Birthday Suit

Yesterday, Rollie turned four.

I've been someone's mother for four years. To me, that doesn't sound like very long. I mean, four years is a long time for say, solitary confinement. Or to wait in line at the DMV. It is not a long time to be someone's mother. In that time, I feel like I should have much more figured out by now. I mean other than being an expert at changing the diaper of a child who is standing on top of an airplane toilet, while trying to keep said child from pushing the flight attendant call button, the flusher, and the secret bell you ring once you've joined the Mile High Club.

But I've only just begun. I've only reached base camp in what will certainly by a long, arduous and rewarding climb, where I will possibly lose a limb, or pass out and have to be rescued by a giant Saint Bernard bearing a little keg of whisky. Or if I'm lucky, a six pack of Michelob Ultra.

We really get shoved into parenthood though, don't we? We go into this whole thing knowing that we will have a baby, and that this baby will turn into a toddler, a preschooler, a kid, and hopefully, a functioning, relatively normal member of society, who may or may not one day be president, or at least be able to pay his rent on time. But nothing really prepares us for it. Not books, not classes, not snippets of advice and cautionary tales from other parents. This is definitely a Learn As We Go gig. And you know, for the most part I've been pleasantly surprised.

For example, I knew I would eventually have to cut Rollie's fingernails. But until I actually did it, I had visions of me accidentally lopping off a fingertip in the process. I knew I would eventually have to clean up his puke, and just assumed that it would be the most disgusting, Rob Zombie horror-flick scene I could imagine, with gratuitous projectile fluids and exploding torsos. But when the time came that I was on the business end of a barf-o-matic, it was more like a Rob Zemeckis puke scene, with tasteful special effects and catchy theme music and a sort of feel good ending that almost made me wish I had someone to share it with. I mean besides Rollie.

(Wow, I just realized that I've been pleasantly surprised at how un-disgusting my son throwing up was to me. I have got to get out more.)

Rollie has come a long way in his four years on earth. When I first started this blog, he was in the throes of being Two. He threw things, he peed on the floor, he refused to nap, eat, stay dressed or speak in complete sentences (or at least sentences that didn't unnecessarily include the word Poopy). Now that he's four, he pees in the toilet. Or outside. Or in an empty water bottle if we're out and about and I just don't feel like hauling everyone into a disgusting gas station restroom. So yeah, we've made some progress in the past two years.

The neatest thing about Rollie turning four is that he is experiencing things he'll carry with him for the rest of his life. He'll remember the time he ate breakfast with Winnie The Pooh (probably because it was the first time he could use the word 'pooh' and not elicit a Mean Mommy Face from me). He'll remember the nature hikes we used to take in our neighborhood (especially when Mommy realized we were trespassing on private property and hustled everyone out of the woods before the shotgun blast went off). He'll remember going to school and learning about numbers, letters, and how to wash his hands after handling something one of the multiple Aiden's in his class just sneezed on.

And if he doesn't remember the time he donned Elsa's homemade tu-tu, her princess heels, and pranced into the family room to show me his get-up...well...that's why God invented cameras.

Happy Birthday, my sweet boy. Your legs look amazing in those shoes.

Top O' The Food Chain

Remember back when Rollie was around 2-and-a-half, and every other word out of his mouth was 'Why?' (and every other word was 'No')?

Well, that phase seems to have been replaced by a new, more complicated version of the 'Why' question:

'What if?'

I've gotta say, this new variation on his line of inquiries is slightly less exhausting than having to answer 'Why' all the time (and being constantly humbled by the number of things I can't explain). On the other hand, Rollie is now presenting me with all sorts of scenarios I have never entertained before, and sometimes the hypothetical consequences of his 'what if's' are disastrous. Especially when we're at the zoo.

We went to the zoo yesterday with a group of friends. As we passed by the pens and cages filled with animals that looked benign but were surely just pretending that they couldn't rip out our larynx with a casual swipe of their giant paw, Rollie started up with his 'What if's'.

We stood before a sleek and restless leopard pacing its pen and while I tried to encourage my children to marvel at the splendor of the animal kingdom, Rollie had different ideas.

Me: Isn't he beautiful?
Rollie: ...What if I was in there with him?
Me: Um...I don't think you'd want to be in there with him.
Rollie: Why not?
Me: ...Because he might think you're food.
Rollie: Why?
Me: Because leopards eat little animals for dinner, and you'd probably look like a little animal to him.
Rollie: But I'm wearing sneakers.
Me: I know. Still, you're little and fast, like an animal he might want to...you know...eat.
Rollie: But I'm super fast with my sneakers. What if I could run away from him?
Me: Rollie, it's a leopard. They're even faster than you are.
Rollie: What if he couldn't catch me?
Me: ...Well then maybe you guys could be friends. (Hell, what do I know about the temperament of leopards? Maybe when their stomachs are full they like to just hang out with other animals, laze around and shoot the breeze and engage in the occasional footrace.)

Dow-chicka-wow

We entered the snake exhibit, and after wrangling Elsa back into the stroller, I found Rollie standing in front of a glass enclosure, his mouth agape. I wandered over to him, and saw he was staring at an ENORMOUS anaconda. This thing was HUGE.  The Dirk Diggler of the animal world. And even with four inches of snake-proof glass between us and him, I somehow felt very vulnerable, like he was picturing how nicely his body would fit around us, how the sound of our bones crunching in his coils would be music to his ears...wherever they were.

And then Rollie's voice broke through my horrific reverie:

Rollie: What if I was in there with that anaconda?
Me: Trust me, you would not want to be in there with that thing.
Rollie: What would he do if I was in there?
Me: Probably eat you.
Rollie: But what if I was nice to him?
Me: I don't think it matters to him if you're nice or not. He probably eats nice animals every day.
Rollie: Like what nice animals does he eat?
Me: I don't know, like deer and zebras and stuff. (Yes, we have come a long way since the lion conversations we used to have a year ago.)
Rollie: What if he let me pet him?
Me: ...If he let you pet him, I guess you'd get to feel his skin.
Rollie: And then would he bite me?
Me: Anacondas don't really bite. But they squeeze.
Rollie: ...I like being squeezed.

I'm sure there was a huge discrepancy between what Rollie thought would happen with each scenarios he broached, and what actually would happen. All day long I had mental pictures of my son being eaten, squeezed to death, mauled, trampled, and impaled on a giant rhinoceros horn, while he was probably picturing himself lying in the sun with his new BFF's--the jaguars and the lions. They were furry, and probably soft. And cuddly. Until they got hungry.

Rollie's 'what if's' brought to mind this book my dad used to read to my siblings and I when we were little, entitled Peep of Day. It was a devotional book, but of course the only passage that we really cared about was all about how fragile the human body is (and this is an actual quote taken directly from the book...I think it was printed in the 1800's or something. Back when it was totally okay to terrify children into submission.  It's actually not such a bad idea now, come to think of it):

"How easy it would be to hurt your poor little body! If it were to fall into the fire, it would be burned up. If hot water were thrown upon it, it would be scalded. If it were to fall into deep water, and not be taken out very soon, it would be drowned. If a great knife were to run through your body, the blood would come out. If a great box were to fall on your head, your head would be crushed. If you were to fall out of the window, your neck would be broken."

I know...how messed up is that? And there we sat, my siblings and I, snickering at the disgusting visuals of our bodies being torched, exsanguinated, drowned, and sustaining massive head wounds. This was the foundation of my childhood: What if (dot dot dot)?

Now that he's almost 4, Rollie seems ready to handle the brutal truths of his imagination. Are leopards friendly? Hell no. Do raccoons bite? Yeah, especially rabid ones. Do giraffes like to be pet? Only if you're about to shove a head of romaine lettuce into their pie-holes.

Which is why I felt compelled to buy him a big, stuffed anaconda from the gift shop on the way out. So he could at least pretend that anacondas are soft, furry, and they love to cuddle up at night with absolutely no desire to suffocate him in his sleep. I don't, however, think I'll be reading him Peep of Day anytime soon.

Rollie Loves Chotchkies

Rollie has this piggy bank on his dresser. He's had it since he was born, and every time Jeff or I have extra change, we slip it inside the piggy bank (and until we start a 529 for him, this will also be his main source of college funds...well, that and the full academic/soccer/trumpet/pottery scholarship he will also get...to Yale).

Lately, Rollie's been accessing his college funds by way of climbing onto his dresser and removing the piggy bank from its perch beside his Dusty Rhodes bobblehead doll (I know...I don't know who that is either, but it was a free giveaway at a minor league baseball game last year. This is why we are running out of space in our house and our garden tub sometimes doubles as a guest bed: random chotchkies like bobblehead dolls, happy meal toys and stuffed animals that procreate like dirty laundry).

What Rollie garners from his piggy bank he puts inside a little wallet shaped like a tiger's face--another free chotchkie from our grocery store--and comes to me announcing that he has enough money to buy something at Target. And that's when Rollie gets a little lesson in economics (at least I think it would be in economics....what little I remember from that class is largely overshadowed by the distracting bionic nipples my high school economics had. They poked through the five undershirts he wore, sometimes scraping along the blackboard like hard, hairy fingernails as he wrote).

Rollie: Momma, can we go to Target? I want to buy something.
Me: With what, your good looks?
Rollie: I have lots of money, see? He jingles his tiger wallet in my face.
Me: Oooo...how much ya got in there?
Rollie: Um...probably forty-seven dollars.
Me: In change? I'm not sure about that, bud.
Rollie: Well, maybe I have eleven.
Me: That's quite a disparity. Want me to help you count it?
Rollie obligingly dumps out his earnings and together we count out the change.
Rollie: See, Momma, I have eleven.
Me: Rollie, you have sixty-two cents.
Rollie: Is that a lot?
Me: Not really.
Rollie: ...How much is a lot?
Me: Well, it depends....
Rollie: Is eleven a lot?
Me: ...It's a lot of like, cockroaches. It's not really a lot of money....
Rollie: ...Is seventy a lot?
Me: Yes. That would be a lot. Unless you wanted to buy a car or something.
Rollie: ...What can I  buy with this?
Me: Um...I can't think of anything that only costs sixty-two cents at Target.
Rollie: ...Can I have some more money? Can I have seventy dollars?
Me: No, but let's see if we can find you some more quarters.

We pillaged his piggy bank and managed to dig up about $10 in quarters. Not bad for a kid whose main source of income is what he finds in parking lots and beside vending machines.

And with Rollie's tiger wallet stuffed to the whiskers in change, we headed through the drizzle to Target.

Ah, Target. Where would a Stay-At-Home mom be without Target? That beautiful red and white bullseye is nothing if not hypnotic; a zen-like calm overcomes me every time I see it glowing through the gloom, as visions of disinfectant wipes, paper towels in bulk and Easter candy wipe my troubles clean away. Target is my refuge, my go-to place in times of turmoil or on days when the weather is crappy, the kids are driving me nuts and a perfect 20-minute drive followed by an hour of wandering up and down the tidy, pleasantly-arranged aisles cures all ills.

I follow Elsa and Rollie around the toy section, commenting on the various toys they admire and test while I sneak sips of their Icees and check my email. Everything is serene. Everyone is happy. Oooolllmmmmmm.....

We get to the aisle with the toys from Cars, and Rollie's second lesson in nip--I mean economics begins:

Rollie: What can I buy here?
Me: Well, you can have any of those cars up there, or these here. Or, you can get a couple of little things.
Rollie: Okay...I want to get this one. He selects a giant semi-trailer, it's grill grinning out from the extensive packaging.
Me: Um...not that one. That one is thirty dollars. You only have ten, remember?
Rollie: But do you have thirty dollars?
Me: Rollie, I have even less money than you do right now.
Rollie: Okay...how about this one? He points to a box of cars from the movie, also overpriced and overpackaged.
Me: Don't you already have all these cars?
Rollie: But these ones are super shiny.
Me: Well if you'd stop playing Smash 'Em with your cars, they'd stay shiny, too.
Rollie: Can I please have these?
Me: Rollie, they cost more money then you have. You can spend ten dollars. Or you don't even have to spend it all--you can save some of it for later, until you have more to buy what you really want.
Rollie: No, I want to spend it now. What can I get?
Me: I told you, hon--any of these right here. Or we can look at Star Wars stuff, too.
Rollie: No. I just want Cars stuff.
Me: Okay, well...try to decide. I follow Elsa down the aisle, where she has become enamored with this awful talking garbage truck that tells jokes, moves, and, God help me...farts. Where oh where are we headed as a nation when toys like a flatulating garbage truck turn into something kids actually want and parents will actually fork over the fifty dollars for?*


Then I hear Rollie mumble from up the aisle:

Rollie: I can't decide what I want.
Me: Maybe you should just get something small and save the rest of your money.
He doesn't answer, but wanders over to where Elsa is staring fixedly on Stinky the Garbage Truck.
Rollie: Can I buy that?
Me: Absolutely not. I don't think I would let you even if you had enough money.
Rollie: Why not?
Me: Because he's loud and obnoxious. I could only imagine life with Stinky the Garbage Truck in our house.... it would be like living with a bachelor uncle who stays in the basement and is trying to get a stand-up career off the ground. Kinda like Uncle Joey from Full House, only with better punchlines.
Rollie: Why is he obnoxious?
Me: ...So did you decide what you wanted to get?
Rollie: Well...if I can't get the garbage truck...and I can't get those cars...I guess I'll just have this. He picks up a remote controlled speedboat, also out of his price range, and hands it to me.
Me: Rollie, this stuff you can ask for for your birthday. But right now you can't afford this.
Rollie: But I really want it.
Me: I understand. That's part of life honey--you've just got to pick out what you can pay for today. Or start saving your money for later.
Rollie: .....
Me: Maybe you can start doing chores around the house and earning money that way.
Rollie: What are chores?
Me: Like cleaning your room. And putting your clothes in the laundry.
Rollie: I put my jammies in the laundry yesterday. Can I have some money?
Me: Well, that's not quite what I was thinking....plus I don't have any money.

Rollie wanders back to where the Cars stuff is. His eyes scan the multitude of brightly colored boxes and labels and prices he can't yet read. I wonder if any of this is sinking in, or if this is just a lesson for me to start taking my kids to the library on rainy days.

Finally he selects a race car that he doesn't yet have from the movie.

Rollie: Can I have this one?
Me: Yes, you can. You sure this is what you want?
Rollie: Yes. Do I have enough money?
Me: Yep. And you'll have some leftover, too
Rollie: Okay....Can we go to the mall?

Today is another rainy day. Thankfully, Rollie has school, and his college fund has been depleted to a bunch of pennies, nickels, and souvenir daubloons from the Fountain of Youth. It will take a while for him to earn enough money to buy Stinky The Garbage Truck; by then another loud, obnoxious toy will probably have taken its place. Like a life-size David Coulier doll that comes with over a hundred catch phrases. "Cut It Out!"

*I just read online that Stinky The Garbage Truck also eats little Matchbox cars and poops them out. I suppose they are the source of his terrible gas. I can't make this stuff up, folks.

Scarface

Well, Rollie almost made it to his fourth birthday before his first trip to the ER.

I guess it was likely to happen at some point. Kids hurt themselves all the time. Jumping off of moving swings, double-bouncing on trampolines, bicycle crashes, unfortunate Wet Banana mishaps. I'm kind of surprised the nation's ER's aren't clogged with kids who have just tried a neat trick with a homemade catapult involving a tree branch and their little sister.

Or who, like Rollie, stood up in a bathtub despite their mother's constant chirpings that doing so will result in them slipping and splitting their chins open like so many lobster tails. Mommy is always right.

Every guy I think I've ever known has a scar on his chin. What is up with that? Guys are always smacking themselves on the chin. Every grown man I know is unable to grow facial hair on a small line on their chin due to a childhood scar. Why is the male species so careless with such an important part of its face? The chin is always described in romance novels--one of the first things you hear about is a man's chiseled chin or a cleft in his chin or a chin that could cut through the strings of the bodice that could scarcely contain her heaving bosom. Yet men everywhere are engaged in such chin-desecrating practices as diving face-first into coffee tables, standing too close to friends wielding baseball bats, or trying to break up two people fighting over the last can of vienna sausages at the local Piggly Wiggly.

Luckily Jeff stepped through the bathroom door just as I sat there, holding a washcloth to Rollie's chin, wondering how I was going to get it together enough to assess the damage, dress everyone and bundle them off to the nearest hospital. Jeff stayed home with Elsa and Rollie and I piled into the car to make the journey northward. Rollie requested he bring a few items to keep him company, and of course I would have allowed he bring pretty much anything his little heart desired, even if that meant dragging in the life-sized cardboard cut-out of Donald Sutherland we keep hidden beneath our bed to ward off vampires. 

Instead, I buckled Rollie into the car with a cup of chocolate milk, a plastic pirate hook, a plastic sword, a Lightning McQueen car, and Jeff's iPad. And we were off.

Emergency Rooms are scary places. And this is coming from a thirty-something-year-old woman. I can't imagine how scary it must have been to poor Rollie, huddled behind me at the checkout counter, giant band-aide affixed to his chin as people shuffled by in hospital masks and bags under their eyes, or lay down across the wooden chairs, in various stages of consciousness and pain. It made me incredibly grateful that this was not a place I've ever had to go with my children. 

While I signed us in, a woman sat not ten feet away from us in a wheelchair, apparently going into full-on, stage-five labor. Her shrieks echoed off the disinfected tile, sending Rollie into a leg-clinging, eye-watering panic I haven't seen since his first day of preschool. I tried to reassure him that the lady would be okay as I desperately tried to remember his social security number. (I felt like telling the lady that labor was the easy part...it's the next twenty years of her life that will make her want to scream like that).

I led Rollie over to a nice, relatively non-upsetting corner of the waiting room, where we spent the next 45 minutes eating Rasinettes and racing each other in our marble maze app--Rollie on my phone and I on the iPad (side note: he kicked my butt. I'm starting to worry that ten years from now I'm gonna be one of those parents who begs her children to show her what this crazy, newfangled internet is all about).

Then the nurse called Rollie back to check his vitals. It brought on some comic relief, since the male nurse sounded straight of the set of Fargo:

Nurse: How ya doin', little buddy?

Rollie: .....

Me: Rollie, say hi.

Rollie: hi.

Nurse: Well, let's have a look atcha, alrighty?

Rollie: .....

Me: It's okay, Rol-Rol. He's here to help you.

Nurse: We'll getcha all fixed up real good now. Okey doke?

Rollie: ....Ok....

Nurse: And then we'll have ya outta here real quick. Alrighty? Whatcha do to yer chin there?

Me: He slipped in the tub.

Nurse: Ouch. Bet that didn't feel real good now, did it?

Rollie shakes his head.  And I wonder if this cheesehead is super-duper excited that them there Packers are goin' to the Superbowl, dontcha know?

Nurse: Alrighty now, let's getcha back here so they can fix up that chin-a yer's, okey doke?

Rollie's new bad-ass chin

We were whisked away to a quiet corner of the wing, where another nurse taped Rollie's chin back together and bandaged it up. I bribed him with promises of Icees and milkshakes if he held still long enough for the nurse to see what she was doing. All your friends will be super impressed with your chin, I told him as I held his hand and wiped the tears from his face. You'll be a celebrity at school. Elsa will be so jealous with all the attention you'll get. Because isn't that the best part about getting hurt like that? The attention, sympathy and celebrity status that comes after a childhood injury? That's how I managed to get attention in my family--constantly needing stitches (okay, so twice....two of the best days of my life. My family nickname is still Buttscar, after a rather unfortunate sledding accident. Kids, don't ever try to slide down a snow-covered hill that was littered with sharp rusty objects just that autumn--the rusty objects are still there).

Rollie did pretty well, all things considered. He was racing Lightning McQueen up and down the hospital bed by the time I paid my bill and we were discharged.

On the drive home, we could see the winking lights of the hospital from the interstate. And the following conversation ensued:

Rollie: That looks like a bunch of ice cubes.

Me: Yeah, it kinda does at night, doesn't it?

Rollie: Why is the hospital so big?

Me: Because all kinds of people have to go there...people having babies...people who hurt themselves like you did...people who are sick...people who go to work there.

Rollie: People who run out of toys.

Me: I don't think running out of toys means you have to go to the hospital.

Rollie: It means you have to go to Target.

Me: ...Yeah, I guess that's one place you can go.

After a few minutes I think he's asleep, but then he pipes back up:

Rollie: When I can drive, I want a big black van.
Me: You thinking of joining the Secret Service?
Rollie: I want a van like Auntie Amy's.

Me: Oh yeah? A minivan? What would you want inside, a tv?

Rollie: I'd want a little tiny mouse. And a little tiny bed and a little tiny blanket.

Me: That sounds comfy. Would you drive the mouse around?

Rollie: Yes I would.

Me: Where would you take the mouse?

Rollie: Wherever it wanted to go. It would just tell me where it wanted to go and I would take it there.

Me: Like Target?

Rollie: Yes, and I would buy him whatever he wanted.

Me: You'll have to make sure you have a job so you can make enough money to buy it whatever it wanted.

Rollie: ...Well, I would buy it an Icee. And maybe one toy.

Me: That sounds good.

After a few minutes, I checked in the rearview mirror and saw the sillohuette of his head bent to one side and faintly heard the soft, rhythmic sound of him breathing. I hoped he was dreaming of chauffeuring his hypothetical mouse to Target, where they could share an Icee and browse the toy aisle to their hearts' content.

The Oy Of Parenting

Now that Elsa has turned two and Rollie is almost four, I've noticed a profound difference between them:

Rollie is an angel, and Elsa is...well...two.

All I can say is, I'm so glad I've been documenting Rollie's life in this blog since he was two. So now I can look back and think, Oh yeah, so Rollie used to (insert horrific, deliberately insolent behavior here) all the time. So it's not that Elsa is Rosemary's Two-Year-Old*. She's just doing what parenting magazines everywhere like to gently label Testing Her Boundaries. Which is the progressive, 2011 term for being a total shithead.

I don't think she means to be a total shithead. And I'm not being fair when I say total shithead. It's not all the time. Sometimes, she's actually the better behaved of the two. Like, when she's sleeping. Or when I'm sleeping, and I am visited in the middle of the night not by a two-year-old demanding a cup of milk and that I turn on every blessed light in the house because she's scared of some nameless, nebulous and indescribable monster that may or may not look like a lion, but by an almost-four-year-old who has been told over and over that he'd better stop waking mommy up in the middle of her Matt Damon fantasy dream or so help her she will snatch every Cars-related item from his room, put them in a garbage bag and smash them to bits with a baseball bat.

It's the other 14 or so hours of the day when pretty everything turns into a battle. Even the most mundane requests I have of her: Elsa, please come here so I can put on your socks. Elsa, let's go pick up Rollie from school. Elsa, let me wipe of your hands before you pet the dog and end up with long, furry mittens, turns into a mind game more complicated than the ones Hannibal Lecter must play on a first date. I have to plan out how I'm going to present the next task/chore/outing/command to her so that it will be met with the least resistance. And by resistance I mean Elsa giving me a shit-eating grin and running in the opposite direction (usually her closet, where she slides the door shut and waits for me to start threatening her to come out...she knows darn well I'm not going to slide the door open because I did this once and ended up catching her hand in the crack where the doors overlap. I felt terrible, and she got away with whatever it was I was about to punish her for. Smart little bugger.).

It's exhausting. All the chasing around and barking commands and manhandling and cleaning bodily fluids from the floor. I feel like Charlie Sheen's personal assistant (Hey-Yo!). But I guess that's how it's supposed to be, right? We mothers wouldn't get half the respect we do if every time we asked our children to do something, they actually, you know...did it. Like the first time (or I'd take the second of third time and still be impressed). That's all part of the Joy of Parenting. And lately, Elsa is heaping on and extra dose of Joy.

And what's up with Rollie suddenly being a total angel lately? I ask him to do something, and I'm stunned when his response is: "Okay, Momma."  I'm like....Wait, what? You mean I don't have to come back with my arsenal of reasons why I want you to wash your hands the instant you get home from school? You mean I don't have to plead with you to get into the car, or pick up your toys, or eat your broccoli? But I've gotten so good at rationalizing with a 3-year-old. I've gotten my rebuttals and counter-rebuttals down pat. I don't even have to resort to Because I Said So anymore with him. It's so easy it's almost no fun.

Then I think back to all the stunts Rollie used to pull when he was two, and I realize that this is just beginning with Elsa. Soon I'll be celebrating opposite days and yell-fests in her honor instead of Rollie's. And we've still got another one coming. You'd think I would have it all figured out by the time kid number 3 rolls around. But you know better.

Plus, she's so darn cute. Sometimes looking at her goofy face is all I need to get over myself and all the little daily irritants and laugh at my daughter and give her a big bear hug. If I can catch her.

Especially when she tries to bag her own feet as evidence. I've yet to find the crime scene.

*Wouldn't Rosemary's Two-Year-Old be a great sequel to Rosemary's Baby? "What happens when Satan's Spawn starts throwing tantrums in the middle of a crowded Disney Store? Find out in Rosemary's Two-Year-Old. Starring Charlie Sheen."