Things I'm Thankful For

I know it's a little late, but as the rest of my family sleeps off a pumpkin-pie-induced food-coma, I wanted to stop and list a few things I am thankful for:

My house--it has a split floor-plan. Meaning Jeff and I are on the other side of the house and if I turn the monitor off at night, it's almost like we don't have children.

My car--it has a nifty rearview mirror, allowing me to see what's going on in the back and yell at Rollie just before he sticks his dirty socks into Elsa's waiting mouth.

My TV--it is the greatest babysitter I've ever had, and I don't have to worry about Jeff running off with it into the night...mainly because it's too heavy for him to carry.

My dog--his nightly ritual of cleaning up after my children's dinner saves me the hassle of doing it myself.  And it saves me a fortune in dog food.

My local grocery store--those two seater carts with built-in steering wheels have provided my children hours of entertainment as I shop.  Plus the extra crumbs Elsa finds lodged in the seat cracks saves me from having to feed her later.

My internet connection--for being fast and dependable and never, ever going out on me.  I'm almost curious to see how I'd fare if it ever DID go out...I suppose as long as there was plenty of beer in the fridge I'd be okay.

My microwave--I've said it before and I'll say it again: God Bless Its Inventor.  Were it not for my microwave, my children would eat their own fingers waiting for me to actually cook something the old fashioned way.  I'm also thankful for Steam Fresh vegetables.  They are often the only source of non-fruit, food-pyramid sustenance my children get all day.

My DVR--Not only does it unfailingly provide hours of entertainment in the way of recorded Wubzy and Wonder Pets episodes for my kids, it's also there for me when I desperately want to watch 30 Rock but am so exhausted I accidentally put both contact lenses in the same case and the next day end up with 20/10 vision in one eye and 20/2000 vision in the other.

And Finally, My Family--Despite everything I write that might imply the contrary, I adore my children.  I mean, if they were perfect angels all the time, what would I write about?  Who wants to read anything about a kid who never drew on the carpet with Magic Marker or stick his penis down the bathtub drain?  Who wants to know about a baby who always ignored the dog food bowl and never bit her big brother on the back? People LOVE rubber-necking over the misdeeds of other people's kids.  I know I do.  I used to mentally shake my head and judge other parents who yelled at their kids in public or promised them candy if they stopped having a tantrum in the middle of the mall.  Now I have to stop myself from walking up to the parents with my blog website scrawled on a napkin, like an AA sponsor handing out his number to a stumbling alcoholic, and telling them, "You are not alone."

Oh yeah, and I'm thankful for my husband.  He rocks.

The Bad Egg

Sometimes I worry that I'm raising Rollie to be a brat.

I mean, every kid is bratty sometimes, right?  At one point in their little lives, kids talk back to their parents, have temper tantrums, hit their baby sisters with foam baseball bats and spit masticated microwave sausages onto the floor, right?

I guess I don't have a huge mode of comparison.  I know I wasn't really a brat when I was a kid.  I mean, I got in my fair share of trouble, and got spanked a few times (though probably not nearly enough).  I can still feel the hard pinch from my mother's angry fingers as she sat beside me in church and hissed at me to sing along in the hymnal.  And her favorite thing to accuse me of was being fresh.  But this is all I remember.  To me these things don't include me in the brat category.

So what does categorize a kid as being a brat?  Or do kids just behave like brats every once in a while, just to remind you that you really aren't the one in charge, that you really don't have control over them in any way, shape or form?  That once you can no longer manhandle them into their carseat as they kick and scream, you're pretty much screwed?  Is there some magic number of times a kid pulls a bratty stunt, say, refusing to come when you shout down the cereal aisle at Publix at him, or sticking his feet in his baby sister's face and then screaming when she bites him on the heel, before you can safely label that child a huge, gigantic BRAT?

I'm only asking because the other day as I fed Rollie and Elsa dinner and Jeff unloaded the dishwasher, the following exchange took place:

Rollie: Momma, I think my tummy is full.
Me (after examining his plate to discover he's already learned the ol' Push-The-Food-Around-The-Plate trick): Rollie you need to eat some more.
Rollie: Um, no thanks.  I think I'm good.
Me: Rollie, you hardly ate anything.  You need to eat more spaghetti.
Rollie (already starting to climb down from his chair): No, I want some ice cream.
Me: No way.  No ice cream until you eat more dinner.
Rollie: No, I want ice cream.
Me: Are you kidding me?  Get back in your seat and eat a few more bites.
Rollie (now running toward the couch in the adjoining room): Noooooooooo!
Me (still trying to feed Elsa her dinner, which she's suddenly decided she hates and is letting me know by screaming and smearing it around on her high chair tray): Rollie, sit down Right Now and Eat.
Rollie: Nooooo!  I DON'T. WANT. TO.
Jeff: Rollie, you are a brat.  Go sit and eat.

I don't remember how the rest of the conversation went, except that eventually Jeff got Rollie to sit in his chair and eat almost half his dinner.  Pretty impressive.

The reason I don't remember is after Jeff called Rollie a brat, I sort of retreated into a self-berating shame spiral.  Jeff was right.  Rollie was being a brat.  And it was my fault.  I was letting him get away with speaking to me like a pre-school Veruca Salt about to go down the Bad Egg chute.  There's no telling how long it's been going on, either.  Since he could talk?  Even longer?  Sheesh.

Before we had kids I remember making a pact with Jeff that we wouldn't have bratty kids.  We would teach them manners.  They would always say 'please' and 'thank-you'.  They would never have a meltdown in a grocery store.  They wouldn't hit, bite, kick or pull hair.  And they sure wouldn't talk back to us.  God, what were we thinking?

I mean, Rollie's not always a brat.  He has his charming moments.  He's really only a brat when he thinks he can get away with it.  Like when I'm holding Elsa and she's pooped through her clothes and I have to perform an Emergency Tub Dunking and I need Rollie to bring me a towel from the closet and not only does he not bring me a towel but he turns off the bathroom light and shuts the door on me, leaving me to feel my way to the switch with a squirming, stinky baby in my arms.  That, I believe, qualifies him as a brat.

And when I yell at him for being naughty and closing the door on me, he returns all innocent-eyed and says, "It was an accident, Momma."

That, I believe, qualifies him as a manipulative little shit.

Jekyll and Hyde Ain't Got Nuthin on Rollie

So apparently Rollie has acquired a split-personality.

Yesterday, sometime around 3 o'clock, my darling son transformed himself from the happy, agreeable, only slightly rambunctious and this close to potty-trained little boy he'd been all day into a spitting, toy-throwing, floor-peeing, sister-squishing monster.

It was quite miraculous, really. One minute he was diligently building his train set and occasionally glancing up at the TV to catch glimpses of his new favorite character (Wubzy) while I checked email and puttered around in the kitchen, the next thing I knew, he was jumping up and down on the couch, and when I told him to get down, he did a flying leap into the middle of his train tracks and started kicking over bridges and overpasses he'd just set up. And when I asked him to stop doing that, he attempted to do a cartwheel over Elsa, who up until then had spent the last five minutes trying to pick up a piece of grass embedded in the carpet. Unfortunately, Rollie is not a gymnast--he ended up doing a barrel roll and fell flat on Elsa's back.

I sent him to his room, where he stayed for a total of twenty seconds before running out clutching every blanket he could find from his room and flinging them over Elsa's head. And then he went for another cartwheel, though this time he really didn't make it, and kicked Elsa in the face (at least I think so--it was sort of hard to tell which end of hers was up beneath all the blankets).

The only reason I didn't immediately bind Rollie to his booster seat with duct tape was that I knew exactly why he was behaving this way: No Nap. On days when Rollie decides he'd rather play with every conceivable toy in his bedroom (and hence scatter them around so that by the time I discover what he's up to I can hardly see the carpet beneath the mess), his personality deteriorates. Rapidly. Perhaps you, too, have noticed the final stage in what I like to think of as the Stages Of Consciousness. The first few stages, Awake&Normal, Borderline Functional, and Whiny I can deal with fairly well. But all the Over-Tired stage makes me want to do is get in my car and drive. Away. Like, super-duper fast.

Let's examine this fascinating final stage more closely, shall we? Since we all have so much time to read anything longer than instructions on the back of a box of macaroni and cheese.

Over-Tired. We can break this stage into two sub-stages. Your child’s disposition will determine which sub-stage he falls into, although some children will vacillate between the two, or in special cases, occupy both at the same time.

Over-Tired Silly. This stage is when appendages flail for no apparent reason, when any instructions you may give will bounce off like pebbles off bullet-proof glass. This is also the stage that will most likely result in a trip to the ER, because while there is normally little regard for his own well-being, when a child is Over-Tired Silly, there is absolutely none. While he might be somewhat cautious when he scales his baby gate, when he is Over-Tired Silly, all bets are off. Distance judgment becomes severely impaired or vanishes completely; a child in the Awake&Normal phase might see a three-foot leap from the coffee table to the couch as risky and dangerous, an OTS child sees it as an absolute hoot, and will perform the jump over and over until he either injures himself and becomes Over-Tired Miserable, or you scream I can’t take it anymore and retreat to your bathtub with an entire box of wine. If this is the case, he will still be performing this maneuver, but will no longer have you to torment with it.

And while the OTS stage is annoying, exhausting, yet somehow kind of amusing all at once, it is by far a better stage to deal with than…

Over-Tired Miserable. This stage is exactly as it sounds. Your child is over-tired and he is making you miserable. He’s miserable, too, of course, but Over-Tired Miserable has a Midas effect. Everything and everyone an Over-Tired Miserable child touches will also become miserable. This is when tears spring forth if the child is so much as breathed on the wrong way. When any suggestion is met with a ‘no’, even if you’re suggesting a visit to Santa Claus himself coupled with a promise that every wish and dream the child has ever had is about to come true. This is the absolute last stop on the express train to Unconsciousness-ville. Not much can be done with an Over-Tired Miserable, except to deposit him in the nearest bed and hope sleep comes soon. And then you can have a drink, because anyone dealing with an Over-Tired Miserable child for any amount of time deserves to be richly rewarded. In my book that means with alcohol. Big surprise.

Mother By Numbers

Time Rollie woke up yesterday morning: 5:23

Number of blueberries I put on his breakfast plate: 18

Number of blueberries he actually ate: 3

Number of his blueberries I ate: 15

Number of balls I pitched to him during The Today Show: 21

Number of times I told him to get off of Baby Elsa or he'll squish her: 12

Number of times I asked him if he had to use the potty: 10

Number of times I asked him if he was sure he didn't have to use the potty: 10

Number of times he actually sat on the potty: 3

Number of time he actually went in the potty: 0

Number of times he peed directly onto the floor: 1

Number of towels I used to clean up the mess: 2

Number of pacifiers scattered around the house for Baby Elsa: 4

Number of pacifiers I was able to locate: 0

Number of minutes Elsa spent half-heartedly crying because I couldn't find her pacifier: 7

Number of times I contemplated getting my tubes tied: 6

Number of episodes of Ni-Hao Kai-Lan Rollie watched: 2

Number of times Rollie climbed in Elsa's crib: 3

Number of time Rollie climbed into Elsa's crib with Elsa in it: 2

Number of times I threatened to spank Rollie's bottom: 16

Number of times I actually spanked Rollie's bottom: 2

Number of times I should have spanked Rollie's bottom: at least 20

Number of times I thought to myself, "Calgon, take me away!": 9

Number of years since I've actually seen that commercial: like, 18, and I finally get it.

Number of minutes late my husband was coming home from work: 90

Number of seconds he was in the door before I threw the kids at him and hid: 2

Number of times Rollie got out of bed after being tucked in: 4

Number of times I sang Little Rollie to him: 3

Number of Family Guy episodes Jeff and I watched after the kids were finally sleeping: 2

Number of beers I drank while watching Family Guy: 1.5

Number of M&M's I ate while drinking beer and watching Family Guy: approximately 47

Time I went to bed: 9:43

Number of times I got out of bed to settle down Elsa: 4

Number of times I got out of bed to stop the dog from snoring: 1

Number of times I elbowed Jeff to stop him from snoring: 2

Time Rollie woke up today: 5:20

Liar, Liar, Mom-Jeans On Fire

Since Rollie has been old enough to start asking for things, I have discovered that I am a big, fat liar.

I think this is part of being a mom--for the longest time I truly believed that my parents were going to buy me a horse. And not just buy me a horse, but build a fence in our backyard for the horse to live. For years I envisioned a beautiful brown horse with a white nose sleeping in my playhouse, and coming to my window in the morning, where I would lean out and feed it carrots for breakfast and stroke his long muzzle, and then leap from my windowsill and only his broad back so he could take me to school. I imagined how jealous my classmates would be as they climbed off of the boring yellow school bus, and here I'd come galloping up astride my very own horse.

It was my mother who fanned the flames of this fantasy. I distinctly remember discussing with her the possiblility of our getting a horse on several occasions.

Me: Mom, can we get a horse?

My Mom: We'll see.

Me (the wheels already spinning) : Could we keep him in the backyard?

My Mom: Maybe. It's big enough for one.

Me: Would we need a barn?

My Mom: Your playhouse is big enough for a horse.

Me: When can we get one?

My Mom: I don't know. I've always wanted a horse.

Me (hardly believing my luck that here, all this time, my mother and I both wanted a horse and now here we were, having an actual discussion about the possibility of getting one. To an eight-year-old girl, that's as good as a yes): Me, too.

Needless to say, I'm still waiting for my mom to make good on that little promise.

But the other day, I found myself having a similar discussion with Rollie. He wasn't asking for anything as elaborate as a hooved animal for a pet, but the intensity of his desire for a Lightning McQueen remote control car was very familiar. As was my response.....

Rollie (as we walk down the toy aisle at Target): Lightning McQueen!

Me: I see him.

Rollie: Can I have him please, Momma?

Me: You don't really need him, baby.

Rollie: He goes super fast!

Me: Yes he does.

Rollie (now removing the Lightning McQueen car from the shelf and walking toward our cart with it): Can I have him, Momma?

Me: Not today, Rollie. Maybe another time.

Cut!

I know damn well I'm never going to buy this remote control car for my son. A. He has a bajillion cars at home, B. This Lightning McQueen fetish is a phase he is currently at the pinnacle of, and so if I were to wait until say, Christmas to buy this thing, he will play with it for a total of five seconds before either he gets sick of it or it breaks, and C. if I say yes to every impulse buy of his, I'd already be in some serious credit card debt.

But the phrase Not Today...therein lies the problem. Not Today leaves open the possibility of tomorrow, and every other subsequent day from now until he gets a job and can buy his own toys. Not Today leaves a sliver of hope. Not Today's main function is to cut off any tantrum, bout of begging or other such spectacle before it even begins. But Not Today, to a two-year-old, is also as good as a Yes.

Yet I find myself using Not Today or a variation of it in all kinds of situations. If he asks for a trip to the beach and I know I'm not taking him, I say "Maybe." If he wants to watch Cars (again), but if I have to hear Lightning McQueen say "Cka-CHOW" one more time I'm going to stab myself in the ear in the ear with a crazy straw, I say "Not right now." Which of course, to a two-year-old, means "Any time after Now." Which is why he asks again two minutes later. Sigh.

And that's not all I lie about. I tell him the orange scribbles on his paper look exactly like the dinosaur he said he drew. I tell him he did a great job putting his pants on even though they're on backwards and both of his legs are shoved into one pant-leg. I let him believe in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, that birdies and lizards who cross his path are saying hello to him. It's no wonder kids his age are completely egocentric. It's parents like me who perpetuate that attitude.

But in all fairness, I understand why we do it. Why we lie. I understand that we do it to keep our children happy, to protect them from some of the ugly truths in life. They have plenty of time to figure it out without us telling them they suck at getting dressed or can't draw for crap.

I am, however, still waiting for my pet horse....

Momma Don't Got Your Back, Son

It's your typical afternoon in the Scott household. I'm taking a stab at preparing something edible in the kitchen, Elsa is writhing around on the floor, somewhere between semi-irritable and completely miserable, and Rollie is busily arranging our throw pillows so that they rest between the couch and the coffee table, forming a tunnel he can crawl through.

Soon I tire of Elsa's pathetic whines for food, sleep and attention, and so I sit her in her little activity tri-pod and ask Rollie to entertain her. Then I retreat to the kitchen, my back now to my children. I hear Elsa whine a few more times, but then her mood suddenly brightens, and she begins to chuckle.

"Thank you, Rollie," I call. "You're a good big brother."

His reply is a loud, "UGH!" and I hear the pitter-patter of feet on wood. Except we don't have a wooden floor.

I'm almost afraid to look.

When I do, I see Rollie, clad in just a diaper, standing atop our coffee table, Elsa looking on in total delight. Then he leaps over the tunnel he built and lands on his back, feet in the air, and yells, "Tah-DAH!" Elsa laughs and squeals, egging him on.

"Wow," I say. "That's quite a trick, Rol." I don't scold. I don't yell. How can I, really? I'm the big idiot who told a two-year-old to entertain his little sister. I didn't specify no acrobatics on the furniture, no flying leaps in your diaper, no attempts to defy gravity in the house. In fact, I pull out the video camera, because this is one of those moments that's even funnier in retrospect.

Then my husband comes home. Cue the lighting crash.

We're back in the kitchen, my husband and me, and in the middle of telling me about his day, my husband suddenly shouts, "Rollie, get down from there Right Now."

I don't have to look this time. I know damn well Rollie is doing the ol' jump-from-the-coffee-table-and-onto-the-couch trick.

Apparently, Rollie made it known that he wasn't about to get down from anywhere Right Now. Because my husband springs into action, striding across the kitchen and into the family room. Dadda means business.

"Rollie," my husband says, "we don't stand on the coffee table and we don't jump on the furniture. That's naughty. I know Momma doesn't let you do that, right?"

Rollie doesn't respond. I don't know if he's trying to protect me, or if he really doesn't know if jumping on the furniture falls under my umbrella of restricted behavior. And I hate to admit it--I really do--but I'm not about to turn myself in. All I do is stand in the kitchen and try like hell to not meet my son's questioning, confused eyes. And I make a mental note to delete the footage I took earlier, the proof that not only do I indeed allow Rollie to jump on the furniture, I encourage it.

Much to my relief, my husband drops the subject and starts horsing around with Rollie on the floor, and all is forgotten. By them, anyway. I'm left wondering just what is worse--letting Rollie hurl himself from various elevated surfaces in the house for my daughter's amusement, or not coming clean about it. Does that make me a bad mom, or a liar? I guess it makes me both. Well, at least I learned my lesson....Next time I tell Rollie to cheer up his sister, I'll add the clause: No Furniture Jumping--Dadda's almost home.

Food Fight

I’m a pretty laid-back mom.  My son doesn’t do a whole lot that really gets under my skin.  Even when he unrolled and entire tube of toilet paper or pulled every conceivable hygiene product from beneath my bathroom sink or even when he started helping himself to kibble from our dog’s bowl—none of those things made me want to tear out chunks of my own hair. 

But sit my kid down at the dinner table with me, and after about ten minutes I’m ready to grab that fish stick (or chicken nugget, or spoonful of mac & cheese or whatever other food he’s toying with instead of eating) and cram it into that angelic, condiment-covered face.

I don’t know when it happened, but sometime between my son’s first and second birthdays, he’s become quite the dinner-time challenge.  We’ve tried all sorts of creative tactics to get him to willingly eat.  For a while we tried to distract him with a TV show while we’d smuggle food into his gaping mouth and remind him to make like a train and chew-chew-chew.  When that stopped working, we’d attempt to make him laugh, practically pulling muscles as we contorted our faces into whatever theatrical expressions would elicit a chuckle from our son, during which the one who wasn’t the designated jester would quickly stuff a morsel in his mouth.  But that too lost its charm—the routine became exhausting for us, and as our son grew older, the stunts we needed to pull to achieve the same effect became more complex.  At that rate, we’d have to be shooting ourselves out of a cannon by the time our son turned five. 

And so for a time, every bite of dinner was the result of a long, calculated bargain.

 

Me: Have some broccoli, Rollie.

Rollie:  Juice.

Me:  Take a bite first.

Rollie:  Juice please.

Me (broccoli-laden fork poised in front of his face):  First take a bite.

Rollie: I want juice.

Me:  You aren’t getting any juice until you take a bite of this yummy broccoli.

Rollie opens his mouth, then shuts it again as the offending broccoli approaches.

Me:  Rollie, please just take this one bite and then you can have your juice.

Rollie:  It’s too big.

Me:  No it’s not, you can do it, just this one bite.

Rollie:  No, it’s too big.

Me (after pruning the broccoli down to the size of a raisin):  Here, that’s not too big.  Now eat it.

Rollie opens his mouth and leans in for the bite.  My shoulders relax as a smug sense of accomplishment washes over me.  Then he shuts his mouth again.

Rollie:  It’s too hot.

Me:  There’s no way it’s too hot, Rol.  It’s been sitting out for ten minutes.  It’s probably cold now. 

Rollie:  It’s too cold.

Me:  Well, I’m not heating it up—you should have eaten it ten minutes ago.  Now take a bite.

Rollie:  It’s yucky.

Me (sighing so heavily the force of it blows his napkin to the floor): Rollie, you ate broccoli just the other day and you loved it.  You ate every bite of it and asked for more.  You smiled and made yummy noises and laughed because you liked it so much.  Now you are going to eat this bite of broccoli and you’re going to eat it NOW.

Rollie:  Juice.

 

This will go one for several more rounds until finally, I’ll either threaten him with never giving him another drop of juice so long as we both shall live, or my husband will sense that I’m about to have a seriously meltdown, and he’ll intervene, all fresh-faced and different-approachied, making airplane noises with Rolllie’s fork, leaving me to retreat to the fridge for a much-needed adult beverage.

What I don’t understand is why my son’s resistance to ingest anything that isn’t in the shape of a goldfish or a hue not found in nature bothers me so much.  He’s big for a two-year-old, energetic and fast.  He never complains that he’s hungry, he’s hardly ever sick.  He’s obviously getting his nutrients from somewhere.  I don’t get it.  Does he wait until everyone is sleeping, then raid the fridge, dining on heaps of vegetables and fruit, grains and lean meats, covering the entire food pyramid each night so he can subsist on grapes and air during the day?  Or is he more like a camel, storing vitamins and minerals somewhere on his person, feeding off of them slowly through a self-induced famine?

All day long I go through a mental checklist of everything that’s passed my son’s lips, tallying up the calories, fats, proteins, vitamins, trying to determine if he needs to have applesauce for dessert (to round out his servings of fruits), of if he should have frozen yogurt instead (for calcium and protein).  I expend more energy obsessing over his menu than I do actually preparing him anything. 

Perhaps my son’s lack of appetite is my fault.  Maybe I’m too accommodating.  If he turns up his little button nose at spaghetti, I dig around for something I think he’ll accept.  He seems to know this—he has no fear that he’ll starve if he refuses the first thing set before him.  Maybe he should.  Maybe the next time he looks from his plate of food to me like he’s about to call child protective services on me for serving such slop, I should simply remove his plate and tell him he’s not getting anything.  That’ll teach him.  Until he learns how to dial the phone and HRS comes knocking.

The Quick And The...Not-So-Quick...

Our fish died recently.  

I didn't think Rollie would notice, but the day after I flushed Mr. Shark down the toilet and thus into the big fishbowl in the sky, Rollie paused in front of our tank.

After studying it for a few seconds, he asked, "Where'd the shark go?"

I froze.  Do I tell him the truth, that Mr. Shark was likely attacked by our bully of an Orange Molly, picked at and prodded until he turned pale and I found him floating vertically among the water plants, his dorsal fin shredded like cole slaw?  Or do I wimp out and come up with some sugar-coated, cotton-candy spun tale about him swimming away to be with his friends in a beautiful blue lake, his life now full of rainbows and sunshine?

"Uh, he's probably hiding," I said.  Like a giant, lying wus.

Rollie stood on his tip toes, his chubby hands pressed against the glass as he scanned the tank, trying to catch a glimpse of the suddenly timid Bala Shark.

"I can't see him," he said.

"Oh," I said, feeling my scalp prickle as my mind raced.  "Well, maybe he's sleeping."  

Rollie nodded, accepting this as perfectly reasonable.  "Night, night, Shark."

I felt terrible about lying, but really, what could I have said?  How do you explain death to a two-year-old?  I mean, I've mentioned death in passing plenty of times....in reference to batteries, or worms that have been baked in the sun, curled and black as overdone french fries.  But when faced with a question regarding a pet (albeit a lame, neutral pet that Rollie couldn't care less about), I turn into an overprotective, fretful mother hen, paranoid that any mention of the D word will instantly turn my son into a sobbing mound of jelly. 

Which is completely retarded of me.  Of course he won't have a breakdown as soon as I say the word Dead.  He might even ask for--and understand--an explanation.  I don't need to include the gory details of the shark's demise.  I don't need to say anything like, The Bala Shark was attacked in his sleep by a bigger, meaner fish, and probably suffered a slow, painful death all alone in the darkest, coldest part of the tank.  Something simple like, the Bala Shark died and Mommy took him out of the tank, but we can remember him as a nice fish who enjoyed swimming, would probably be fine, right?

But still I balk at the notion of telling my son that something, or someone, has died.  I guess I feel like someone still in diapers doesn't need to wonder about death.  He should occupy his little mind with the wonders of life.  And if I'm lucky, the wonders of the potty.  And a desire to use it.  Perhaps if I tell him it's where the shark went.....

Things I Wouldn't Have If I Didn't Have Kids

1. Stretch Marks

2. A computer in my bedroom (because I no longer have an office....because my office is now Rollie's room)

3. An assortment of plastic cups and straws from every restaurant within a twenty-mile radius

4. Enough goldfish in my pantry to feed a third grade class for an entire school year

5. An armada of strollers--every make, model, color and purpose--in my garage

6. A right arm that is decidedly bulkier than my left 

7. Applesauce encrusted on my floor moulding

8. A hallway lined with enough night lights to rival a landing strip

9. 10 episodes of Jack's Big Music Show on my TiVo

10. Back issues of Parents magazine collecting dust on an end table

11. The desire for my parents to live closer

12. The propensity to burst into tears when I hear a story about a child being separated from his parents (any story...the news...a Disney movie...a long-distance commercial....)

13. A new fear of germs, and a stockpile of those little bottles of hand sanitizer

14. A caffeine addiction

15. Saggy boobs (okay, maybe they wouldn't be as saggy)

16. An understanding as to why my mother is certifiably insane

17. An understanding as to why my father always yelled at me that my shorts were way too short

18. A love of Target

19. A love of wading pools

20. The ability to function on five non-consecutive hours of crappy, restless sleep

One in Hole

So we all know that children like to stick body parts into holes.  Recently I also discovered that children like to stick things into their own bodily orifices. 

I bought Rollie a marble maze the other day.  It’s a neat toy, really, with different plastic parts you piece together to make a sort of obstacle run for marbles.  I sat with him on his floor and poured over the instructions, painstakingly building a glorious tower of loops, curves, funnels and slaloms for his colored marbles to navigate.  He sat beside me, seemingly fascinated with the toy, asking me where the different pieces went, handing me each section as I needed it.  I followed the directions step by step, completely engrossed with what I was doing, determined to make the maze look exactly like it did on the box.

I was so engrossed, in fact, that I failed to notice Rollie had stopped handing me pieces and had grown unusually quiet.  I glanced away from the instructions and saw him holding a bright red marble between his chubby little fingers, holding it dangerously close to his left nostril.

“Rollie!”

He looked up at me with a perfectly innocent expression, hand still poised by his nose.

“What are you doing?” I almost laughed, but I knew that laughing would be just about the worst thing I could do. 

He didn’t have an answer for me.  Probably because no answer was needed.  I knew darn well what he was doing, and so did he.

“Rollie, we don’t stick marbles in our noses.  Or anything else, for that matter.”

He still didn’t reply, but he reluctantly took his hand away from his nose and rolled the marble between his fingers as if contemplating where else he might be able to stick it.

“You should never, ever stick anything up your nose,” I said.  “It could get stuck and I might not be able to get it out.”   There.  That seemed effective enough.  Honest, to the point, with just enough uncertainty to discourage him from trying it again.

Only a few days later he was sitting at the table with some play-dough while I fixed dinner, I heard the telltale sound of him pulling on one of his diaper’s tabs (for some reason, after Rollie eats lunch he decides he’s more comfortable without any pants on). 

“Rollie, keep your diaper on please,” I said, although I foolishly didn’t bother investigating.

A few minutes later, I wandered over to the table to check on him.  He still had all his little play-dough tools out, but the play-dough itself looked suspiciously scarce.

“What happened to all your play-dough?” I asked.  “You didn’t drop it, did you?” 

He shook his head.

“Well where is it, then?”

He looked up at me and said, “It’s poopy.”

“It’s poopy?” I asked.  Then I noticed his diaper was still open on once side.

Ah yes, the panic of a mom who already knows the answer to a very dreaded question: “What do you mean, it’s poopy?”

He leaned to one side so I could see for myself.  Balled up inside his diaper like alien excrement were several large chunks of blue play-dough.

“Rollie,” I started.  But alas, what could I say?  We don’t stick play-dough up our butts somehow didn’t seem like the right speech, even though that’s pretty much how I felt.

After removing a rainbow of play-dough balls from my son’s diaper, I realized that it could have been worse.  I’ve successfully thwarted my sons attempts to introduce foreign objects into two orifices with minimal damage (although I did have to dispose of most of his blue play-dough, and the next time he pooped it was a suspicious shade of neon green).  At least he hasn’t swallowed anything or jabbed a hole in his eardrum.  I think the best thing for now is to make sure his toys are too big to fit in any hole they aren’t supposed to.  Until he’s moved onto another phase, like flushing things down the toilet.  Stay tuned for that chapter….