Cookie Monster

Scene: Making cookies at my parents' house with P running in and out of the kitchen. He didn't seem too interested in what I was doing, but that was a rouse. At one point I looked over and he had his hand in a pile of cookie dough.

Me: P! What are you doing?

P: Yum!

Me: P, we're making cookies for Grandpa.

P: OK.

Look over again, and he has his hands in a lump of cookie dough.

Me: P, what are you going to tell Grandpa when he sees these mis-shapen cookies?

P: I'll tell him, "SURPRISE!!"

Dogs Don't Play Baseball

The Parentville Family spent the weekend with my parents in Tennessee. Really low key weekend. G helped my dad with some work converting an old log cabin into a storage shed, and P had the run of the grounds.

One of P's favorite activities was playing with Dooley Dog. P played "school" with Dooley, and tried to teach him how to play baseball. Here he is trying to explain to Dooley the importance of staying on third base - it didn't work:


And, oh my goodness, the boy was dirty! Probably as dirty has he's ever been! Exhibit A:

That shirt? Yeah, it WAS white!

Running Home

After two weeks of crying on my lap, P decided to play on his t-ball team this weekend. It only cost me a $2 bribe and promises of having "splash day" at home after the game. Luckily, P can't count coins, so I can't say for sure that he actually got $2, but he LOVED putting the money in his bank.

The best part of the game was whenever he was told to "run home." Instead of running toward his coach and home plate, he'd come running to me. That sound you hear? Yep, that's my melting heart.

Hobo Toast: A Recipe

Edited to add: recipe should be for cinnamon SUGAR. Don't forget the SUGAR. Ugh.

A few weeks ago, P was in an extraordinarily playful mood. It was nice.

When I asked him what he wanted for breakfast, he replied, "Toast."

"No problem," I said, and I took out two slices of whole grain bread and put them in the toaster.

"Wait!" P cried. "I want toast! Hobo toast!"

I stopped. "What?" I asked. "Did you just say 'hobo' toast?"

P giggled and said, "Yes. I want hobo toast."

"Fine. Hobo toast it is," I said and I frantically searched for some magical ingredients that could turn ordinary toasted bread into hobo toast. (Side note: Where the hell did he hear the word 'hobo'? And what does he think it means?)

P doesn't like peanut butter, and he's not really fond of jelly/jam/preserves. I wanted it to be somewhat healthy. What the heck could I use to make hobo toast?!

Finally, I found the perfect ingredient to transform his toast into hobo toast - cinnamon.

Behold the recipe for hobo toast, a new Chez Parentville specialty:

2 slices whole grain bread
dollop of butter/margarine
liberal sprinkle of cinnamon

Toast bread in a toaster. Spread butter/margarine. Sprinkle cinnamon. Serve warm.

We Interrupt This Program...

...for the following announcement:

I fucking hate potty training.

That's all.

Scenes from a Saturday: Princes and Pimps

Scene: I'm getting dressed in my bedroom; G is dressing Pumpkin in the nursery. Suddenly, Pumpkin comes running down the hall, wearing a diaper and a blanket wrapped around his mid section.

P: Mommy, I'm a princess.

(I can hear G groan.)

Me: Pumpkin, little boys are princes... I mean, more than one prince...I mean, you are a prince.

P: (confused)

Me: Mommies and little girls are princesses. Boys and daddies are prince-es, well, you're a prince. Let's turn that blankie into a prince cape.

P: (running back to G) I'm a prince! I have a cape!

Me to G: Ever realize that the plural of prince sounds like princess?
______________________________________________________
Scene 2: Watching the movie, Cars. Pumpkin points to something on the screen during one of the racing scenes.

P: Mommy, what's that?

Me: That's a blimp. It flies in the sky like an airplane, usually around sporting events.

P (turning to G who just walked into the room): Daddy, it's a pimp! A pimp! Pimps like sports.

How I Became a Toddler Wrangler and Other Good Excuses for Being Late to Work

G had a very important meeting this morning. So important, in fact, that he failed to mention it until he was halfway out the door an hour early. This meant I was responsible for P this morning - the changing of the diaper, the dressing in the clothes, the feeding of the breakfast, and the getting to school.

Of course, P didn't want to to wear a new diaper, get dressed, eat, or go to school. And it was raining - a lot. So, we were running late.

When we arrived at school (at the time I should have been getting to my parking garage), I noticed towels stuck under the back door of daycare. Not unusual considering the amount of precipitation we've had (and the fact that we've had to pump water out of our crawlspace). What was strange was that the door to his classroom - and the room across the hall - was propped open.

Kids were still consolidated in the Ferret room, but as soon as we entered P's Peacock room to remove his coat, his classmates started coming into the room via the Jack-and-Jill bathroom connecting Ferrets to Peacocks (who, I dare ask, names these rooms?)

P's classmates entered the room and noticed the door propped open - enter chaos. Maya took off out the door. Zach yelled, "Escape!" Soon, 12 toddlers were on the loose (but not P. He stayed in the room. Good boy!)

Head Teacher stayed to keep P in the room. Afternoon teacher (why was she there in the morning? I don't know, but I'm still mad at her) took off down the main hall, and I ran down the smaller hallway. The kids were giggly - and fast - and didn't want to go back to the classroom. I cornered Conner, but he had a runny nose (and I didn't want to touch him - I don't do other people's snot). He got away, only to be captured by another teacher. I caught JM, who was laughing hysterically, and handed him to the Director (who came out of her office to see what the commotion was about). I chased Donovan, who was yelling, "no, no, no!", picked him up, and took him down to the Peacock room. I didn't notice any other kids in my hallway.

After a quick headcount, I left.

Of course, no one noticed I was late to work, and given the torrential downpour I doubt anyone cared, but I was really looking forward to explaining my new found talent of "toddler wrangling" - unless said toddlers have runny noses, then they're on their own.

Because a Trained Monkey Would be Better than Afternoon Teacher

P attends a very reputable daycare. It's a chain, but a very top-tier, well-respected one. He's doing well since we made the transition more than a year ago. His development - verbally, socially, mentally, physically, etc - is terrific. But, I'm starting to have a problem with the care side of things.

The head teacher in the Playful Peacock room is exceptional. The afternoon teacher, however, leaves a lot to be desired. While the head teacher engages the kids, asks questions, and seems like she genuinely enjoys her job, the afternoon teacher is quiet. Really quiet. G doesn't like afternoon teacher.at.all.

I really didn't have a problem until recently. My complaints (all of which have happened after head teacher leaves for the day and afternoon teacher is in charge):

• P's security blanket disappeared. I might be a rookie mom, but I'm no fool. I had a spare, identical "blankie" at home, but with the primary one gone, we're done to just the one. No one knows where it went.
• P came home covered in red permanent ink - on picture day. Sent him to school dressed in "picture clothes" (really, a polo shirt and khakis I bought the day before for our upcoming vacation). Picked him up and he was covered from the collar of his shirt to the soles of his socks (seriously, the bottoms of his socks) in red ink. I've washed the outfit six times now. The ink is permanent. Who gives 2.5 year olds PERMANENT ink? On picture day? When the kids are dressed up? Oh, I know - afternoon teacher.
• P has had Pull-up wedgies for weeks. The afternoon teacher refuses to pull up the Pull-ups. She opens the sides, puts them on, and tries to reseal the sides. In all of P's activity, the sides split, causing the back half of the Pull-up to get wedged in his little tush. Not only does this look uncomfortable, but it causes accidents. Major accidents.
• Accidents like the one yesterday. I picked P up and found him wearing his paint shirt (yes, he has one of my old t-shirts for painting - yet another reason I was ticked about the ink thing). G dropped off a change of clothes on Monday, but instead, afternoon teacher choose to put P in a men's medium t-shirt because of a blow-out. I couldn't find P's change of clothes in his cubby, and when I asked P if he had a change of clothes he responded that afternoon teacher "threw them in the garbage."

I'm willing to let a lot go - hell, I couldn't handle a classroom of a dozen 2.5 year olds. But, I'm reaching a boiling point with all the stuff that's happened over the last month or so. I talked to head teacher this morning, who appeared very concerned about the ink problem, wedgies, and paint shirt situations. Turns out, head teacher didn't realize any of that happened (she knew about the blankie). She promised to talk to afternoon teacher.

I can only hope afternoon teacher gets better - or leaves - or P gets potty trained so he can move up to the Happy Hummingbird class. With the state of potty training, I'll be lucky if one of the first two scenarios happens.

Note: Hey, if you received an e-invitation to a grand opening event from me and I recalled it, but you read it anyway, I'm mort.i.fied that I had a typo in the invitation. I fixed it as soon as I discovered it and resent the email. Don't hold that one typo against me - I really want you to come - you'll have fun, I promise!

Where Bon Bons Play on the Sunny Beach of Peppermint Bay

(I'm all about song lyrics as titles this week.)

Pumpkin had a valentine's party at school yesterday. I sent him off with 17 tractor-themed valentines and a package of string cheese, our contribution to the party spread.

I was not prepared for the glut of sugary goodness that Pumpkin brought home.

I love me some chocolate. I might even be an addict. I'm okay with that. I'm not okay with stuffing my 2.5 year old with HoHos, a pound of kisses, Reese's cups, Tootsie Rolls, Hersey bars, seven bags of M&Ms, and more. The loot filled an entire mixing bowl. Seriously, are parents feeding their kids this crap?

I don't deprive Pumpkin of tasty, bad-for-you treats like French fries or cookies or candies. But, I dole them out in small doses. As treats. Even on V-Day, I didn't think to buy this stuff for Pumpkin.

So, this morning for breakfast, Pumpkin told me he wanted "candy." I explained we don't eat candy for breakfast and he cried. (He gave up when he realized that he wasn't going to get chocolate for breakfast.) Now I have to figure out what to do with all this stuff before I eat it all.

Have you ever been annoyed/overwhelmed/dismayed by what other parents think is acceptable? Am I depriving Pumpkin by being really selective about when/how much candy he eats? Most importantly, how do I get rid of the candy without resorting to eating it all?

No "P" in P's Alphabet

Alternative title: How many times can I say "potty" in this entry?

So Pumpkin is potty training. School's trying to get him to use the potty, and we're trying to get him to use the potty at home.

A year ago, Pumpkin was totally into the potty. In fact, we bought him one, two, three potties since it was so interesting to him. Then it happened.

Pumpkin was sitting on his blue potty before bathtime, and WHIZ! He started peeing. Since he hates the boy cup on the potty, he shot clear across the room.

"I leak! I leak!" he said.

Suddenly, Pumpkin was not interested in the potty.

Fast forward a year. Pumpkin refuses to pee in the potty - "it's icky," he says. But #2, yeah we got that covered. He's 2'd in the potty all week. His teachers can't believe that he's jumping to "Advanced Potty-ing" without any interest in the remedial class (a.k.a. "Just pee already").

What to do?

Going to jail beats a roadtrip with Mommy

I've spent the last two weekends roadtripping with Pumpkin. Six hours (each way) in a car, alone, with a toddler. Feel free to have me committed.

After about 30 miles of singing a combination of "Bob the Builder" and "Mickey Mouse Clubhouse" tunes, Pumpkin became unhinged just as my cell phone was ringing with an important call from Workplace.

By the end of the three minute phone call, Pumpkin was crying LOUDLY and begging to go home. We were coming up to a county jail, visible from the interstate.

"Pumpkin, if you don't stop crying, I might have to take you to jail," I threatened. (And with that, I officially forfeit my right to being named this year's Mother of the Year.)

The tears stopped. The backseat was quiet. "Jail?" he asked.

"Jail," I replied.

"Yea! I go jail! I go jail! I go jail!" he started singing.

Apparently, jail sounds better to a two year old than the prospect of being stuck in the car with a crazy woman who can't carry a tune. Go figure.

Danger in the Crib

Last night, we went through Pumpkin's normal nightime routine - bath, stories, kisses, bed. But he was sill in a crazy (WIDE AWAKE) mood.

When I put him in his crib, he was wound up. He ran from one end of his bed to the other, near where I was standing. Then, he somersaulted over the crib rail. I caught him before he hit the ground, but he was pretty shook up. I held him and gave him kisses, and I put him back in his crib. He lifted his right leg and threw it over the rail, like he was trying to get out.

At this point, G came into the room. He kissed Pumpkin, told him to settle down and lay down. Pumpkin laid down on his blankie; he fell asleep within minutes. I checked on him probably 30 times last night to make sure he was sleeping and I kept the monitor turned up to hear every snore, every cough, every movement from Pumpkin's room.

Obviously, we need to get Pumpkin out of the crib before he falls out and hurts himself. (The crib mattress is as low as possible.) The plan was to wait until we moved into a new house, but who knows when that will be...six weeks on the market, price reduction, and still only one showing.

Pumpkin's room is small - one of the reasons we're moving is for bigger rooms - so I don't know how a big bed will fit. On the other hand, he's a big boy - I don't know how much use we'll get out of a toddler bed since he takes up a good length of his crib mattress now.

This is Pumpkin's room. The crib is currently on the same wall as the door. You can see part of the crib on the left side of the photo....

The dilemma: do I put his crib mattress on the floor for his bed? Do we get a toddler bed? Do we get a twin "big boy" bed? And if we put him in a toddler or twin bed, how do I keep him in the bed, and not reading his books all night?

How to Get Your Way...Pumpkin Style

Report from daycare today:

Pumpkin decided that he wanted his shirt changed around 11 a.m. this morning. So he told his teacher, "New shirt."

Teacher replies, "Pumpkin, there's nothing wrong with the shirt you're wearing."

Pumpkin walks over to the sink, turns on the water, and splashes water on his shirt until he's soaked. Then he walks over to his cubby, grabs a new shirt, and walks back over to the teacher.

"New shirt," he tells her as he hands over the new one. "This one wet."

Pumpkin: 1, Teacher: 0

Broken Tongue

Scene: last night's family dinner (cheese tortellini with marinara and garlic bread sticks - yum!)

Pumpkin (starting to cry): Ow!

Me: Did you bite your tongue, baby?

Pumpkin: Yes. Tongue broken.

Me: Here, have a drink of water. It'll feel better in a minute.

Pumpkin: No, tongue broken. Need new tongue.

Me: Honey, we don't have any extra tongues. You'll just have to give it a minute to feel better.

Pumpkin: OK. Cookie?

Me: Do you think a cookie will make it better?

Pumpkin: Cookie medicine.

For the last week, Pumpkin has been insisting things are broken and need to be replaced with "new ones." Apparently, the reduce-reuse-recycle message of "Builder Bob" is not resonating. Or maybe Pumpkin just wanted a cookie. I don't know - I'm still new at this mom thing.

Where to start?

Life has suddenly exploded:

• I've spent the last two days working in a dark office - I've literally been too busy to turn on the lights. Actually, working with the lights off means fewer interruptions because people assume I'm out of the office. Ha!
• I spent the weekend and last night cleaning my ass off. I'm a bit of a neat freak, but until last night, I had never dusted a furnace or hot water heater. Damn, potential buyers better appreciate a *sparkling* HVAC system.
• The house officially goes on the market tomorrow night. Fingers crossed that this will be quick and painless. (I'm trying to be positive. The house down the street just dropped its price by $10K after being on the market for two weeks. That does NOT help... Ahhh, just learned from the realtor that the house down the street is a foreclosure. That 'splains the low, low price.)
• Pumpkin is not adjusting well to our newly "staged" house. This morning he moved the Kleenex box from the bathroom closet to the nightstand in the bedroom. "Goes here," he told me. Well, yep, it's much more convenient at my bedside, but apparently potential buyers are put off by thoughts of nose blowing in bed. Whatever. Pumpkin has also relocated his potty chair (moved from the bedroom closet back to the bathroom), garbage cans (from the garage back to the driveway), and his toy box (from the hall closet back to, well, everywhere).
• Maybelline is dead, again (maybe). The dealer uncovered the source of the fire - the "engine exploded." Fixing the engine alone will be twice the value of the car. If the dealer can get a hold of someone at the insurance company, we should have a check by the end of the week. Thank goodness G works for them!
• Pumpkin has been officially diagnosed: he's two. There's nothing wrong with him other than frustration with his communication skills, typical of a someone who's two years old and doesn't always get his way. Thank goodness we didn't have to pay for that bit of wisdom!

We Bite Food, Not Friends

That's what Pumpkin Boy's teachers keep telling us to reinforce with him everyday, and we do. (Although, that phrase is incredibly cheesy.)

Pumpkin Boy received two "incident reports" yesterday. That makes 16 reports since starting daycare nine months ago. Last week, we met with the owner, director, and his teachers to discuss his behavior. It felt like being in the principal's office.

He's aggressive only to other kids - not teachers, not us, not adults of any kind. He bites when he wants something another kid has - a toy, a particular chair, a spot closer to teacher.

The teachers recommended reading him books like "Biting Hurts." I've ordered a half dozen "biting" books from Amazon (Number one: who knew there were so many books dedicated to the topic? Number two: how many different "don't bite" plots can there be? Number three: I could so be a children's author.)

The next step is an observation session with a counselor hired by the daycare. Pumpkin has never chomped on anyone in my presence, but here's what I suspect is going on:

1) Pumpkin is TWO. That's what two-year-olds do. OK, not all two-year-olds, but seriously, toddlers bite.

2) He's teething, as evidenced by frequently putting his entire fist into his mouth and drooling like a Saint Bernard.

3) Verbally, he's on par with his age, but there's still a ways to go in terms of being really able to express himself.

I feel bad for the parents of Pumpkin's victims, but he hasn't broken skin, and he's been on the recieving-end of other kid's teeth, as well - so I know he's not the only biter in the class. But with 16 incident reports, it's getting to the point where the director looks at us like we're doing something wrong. My concern is that they'll kick him out of daycare - excessive biting is a dismissive offense. But at what point does biting become "excessive"?