A Tale of Two Mommies

…because more seems excessive…

Tag Archives: child jokes

Bon Appetite

Dinner the other night was a conglomerate amounting to a serious cluster fuck by its truncated end…I found it hilarious for lack of a better reaction.  Mr. Man is transitioning to shortened naps, which is an exceptional experience in the first weeks you are acclimating to a newborn.  Mind you, he isn’t sleeping more at night, at least not yet.  He’s just waking up an hour earlier from his nap, which yields a very unpleasant Little Man an hour-and-a-half later.

We don’t eat particularly late.  That night it was six, but the Ides of Evening was upon us even at such an early hour.  I’ve long since given up on waiting to feed my son dinner until we are all ready to eat, but he LOVES family dinner, so often he’ll eat just after his nap at around four or four-thirty, and eat with us as well…I kinda love that about him.  The problem is that while he loves his dinners with Mommy and Daddy, his general disposition by the time we eat leaves much to be desired.

The dinner in question, for instance, started out with Mr. Man eating everything but the lovely piece of salmon in front of him, but ended with him raining seasoned rice everywhere and us on the verge of having to replace all of our feeding accessories from the spastic tornado I call my offspring.  Most people can imagine the disaster of broken plates and such, but in case you’ve ever been deprived of the experience of cooked rice confetti, this stuff is like the slug of the carbohydrates food group.  It doesn’t really clean, it just drags a trail of suspect residue all over your wood floors when you are trying to clean it up.  But, I am missing a few caveats to this particular family dinner occasion that the creators of Maalox envisioned during their patent process.

My son climbed onto the chair that used to be mine, but he absconded it some time ago so that I am forced to sit next to my husband.  Our dinner conversations have become a music video where no one actually looks at each other, but are forced to express themselves while looking longingly and with great animation out the window.  Knowing that my son has a very short duration these days for the dinner he loves so much, we inhale our food not even wincing anymore for indigestion.  But, tonight no time traveling worm hole would have helped this meal end with less of a disaster.

Within maybe five minutes of my husband and I sitting to eat, my son begins creeping his whole body onto the kitchen table.  Fully practiced in this brand of toddler, we know full well that this is a prelude to my son suddenly launching himself on all fours so he can dunk his hands in our water glasses and tip over our plates.  The extra joy of the evening, however, was the Warrior Queen, who I was wearing in a new and fabulous baby carrier, decides at that very moment she is hungry too.  So, my son is escalating his total doucheydom, I’m feeding the baby, leaving all of my dishware exposed for exploitation by Mr. Man, and my husband is ready to plotz because he can’t move fast enough between the celebratory food expression everywhere and the possibility of broken dinnerware.

Mr. Man keeps climbing on the table immediately after my husband takes him off, but it isn’t a quick kind of thing.  Each time my son climbs on the table, my husband has several failed attempts to grab a limb that my son manages to keep maneuvering out of his reach.  Simultaneously my beloved is moving the most fragile of our dinner accessories.  As my son is giddy with excitement, he’s throwing his food on the floor, and I’m continuing to feed the baby watching it all unfold like I was blessed with Gallagher tickets.

I have no notion of how long it took for all of this to transpire, but both of us ceased to be hungry, and drew straws as to who would be herding this particular cat and helping Little Man receive some much needed shut-eye.

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Stairway to Heaven and Other Ruses

My son is a savant at trickery…It’s probably why he is so cute; otherwise, I’d be much more angry on a regular basis.  I retrieve him from his nap and we walk together toward the stairs.  On hands and knees, my son demonstrates every intention of heading down without incident.  Nothing sketchy or untoward about his behavior…that should have been my first clue.  He’s always up to something when I’m not paying sufficient attention.  Usually, I wait for him to begin the process of descending down the stairs before heading down myself, but on this occasion I take the lead only to look up at him hovering at the top of our staircase for a suspicious amount of time.

I look up at Little Man from the middle of our case, when he grins at me exposing every tooth in his perfect mouth.  Within seconds my son darts up faster than I’ve ever seen him, and he sprints to our guest bedroom normally cornered off from his free and uninhibited excavation.  My son slams the door amidst a chorus of boisterous laughter, leaving me to only imagine what kind of mayhem is occurring behind the door in the brief span he is alone.  After a moment of shock, I begin my slow and labored climb back to the top.  Once I’m able to regain leveled breathing from even this slight exertion, I retrieve him, ensuring this time he actually descends.

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Man

My son vacillates between two extremes in his disposition; he is both a totally mischievous jerk as well as sweeter than any toddler anyone could possibly conceive.

On the precipice of my third trimester, finding a comfortable sitting position on the sofa is becoming increasingly difficult. It had been a long day of child care with a two week relentlessly annoying cold, but I managed to find my reclined sweet spot, as well as sufficiently cover most of my body with a blanket.  My dear little boy stops his content playing on the floor, looks to me, and runs behind the sofa.  My immediate thought was this can’t be good, but I was waiting for the distinct smell of smoke or some other indication of catastrophe to motivate me to awkwardly lever myself off the sofa.  Within seconds my hero returns with a cardigan I left on the kitchen island and hands it to me.  Then he points to the comforter on the floor, trying to pull it up because Mommy should be comfortable.  Those moments make my heart melt…until twenty minutes later I’m talking on the phone for five minutes and he is practicing his version of the Rockettes’ Christmas special on our kitchen table.  When I try to retrieve him, he is giggling uncontrollably and artfully maneuvering out of my grasp.

My love will want me to hold him and dance to terrible music from his toy piano/automated music apparatus…apparently small children don’t need quality sounds in their toys.  All of these happy little noise makers make me want to gouge out my eyes to make the pain this music induces stop.  I think this thing was calling the dogs in the neighborhood in the process, but maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about because he rests his head on my shoulder as I awkwardly move to strange and brief tempos of popular children’s tunes I only vaguely recognize.  Then he looks up at me and gives me smooches, stroking my hair…then smacks me in the face…really hard, actually, before jamming his finger in my ear (His daddy taught him that gem.).  I was especially appreciative that his nails required clipping; I still have the battle scar…  Even as I’m yelping from pain and surprise, he is laughing maniacally.  I practically drop him to the ground, which prompted a devastated howl and desperate upstretched arms.  Maybe he learned his lesson?  I pick him up; immediately he resumes his creepy laugh as he jams that same very jagged-nailed finger back in my ear.

I managed to cut my finger this afternoon.  It was minor, but bled enough to require a bandage.  Little Man was very sweet with his concern, pointing repeatedly at the covered wound with a troubled look on his face as he patted my thigh and hugged my legs.  Less than an hour later I’m starting to prepare dinner.  My husband’s child asks for his milk and starts furiously banging his cup on our cabinets.  In an effort to take it away, I’m chasing him, which he always enjoys.  I’m not too proud to say that he can outrun me; I blame the pregnancy.  Something new, he runs to the gate blocking him from our dining room, and launches his milk cup as far as he can.  Milk splatters all over the floor.  Laughing, he stands in the doorway pointing to the mess he created like it’s a quality Basquiat reproduction.

I don’t have a lot familiarity with this age to know if I’m successfully raising a sociopath or if this is nature’s way of preparing me for his teenage years.  My one hope is that “jerk” is a phase…

All Hail!

I sincerely hope it is a rite of passage for all Jewish parents to periodically make their children inadvertently look like Hitler.  If not, my husband and I are terrible people.  Mind you, my son is only seventeen-months-old, and the first instance was surrounding his first haircut not provided by the Almighty who has an affinity for male patterned baldness.

More specifically, my son was born with a full head of hair worthy for Favio.  Much to my husband’s delight, in addition to thick locks on his head, my son’s dark hair coated healthy chunks of his arms and back much like the sweaters I imagine can be seen on the Jersey Shore.  People warned us that at three months it would fall out in unflattering ways.  I didn’t want to believe it, yet some creation entity has a sense of humor.  He lost just enough hair on the sides of his head to have a naturally hideous comb-over.  Some parents hold off on the first hair-cut until their children are eating it and inconvenience wins out over sentimentality; then the task begrudgedly is accomplished.  For us it wasn’t a very difficult decision; the hair had to go.

One evening my husband takes scissors and cuts across the spike that fell onto my son’s forehead.  I didn’t want to say anything at the time because I thought I would sound like a jerk, and let’s face it, I can be a bit snarky at times.  It wasn’t until my in-laws spent the day with us the following weekend that I mentioned anything aloud.  My father-in-law walks up to me with a chuckle and says in the unconvincing whisper of someone who can’t hear well, “I didn’t want to say anything, but he kind of looks like Hitler.”  So, there it was.  My husband missed his calling as a 1940s barber when I’m sure all young men wanted to look like Hitler…you know, before his killing half our people and a bunch of others made it passé…

Then there was tonight, which is all on me.  I’m feeding Little Man his nightly ice-cream…because we absolutely rock as the cool parents…  The last spoonful misses my son’s mouth, so he is left with a chocolate goatee.  My cat-like, yet imprecise reflexes managed to wipe off a good amount.  But, to my horror my son is left with a legitimate Hitler mustache.  Now is when the fun begins.  I get up and try to wipe off the rest, but Mr. Man thinks I’m playing a game, so he’s running away from me.  Several days ago I managed to pull a tushie muscle; I’m not sure how, but it’s quite painful nonetheless.  I’m awkwardly walking as quickly after my son as I can while he is giggling and running around the room.  We have a pit sofa that consumes most of the area, so really I look ridiculous that a seventeen-month-old with tiny appendages is outpacing me, but I have no choice with little room for clever maneuvering.

At this point my husband (also known as Captain Obvious) looks over and says, “Oh, that’s terrible.  You have to get that off; he looks like Hitler.”  My son is still laughing as he laps the sofa a final time before my husband and I sandwich him between us.  I’d like to say that it was a thorough and tidy wipe, but at least we were finished hailing the Fuhrer…for now anyway…

Is this thing on?

I was aimlessly cruising the internet when The Jokester travels into the office with a mischievous look on his face, giving me a random toy before jetting off to the far end of the room snickering.  I look at him in amused confusion and return to my computer.  Within seconds he engages me again with the same silly toy and a dubious look, subsequently returning to his spot at the far end of the room.  The sequence of events occurred one more time before my son exited the room with a chorus of giggles that can only indicate an individual is up to no good.  Then I smelled it and followed in my son’s toxic wake out of the room with the question, “Did you make a stinker?”  This prompted him to laugh, but not as fully as when I was standing in front of him with the statement, “You got me; you made a stinker.”  With that, Little Man erupted in laughter and led the way to the changing table, but, honestly, I could do with less hilarity like that.

The Plan

Well, I was waiting for it.  At some point he was bound to figure out how to open our Tupperware drawer, and last night was that very moment.  I walk into the kitchen to be greeted with lids and containers strewn across the floor, and Mr. Man whirling about deciding the exact location of each piece.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him it looked like a disaster because he seemed so convinced of the great harmony each placement provided.

With directed attention that I only exhibit at two in the morning after returning from the restroom, Little Man repeatedly selected articles, moved them into various positions on the floor, and returned them to the drawer.  That, however, was not the end of the story.  Shortly after the selected drawer returns that had me hoping I would not be the one to clean his masterpiece, he would reach back into it and select a place on the floor for the very item he returned only moments before.

My favorite was when he would grab a container or lid and run off with it into the family room, returning empty handed.  Sorting through his pile, my son would retrieve something else, and dash back to the family room, only returning with one of the items he just dropped off to its new home.  Perhaps this first choice didn’t class up the joint as he hoped?

I’m not sure how long he carried on, but he concentrated so much on his task that he was unaware of the chocolate I was eating.  Eventually, the spell was broken, and I was left with a mass of wares that will require cleaning before their true purpose, but a guy’s gotta do, what a guy’s gotta do…

Share and Share Alike

It began with my husband and his great appreciation for asparagus that neither my son nor I bought.  Mr. Man has preferences now, not consistent ones, mind you, but he declares what he will eat and when.  Fortunately, such edicts are agreeable to most things.

But, that night it was asparagus, which spurred on future dialogues about the contents of his meals.  Little Man sits in is high chair gorging himself on whatever protein is available, ignoring the fruit or vegetable that I know he enjoys.  Yesterday it was halved grapes.  He finished his veggie burger with great zeal before I selected a grape off his tray to demonstrate the tastiness of the offering.  I smile with an enthusiastic, “Mmm…” that fell short of my husband’s exhortations, but communicated my point well enough.  On cue, my son smiles, selecting a grape half, and hands it to me.  I thank him as I appreciate the sweet crispness; he rewards me with a smile and selects another for me to enjoy.  We have several exchanges before he chooses one of the few remaining grapes for himself.  He has his rhythm, so I give him more.

Spontaneously, I hold my flat palm to him.  He smiles and shares one of his grapes before clutching another for himself.

With this process he makes a joke, attempting the feed his sippy cup a grape and laughing at the impossibility…always the generous one…Or not, sometimes he hopes the sippy cup will eat his undesirables like the dog we will refuse to adopt…

My favorite, however, is the fake-out.  He holds out a grape to me, but as I greet his hand with my own, he pulls back, jamming the grape through smiling lips.

Welcome to the Jungle

Part of my weekly strength training regimen entails my two foot tall trainer advising me on my positioning for optimal muscular benefits.  My lunges are spent with my son crouched in midrise, lightly gripping my knee.  He’s giggling with each dip until he returns to his charging position in order to head butt my back leg.

Pushups are spent with my toddler portraying his finest representation of a cat.  Crawling under me several times before rubbing his head on my moving arms.

My favorite exercises, however, are my abdominal.  For whatever reason, me lying on my back indicates for my son that I double as a backyard play set apparatus.  At this point, my junior Olympian is in the midst of full out laughs of delight as he positions his hands on my belly to stand before launching his entire body over my middle.  Then he wiggles his way over me before lying parallel for just a moment.  It isn’t long before he is ready to re-experience Mommy as a speed bump, and while my routine is less than efficient, is there a more motivating factor?

The Origin of Things

Clearly the entertainment value of flatulence is formed in the womb; otherwise, how is it my one-year-old can look focused and forlorn until he vibrated our wood floor (I have not manufactured that; it’s a blessing we don’t live in California.)?  I was already staring at his profile when it happened…like the creeper I have become.  At the time of the incident, he looked at me seriously before a beaming smile and hearty chuckle.  Yeah, can’t wait for our future family dinners now…the kid already burps in my face…

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