Overheards- The Earth Doctor

Scene: TD and I are headed out the door. As we climb into the car TD spies a displaced plastic container lying in the grass nearby. It is filled with trash despite being casserole size.

TD: "Momma? Why is that plastic container lying over there? What is it doing? Is it trash?" She says as she climbs into her car seat.

V: "Yes, it is trash. I don't know why it's there, but it shouldn't be." I say, reaching for her safety belts and fastening them.

TD: "Why? Because it will hurt the earth?" She looks perplexed.

V: "Yes, trash does hurt the earth. Very good!" I am a bit stunned but beaming and proud.

TD: "Momma, when I grow up I am going to be a trash doctor so that the earth won't be hurt." She sits back in her car seat, satisfied with this proclamation.

Ugh. My heart seized then melted when I heard those words. Her face, so serious and solemn, it broke me. I just squeezed her tight and said, "That is a great idea. The earth needs a doctor just like you."

Overheards- Nipple Cups

Scene: TD is peering into my dresser drawer as I rifle through it looking for the right bra.

TD: Momma, when I grow up bigger we can share nipple cups with each other!

Definition: Nipple Cups- A bra. At least she no longer refers to them as "nitnils".

Overheards- The Sitter

Scene: TD is playing quietly on the kitchen floor. H and I are rounding up the kids and gear to head to the local farmer's market.

H: Come on TD, it's time to put your shoes on and go to the farmer's market.

TD: (Audible sigh) I don't want to go... can't you just hire a sitter for me?

Ah, she is so smart. She's already figured out a way to get out of tedious errands. She was clearly forgetting the tasty treats (Pumpkin bread! Fresh fruit! Kettle Corn! Gelato! Italian Cream Cake!) that always accompany the farmer's market. It's what gets me out the door each time. That and cheap produce.

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Overheards- I am the Dog

Scene: The dinner table.

Me: "Ooh, Comedian you look so much like your Daddy!"

TD: "I look like my Daddy too! And you (pointing at me with her little plastic fork with much conviction), you look like the dog!"

H doesn't even try to stifle a laugh.

So what, this means I look like some white-muzzled, crotchety old Boston Terrier? That's just great.

Later that night H cannot resist petting me and saying, "Good dog, Vicky. Good dog." (Insert snickering from H here.) When I tell him I'm going to kick his teeth in he simply replies, "Nice doggie. Be a good dog." It continues like this for ten more minutes complete with jokes about no treats and being put in my cage for not listening.

And I wonder why I am having an identity crises.

The whole time this was happening all I could think of was this scene from 'When Harry Met Sally.'

She Thinks She's Jesus

TD walks into the room, beaded Mardi Gras style necklaces draped diagonally across her body and says, "Look, Mommy! I'm Jesus." The scene repeats itself over and over again on the stairs and in other rooms in the house. Daily.

Then earlier this morning she was having a conversation with her little friend, Wagee. When I say little I mean it. Wagee is an ant that made its way into our kitchen and TD has been trying to take Wagee all over the house. Mainly though they hang out in a corner of the kitchen.

As if the Jesus thing wasn't starting to weird me out a tad this whole, tiny pest-like friend in the kitchen thing positively wreaks of memories from a certain dead pop star and his childhood friend, Ben. Shall I remind you people that Ben was a rat.

What's next? An oxygen tank in her bedroom or requesting to be on the cover of Rolling Stone magazine, thorns and all? Maybe listening to Kanye when she had colic wasn't the best idea after all.

Notes from the Road

Queue the ridiculously bad and entirely inappropriate except for the song title Barry Manilow song, 'Looks Like We Made It'

The girls and I had hit the road yesterday around 4:30 a.m. Typical of TD to stay awake for the whole drive and consume her weight in goldfish crackers while watching 'Bolt' two times in a row before screaming, "I just cannot watch Bolt again!"

To the woman at the Woodrow Wilson rest stop with the white fluffball of a dog: Thanks for telling me my kids are so well cute and well-behaved and all. However? So not cool to then dash into the bathroom ahead of us and take the only handicap stall. Thus leaving me, one antsy toddler and The Comedian in a baby carrier car seat to squish ourselves into a Jersey Turnpike single person bathroom stall. I like being close to my family and all but not ass in your face close.

To the people of Teaneck, NY sorry for the yelling. It was right at that point that TD had her meltdown screeching at the top of her lungs, "The cow isn't doing what it's supposed to in my book!!!! I can't get the yellow marker!!!" I'm sure you heard me scream out, "Don't make me turn this car around TD!" At which point I then burst out laughing at the insanity of it all.

Also, it seems I just drove eight plus hours to hit up a Walmart for some underpants. I forgot to pack them. Somehow though I did remember to pack every single nursing bra I own.

We've arrived. I've already ingested a few cups of tea and heard TD say, "I'm really glad we're here. I'm having a really good time." That makes the eight hour drive worth it.

About an Hour in My Day

11:38 a.m.- "Come on TD, we have to get a move on! It's time to go to Gymboree!"
I glance at The Comedian and think, "I should change you...." and I scoop her up out of the Bumbo.

11:39 a.m.- "WTF? Oh all that is holy in this world, why now?! Seriously kid? This is disgusting!!" I moan. "What's disgusting, Mommy?" TD asks. "Your sister. She just pooped EVERYWHERE! I don't even know if I'm qualified to clean this type of mess up. I might need to make a few phone calls..."

11:41 a.m.- Poop. It is everywhere. I quickly move from the pack and play to the nursery. The shirt cannot be salvaged. Neither can the burp cloth I have laying on the changing table. I have already used about a days worth of wipes in the last two minutes. We don't have time for the tub. This is totally an unprecedented situation though. I have to pull The Comedian's arms out of her shirt and slide it down her body or else we'll have a poop in hair situation on our hands. There is now poop on the wall. The changing table is a bio-hazard area and I cannot seem to contain it.

11:50 a.m.- I have now tossed everything on the changing table- diaper, wipes, one entire outfit, a washcloth and two burp cloths into the trusted Diaper Genie. The Comedian has been washed, dried, lotioned back to sweet smelling baby status and is in a clean, poop-free outfit. At last. I scoop her up and walk to the bathroom to wash my hands. It is there that I see the most disgusting thing of all. There in not one but two spots on my pristine white shirt is poop. I HAVE POOP ON ME. "What if I had forgotten to wash my hands?" My brain screams. The answer: I would have walked into our first day at Gymboree as the Mom who didn't even notice she had fecal matter smeared on her shirt. Any future friends to be made there would have instantly disappeared. The poop would have stayed.

I dash upstairs and grab a shirt out of the clean laundry and very carefully take the offending shirt off and toss it into the laundry monster mess. I dash downstairs and like a POW camp leader order everyone into the car MOW! (Yes, I mean mow.)

12:06 p.m.- We are all buckled into the car and are on our way to Gymboree's 12:15 class.

12:10 p.m.- "Hey! Watch it! " I yell at a driver who swerved into my lane. I have to slam on my brakes and beep the horn as I simultaneously swerve almost entirely up onto a median to avoid this broad who has no knowledge of my giant SUV being next to her tiny two door. Grr... Inhale. Exhale.

12:15 p.m.- We made it! We make the long haul to Gymboree which is on the second floor of an office park. Really, Gymboree? The second floor? How thoughtful. The Comedian is not getting any lighter in her baby carrier and I will not scoop her out of it and wake her. This is her sister's time. Not hers.

12:45 p.m.- TD has had a tour, talked with some kids and I've gotten the gist from some Moms as well as some glowing reviews for Bubble Camp which TD starts on Monday. Praise the Gymboree geniuses who thought up that idea. $35 every Monday gets TD a full day of music, food, kid time, art classes and more. A FULL day. I am ecstatic for her and for me.

12:50 p.m.- Back in the car and driving to the post office across the street I have to slam on my breaks to avoid being hit by the beater car that has whipped around the corner. For reals people. I yell, "Watch it! You stupid a**hole!" To which TD replies, "Mommy! You shouldn't call people stupid a**holes. That's not very nice." Her pronunciation of key words is spot on. "I'm sorry TD. You are right. Mommy should not call people names and should not say the word a**hole. That is not nice. Thank you." "It's OK, Mommy. Just don't say a**hole anymore."

On the drive home a thought crossed my mind. "Hm... I never did check the Bumbo for poop...."

Later that day H informed me that he never needs to know about these horrific poop situations. I kindly informed him that indeed he does need to know. He absolutely needs to know.




Fun, Frugal Father's Day guide on Mummy's Product Reviews. Check it out!

It's also my final post on 23andMe. Sniff..sniff... I blog about my parents and I taking the test together in, A Family Affair, Read more....

Drunk

"What's drunk?" TD asked startling me. While she had been upstairs napping I was taking advantage of the quiet time to get in an episode or two of 'Freaks and Geeks'. Apparently she had been in stealth mode and watching the show with me for a bit.

Wonderful, I thought. She's three and already I'm having the conversation with her about drinking. I tried my best to explain that being drunk is when grown-ups sometimes drink too much wine or beer. It isn't good for them and we should never, ever get into cars with drunk people. EVER. To go into more detail than that would have been over her head. Right?

She looked at me, smiled and said, "Daddy has too much beer and then he is drunk! Then I have too much juice and then I am drunk!"

Thank goodness school is done for the year because I really don't want a phone call about that one.

You Can't Blame a Girl for Trying

This is a Blackberry.


This is a Calculator.


They are not the same thing. While a calculator can help you balance your checkbook and spell HELL and BOOBS on it, it cannot send email or tell all your Facebook friends that your status is "very tired" or "incredibly bored." (Incidentally, can we all just take a minute to admit that we are all only using Facebook to look at pictures of people from high school?) A calculator also cannot help you Twitter to all your tweeps that your cat Mr. Widdlesworth is recovering nicely from his gall bladder surgery, thank you very much. That right there is as interesting as when I talk about The Comedian's teething. Scintillating-up-to-the minute tweeting for sure.


Someone needs to tell TD all this though because she keeps toting around the calculator and exclaiming, "Hold on. I'm working..." while she stabs the number keys or presses the calculator to her ear in an effort to get Nana or Mem on the phone.

If she starts calling people 'douchebags' then I'll know we have a problem.

What Would You Do for Cupcake?

Meet Cuppy.


Cuppy apparently turned two yesterday.


After a spin on the Disney circuit sharing top billing with a certain Ms. Lohan, years of being a flat Stanley type character in my life, doing hard time in a box in storage, Cuppy got paroled last year and has now found a home in the heart of TD. But Cuppy has not gone completely straight yet. She whispered a little magic in TD's ear yesterday and told her it was her second birthday. It was time for a celebration TD declared.


Cuppy needed cupcakes too. How convenient! We just happened to be at the grocery store.




So there you have it. Happy Birthday you sneaky little Cuppy. I'm on to you too TD. I know only too well just what lengths a girl will go to for a cupcake fix.

The Longest Hour

To all you women out there who bring your many tiny tots to the grocery store all at once I commend you. I. Just. CANNOT. Handle. It.

At all.

Granted, I can't seem to get the handle of the Ergo Baby while holding a purse which would free up the cart versus putting the baby carrier in there because there is NO grocery cart for people with a toddler and a young baby. None. Sure, I can use the car cart but then the seat to balance the baby carrier is always too small. I end up placing her sideways over the basket and have minimal access to the cart and ooh I'm already sweating and stressing out before I have even entered the store. Now, H can handle all this. He just sticks TD in the cart and straps Dash Two into the Baby Bjorn and goes. It's all stress and nightmares for me no matter what ammo (treats, books, toys) and attitude I bring in with me.

From the moment we hit the produce at the beginning and the guy was meticulously (read slower than molasses in January) stacking broccoli and there was endless screaming from one or another kid. I think everyone at Wegman's was really clear on the fact that TD wanted hot dogs and that she had to grab them off the shelf all by herself. Next, she wanted to be unbuckled and then buckled. Then unbuckled and buckled again. Bunny crackers became airborne out of the car cart as we whizzed by the bulk foods and I ran over my own pen and grocery list as it also sailed out of the cart. I took some deep breaths and loaded the cart up with yogurt as TD realized for the first time that yogurt also comes in Dora flavor not just Mixed Berry. Yeah, we've embarked on the age where we are noticing those Golden Arches, cartoon characters on cereal and how Disney has their hands in everything. Damn you, Disney fruit snacks, cereal, pizza and coming to a shelf near you- toilet paper. I would bet good money on that one right now.

By the time we got to the register my hair was almost standing on end. I probably had that vacant, glazed over look to my eyes as I white knuckled the cart handle bars. Dash Two was making rumbling, grumbling sounds and giving my boobs the hungry eye. Meanwhile, TD went into a full throttle meltdown about how pissed she was that she couldn't put groceries on the conveyor belt because she was in the car cart from hell. Um.. yeah kid, me too.

As we left the store I noticed that the man was still stacking the broccoli, not even an hour had gone by but I swear I had aged a year in the time it took him to carefully place about thirty heads of greens. Thankfully TD started throwing gang signs and dancing to the James Brown playing in the car making me laugh so hard I was able to make it home without cracking up completely.

Overheards

Scene: After completing a round of Pilates yesterday morning I head to the shower. TD follows after me holding a pink ribbon.

TD: Momma, I'm doing kwaties.

Me: Kwaties? You mean pilates?

TD: No! Kwaties. Ka-wha-tieeess (speaking slowly to me as if I'm slightly special.)

Me: Kwaties, huh? That's cool.

TD: Yeah. I learned it from Mary.

Me: Mary? Who is Mary? Does she go to your school? Is she on TV?

TD: (Slightly exasperated) No, Momma. Maaarry. Mary and her purple lamb. And I have to use my belt. Like dis! (circles pink ribbon around her waist and holds it there.) See? I'm going to do Kwaties now. Bye!

Me: You are blowing my mind kid. Just blowing my mind. And freaking me out. Just a little bit.

I seriously don't want any encounters with a purple lamb in my house. Especially while sober.

Close to Me

"Momma, can I sit next to you while you eat breakfast?"

I hear this almost every morning. There is much chair scraping as she drags her kitchen chair right up next to mine.

After a few moments she asks, "Momma, can I sit in your lap while you eat your breakfast?" Her big brown eyes look up at me with a quiet excitement I can't remember ever possessing. After placing her on my lap she pauses and then burrows into me, compacting herself into a tiny ball. She squirms as if she is looking for a spot that will position her even closer to me.
These days it is never close enough. If she could I imagine she would soon ask, "Momma, can I carve you open and crawl back inside?"

Overheards in a Wegman's Bathroom

Scene: TD and I are in the luxurious by public bathroom standards Wegman's family bathroom stall.

TD: Momma, where is the baby in your tummy?

V: The baby is Dash Two and I had her at the hospital. She is not in my tummy anymore.

TD: I don't have a baby in my tummy. You feed Dash Two with your big nipples?!!?

V: (cringing slightly) Yes...

TD: I have little nipples. I feed Dash Two with a bottle?

V: Yes, you do.

TD: Well, that just makes much more sense, Momma.

V: Completely.


I can just see this being reprinted in a future edition of Reader's Digest.

To Be Three

"Momma..." a small voice whispers dangerously close to my ear. "Momma, it's frozen outside there's noooo schooooool today." Ugh. It feels like it is barely morning and already she is whining.

Then I remember that if there is no school, then I can sleep in a bit more. Suddenly, TD catapults herself onto the bed and is mere millimeters from my face. "Momma!! It's NOT frozen outside! There is SCHOOL!!" She cackles wildly and propels herself off the bed. She if off on another adventure.

I crack one eye open and groan.

Beer Me

"This is your beer Mommy. This is your beer. You sip it. Just sip it." TD holds out her Itty Bitty baby's sippy cup to me. It's just over a thimble full. I check the clock and it states that it is only 11 a.m.

The question to ask is: Do I start drinking now if my kid gives me permission?

I tell her thank you and she states, "Now, you don't have to share with Daddy."

She's generous and smart.

Overheards

Scene: The dinner table. Ah, dinner time. The place where we have so many stimulating conversations these days. You know, world events, class structure, the economy and shopping apparently.

TD: You pooped in your pants. You pooped in your pants at the couch store!

Me: What?! Are you talking to me?

TD: "YES! Mommy pooped in her pants at the couch store!" She cackles with laughter and almost falls out of her chair.

H looks at me as if he really has to inquire if this happened or not. Pregnancy may have made things in the urinary department less than stellar for now, but umm.. there is no pooping in the pants. The subject of poop is quite hilarious to TD these days. All you have to do is say the word and you are George Carlin, Seinfeld and more to her.

On a more serious note, read my latest over at DC Metro Moms, "Adam Walsh and Me."

Overheards

Scene: Dinner at our house last night. TD has become an expert at making excuses on why she cannot possibly eat anymore of her dinner. It's a nightly battle.

Me: Just a few more bites. Eat your dinner!

TD: I just have to chew this. (The kid is a pro on chewing her dinner like a cow chews cud. One bean can take about fifteen minutes to efficiently grind to a pulpy mess.)

Me: No! Eat another bite! (Thinking to myself: Hmm...the delay tactics are strong in this one.)

TD: I just need to have to have a sip of my waaaattterrr.

H: Eat now or you will go to bed!

TD: (Shuffling in her seat and doing a jig and jabbing her stomach with both hands.) Nooo! My tummy hurts!

Me: Your stomach hurts because you keep poking it. Stop that!! EAT!! For the love of!

This goes on for about fifteen more minutes until H finally loses it and tells her to get up and get her butt upstairs for bed. No stories. No songs tonight.

TD freaks and projectile vomits not once but twice all over the dinner table.

Me: AAAAHHH!!! I leap from the table with Dash Two in my arms. Five seconds later: Well, that's a first...

H has TD over the kitchen sink as she continues to spew all of snack time and dinner Linda Blair style into the sink. She has not thrown up since she was a baby and is panicking. She reminds me of my friend E more and more each day I think.

TD: I don't like big hiccups Daddy. I don't like them. I want my owl jammies...

Me: At least it was chili and not pea soup. That would have been really funny. H and I are now laughing uncontrollably. I feel bad about it but I've never actually seen anyone projectile vomit in real life before and it does have a certain comic element to it. H and I are going to hell for this type of parenting for sure.

Twenty minutes later after a glass of milk (Yes, I'm serious. H gave TD milk. She probably asked for it. I was busy elsewhere but I could have told him that would have ended badly. Pukers shouldn't drink milk.) she projectiles at least three more times all over H and the office floor. Thankfully the laundry area is right next to it as they both had to be stripped down.

Good times. Good times indeed. Now where are those Christmas cards?

Just Call Me Oscar. Oscar the Grouch.

The fact that I am not a morning person is legendary. Like wine I've gotten better with age but I've been known to snarl, grunt, curse people out, glare a thousand death rays and give a stone-cold silent treatment like nobodies business. This was all before the age of twelve too.

Once I hit college and had a roommate I had to soften my ways and learn to adjust a bit but there was nothing I liked more than silence in the morning, a bit of talk radio droning on and a cigarette alone as I made my way to class. If a book or morning paper was thrown in while I ate breakfast I was so freakin' happy you would think I actually liked mornings. That is if you saw me from a distance and didn't actually try and talk to me.

So you know what is not conducive to this type of behavior?

Toddlers.

Toddlers with a million chirpy questions. Toddler who wake up before you, come up close to your face and ask you what you are doing when it is plain to see you are a.) sleeping b.) ignoring them or c.) all of the above. Or kids who start whining about wanting chocolate milk and candy before they are even one step out of their own bedroom. Yeah, that doesn't make for a nice Mommy or a good morning.

The questions drone on like the water spewing from the faucet while I brush my teeth. They follow me into the bathroom while I pee (flushing repeatedly doesn't drown them out) and watch me with eagle eyes as I take my vitamins and put in my contacts (No! You cannot touch my tontacs kid. No tontacs for you!). I haven't even looked at the coffee pot and I feel as if I'm being interrogated by some new Gitmo-style torture police. Styled by Dick Cheny I'm sure. The man has six grandkids, he knows what's up. He doesn't strike me as a person, er, morning person either.

I love that my child is so inquisitive but damn! I would love just five minutes of silence without having to employ the television tactic. I simply cannot find a cheerful way to answer why I take so many vitamins each morning fifty times in a row or why candy for breakfast is not an option again today.

I've Turned Into a Toddler

Well, this is handy! I realized the other day that at nine months pregnant I've regressed enough to being on the same level as TD. I'm suddenly 2 and have more in common with my kid than our brown eyes.

1. We both have "issues" putting our pants on every day. Socks are a total bitch and forget tying our shoes. We just can't handle it. It might bring on a meltdown from sheer frustration too.

2. While we like to think we are adequately potty-trained our bladders sometimes have other ideas.

3. We require many snacks and afternoon naps. If we don't get them a meltdown of epic proportions might happen. Again from sheer frustration.

4. We get excited about the prospect of candy. Doesn't matter what kind.

5. When over-tired we are prone to tears. In a toddler it's understandable. In me? Down right pathetic.

Hi, my name is Vicky. I'm 35 weeks pregnant and while I may look like a functioning adult I'm much more like a cranky toddler in need of a nap and snack these days. That idea alone makes me want to throw myself down on the floor tantrum-style and cry. Except, oh wait, I can't lay down on my stomach.

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