looking for. I screamed. You laughed.

Do I sound harsh? Well I was pooped on shortly after that. So. You tell me.

The Golden Rule

Would it be wrong of me to hang this in your room?

Barfy Barf

I think I'm a pretty good mom to you. I do lots of things right. Whatever "right" means. What I'm trying to say is, I think I'm getting the hang of this parenting job, and I think we make a pretty good team, me and you.

Unless, UNLESS, we are talking about vomit. I am terrible at this part of motherhood.


I have always had a queasy spot for vomit, pun intended. It's just so gross. I was that friend in college that handed my girlfriend a hair tie and then bolted. I think that the film and television industry should be required to post a running ticker, warning viewers of any upcoming spew.

But I guess I've always figured that when I became a mother, all of that would change. I'd be this Super Mom, a beacon of strength with throw up in her hair and heels on her feet.

I managed the spit up part just fine. But this barfy barf stage is new. It's happened twice now. Over-eating and a bumpy car ride. Your dad was there to help with the over-eating incident but the car ride, that was just moi. You were sitting in a grocery cart when it happened (note to self: kids throw up in grocery carts, WIPE THEM OFF BEFORE USE). For a brief moment, we both just stared at each other. I was thinking, hmm, what to do, that's icky. And you were thinking, Jesus mom, do something, this is icky! So I cleaned you up and awkwardly carried you to the car in a way that made it look like I'd never held a baby before.


I will get better at this, I will. Because something tells me this stage will last forever.

Uh huh. Uh uh.

Your new thing... nodding. Every time you hear the word YES, from anyone, you start nodding with eyes open wide. It's adorable. I'm trying to teach you to shake your head when you hear NO, but so far with no success. You're a Yes Man.




I'm trying to decide if that's a good thing, or a bad thing? NO is an important word to learn. No bite. No pull mommy's hair. No walk into the street. You nod YES furiously through all of that.

Of course, when you do learn NO, it will all flip around. YES go back to bed. Yes eat your vegetables. Yes get mommy some more wine. I can already see you shaking your head...

Bzzzzzzzzz

Today, we went on a nature hunt!! In our house. To kill a bee. Yes, a bee was buzzing around the house all morning long. If you know your mother at all, then you know that I am not only terrified of bugs, but I always, ALWAYS imagine the worst case scenario. In this situation, it was you getting stung in your eyeball and then we find out you're allergic to bees. In my mind, that was going to happen.

So, after a few failed attempts at swatting the thing and running away like a pansy, we were presented with the perfect opportunity! The bee landed on our paper towel roll. I sat you down, far, far away, and I slowly approached the roll. Oh and I was wearing a glove. Yes, that's true.


Look at that! I did it!!! I successfully and simultaneously saved the bee's life and yours! TRIUMPH!


And I also TP'ed the backyard.

*&@$%#^*^&#%

In the middle of the night, when I think I hear you crying, as I reach for the monitor to check, I inevitably knock the damn thing down... sending a huge ruckus of THUD into the otherwise quiet night. This is the definition of frustration. Because most of the time, you were sleeping. I was only hearing your cries in my cracky sleep. But the noise of my clumsiness echoes down the hallway and THAT wakes you up. FRUSTRATION.

Bill

I just asked you if you wanted to watch Kill Bill.

I meant Little Bill.


But Kill Bill would have been fun too.

Stuf

This morning I woke up at 5am, to try and get stuff done. I am turning into that crazy person that wakes up at 5am to try and get stuff done. I'm not sure even I know what stuff I'm referring to. Anyway, that's not the point. The point is that you woke up at 5:30am. The only stuff I got done was showering. I guess that's something, considering most days I don't do that particular kind of stuff.

Somehow you fell back asleep in my bed and I was able to go downstairs to collect my coffee and computer. I love that stuff. And speaking of stuff...


One f? Why? That is all.