Spider!

The Bub is seeing spiders everywhere.  Sometimes they are fuzz, or pet hair, or a mark on the wall, but occasionally it’s a real bug.  This has turned me into a cat on a hot tin roof.  Several times a day he will yell “Spider!” and point.  Then I have to deal with whatever it is.  Sometimes he says, “Spider on you!” God I hate “Spider on you!”.  So far it’s always been lint, but YOU NEVER KNOW!

It’s fall, and there are actually some pretty huge spiders in the house.  Twice, one has fallen from the shower curtain into the bathtub during bathtime.  I try to stay calm as I’m scooping it out of the water and dumping it into the toilet.  And I tell him it’s just a fluffy or a fuzzy.  But I’m so freaked out by them!!

Worst of all, we take them outside (if not drowned) so that the boy will learn compassion.  So I have to scoop up the thing with a broom and dustpan and carry it around while my heart is racing and I’m praying it won’t “get on me” (the biggest spider sin!).   My husband thought I was exaggerating, until he heard the cry of “Spider!” and it turned out to be the biggest one yet!  Silver dollar sized, if you count the legs and you do.  He started hyperventilating and I just gave up on compassion and sprayed the crap out of it with bug spray.  Then I carried the corpse outside.  “It’s just a fluffy, Bub!”

They’re 2 they’re 4 they’re 6 they’re 8

Of all the stuff that my toddler likes, the one thing I really cannot tolerate is Thomas the Tank Engine. He’s my Barney. I’d rather watch the dead air filled repetition of Dora, or the inexplicable plotlines of Little Einsteins, than suffer through the whining and nagging of those little bitches in Tidmouth Sheds.
Every episode is the same. The owner of the railroad, Sir Toppem Hatt, asks one of the engines to DO THEIR FREAKIN’ JOB and pull something to somewhere. The engine NEVER WANTS TO. Then, for the next fifteen minutes, the engine does the job and complains the WHOLE ENTIRE TIME. Finis.
Even the beauty and very Englishness of the Island of Sodor cannot make up for this. Because, and I cannot stress this enough, this IS EXACTLY WHAT HAPPENS EVERY DAY AT MY JOB!
I suppose that Thomas is just preparing my kid for life. Guess what honey? When you grow up you will go to a job and everyone there will complain about performing this job. Even if it’s exactly what they went to school to do. Even if they applied and interviewed and worked their way into their position. Even if they tell everyone that they love their work. It doesn’t matter. When their Toppem Hatt assigns them a project all they will do is whine. When you are 2, this is hilarious. When you are 42, this makes you stabby.
Worst of all, I don’t see this love of “Nomas” ending soon. We have all the trains (second-hand thank god) and shirts and pajamas and now he wants a “Nomas” cake for his birthday. We’ve ridden the life-sized Thomas train. We go to ToyRUs Thomas days. And on and on…
But yesterday, he watched Scooby Doo. He talked about it for hours. (Him: “Mama! The Monster chased Scooby!” Me: “I think I’ve seen that one!”). So maybe he’s ready for real big kid cartoons! I can’t wait. Thundercats! Ho!

Birthers

Nope. Not *those* birthers. I mean the ladies who think that there is only one way to give birth in these modern times. Be it in a plastic wading pool in your kitchen, a scheduled c-section, sitting on a bouncy ball, music on, music off, candles lit, by yourself, surrounded by everyone you know, with a doula, epidural, no epidural, TV on, TV off, recorded for posterity, oh hell no cameras until after you shower, baby stays in the room, nurses give you a break, and on and on and on it seems that everyone has an opinion and a STRONG opinion.
Well, I am just going to toss this out there. That maybe, just maybe, the things you do for the 40 weeks before that day, and the things you do for the rest of your freakin’ life after that day, are a little more important than: that one day.
But I don’t give a crap about weddings, anniversaries or birthdays either, as long as I get good presents and cake. Oh! Two things that were also there when I gave birth!
Just do what you want as long as it’s safe, and let other people do what they want, and STFU about it.

Jack Johnson

Ages ago an aquaintance said that their favorite artist of all time was Jack Johnson. I really slagged him for it. Not so much for taste–but just that it didn’t seem like Jack had done enough to be an all-time fave. The response was, “What’s better than relaxing on the beach, with beers and a small fire listening to JJ?” *Cue gales of laughter*
Over time, and for no apparent reason, this has become one of the little touchstones of my marriage. You know, the little jokes that you have with your partner that only you guys think are funny. Any question about “what’s your favorite” will get “Jack Johnson” as an answer. Or, “What could be better…” Or something about “chillaxing”.
Of course, I really hadn’t listened to a lot of Jack Johnson. But we got the Curious George CD when our son was born and I admit, I played it a few times during those long, long days of maternity leave, stuck with a baby I really didn’t know what to do with, stressed out that I wasn’t stimulating his mind with a variety of songs. (I KNOW! I was nuts.) It was pleasant enough, but I can’t say I listened too closely. I was sleep deprived and and anxious.
The other night my throat was too sore from strep to sing my boy to sleep, so I asked him if he wanted me to play a CD. He, of course, had to look at all his music and pick. He picked the “monkey music”.
The next night, he asked for monkey music again. I turned it on and he kept pointing at the CD player and saying “broken”. It was working fine–not broken. It was totally a wtf moment. And, since he’s two, he started to cry.
FINALLY, I remembered that track 2 is a song CALLED “Broken”. So I played it.
He stood up in his crib and put his arms out for a hug. I picked him up and we swayed. He moved in for the big snuggle and said, “This is mama’s song. I like this music.”
Me too bub. It’s my favorite.

Swing, Set, Match

Eighty seven unlabeled pieces of wood.  Countless nuts, bolts and screws.  (Only) three trips to the hardware store.  (Only) two fights.  Three weeks of working on it.  And we now have a swingset in the backyard.

We took evenings after bedtime to label all the wood and sort the screws.  We read the instructions beforehand.  We took a day off, after several rain delays, and got most of it done.  Then I took a few hours off to finish by myself.  We broke two drill bits.  We lost parts in the grass.  We cursed, alot.

It’s truly riduculous the amount of stress this caused.  I was dreaming about the swingset.  I still am.  Every creak, every gust of wind and I’m sure it’s coming down.  And that little place where it doesn’t quite touch the low spot on the ground?  It’s killing me.  I have got to dump some dirt there.  And should I poly it?  Two different paint department guys said to let it weather for a year–but I don’t want it to “weather”.  I want it PERFECT.

But, all that really matters is that is it perfect to my son.  He adores his “lellow” slide and his “wings”.  He talks constantly about being “pushted” and going “higher, higher”.  He looks out the window at it, and eats snacks sitting on it, and cries when it’s time to come in for supper.

I totally get to kill the dog if he pees on it, right?

He’s ready for the dating scene…

Bub:  Mama!  Smootch me!

Me:  *smootch*

Bub:  Mama!  Bigger Smootch!

Me:  *bigger smootch*  I love you, bub.

Bub:  Love you mama.

Me:  Love you so much.

Bub:  Love you sooooo much.  Now go away mama.

Sluggo

Yesterday evening, after playing outside, the bub had something on his hand. I thought it was a booger (gross, but it happens) and I went to get a tissue to wipe if off. He held out his hand and the the booger unfurled and extended it’s antennae. OMG, it was a teeny slug!
Now, I hate bugs. I’m pretty afraid of them, especially spiders. Since I’ve become a mom, I’ve really tried not to let that show. When there’s a bug in the house, I just breathe and try and sweep it up and take it outside. When we’re outdoors and we see bugs, I just look at them and talk about them. I don’t want the bub to be afraid, or to kill them. I’m happy when he’s just interested and curious.
But this time I was just so surprised by the slug. I screamed and jumped up. Then the bub screamed and shook his hand and started crying and crying. And, I didn’t do anything. I was just too freaked out, and I didn’t know where the slug went, and I was so skeeved out that it could be touching me that I just let him scream and cry while I shook out my hair and brushed at my clothes. I finally got so convinced it was on me that I stripped off my shirt. I just got the major wig and couldn’t shake it. Meanwhile, my husband had come down and was trying to calm the bub down while I stood there begging him to check my hair.
I finally got it together and hugged my child. We talked all about it and he finally calmed down. We got through bath time, and bedtime, and right before he fell asleep he said that the bug was scary, but that he was OK. I said that I was sorry I got so scared. Sometimes, you just can’t be “the mom”.
But we never found the slug. It’s still somewhere in the house, or on my shirt, or maybe in my hair. I mean, I’ve showered and changed clothes but YOU NEVER KNOW!

Too Big

I’m not entirely sure how this happened, but now anything undesirable is “too big”. Like, “Do you want peaches?” “No, peaches are too big.” Or “Do you want Daddy to put you to bed?” “No, Daddy is too big.”
All I can guess, is that when we play Hot Wheels, some of the Tonka trucks are too big for the tracks. So those trucks are “too big”. Somewhere along the line, we never explained that “big” was a relative size. It just meant that they won’t work. So they are “wrong” or “bad”. I don’t know.
Damn “too big” is hilarious. I don’t want to stretch it out for too long, and I’ve already started to try and explain things, and show him sizes and “big” and “little”.  He’ll get it eventually.  It’s just too hard not to laugh when he’s upset and saying he doesn’t want to go to bed because going night night is too big.
But yesterday I did end up desperately telling him that throwing his toys was “too big”. And he stopped throwing them.

S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y Night

Not so very long ago, the weekend meant sleeping in, then coffee, a workout, and a shag.
Then some shopping, getting dressed up and going out. To a bar, dinner, a movie–whatever.
Sunday afternoons I would watch decorating shows, email friends, pick up the house, maybe even a second movie.
Real pedicures. Long baths. Naps. Daytime TV.
Now, the weekend means getting up early and making pancakes. Then going to the playground. Making hot dogs for lunch. Frantically trying to clean the house during naptime. Doing mountains of laundry. Playing Hot Wheels for hours.
Then, after the hours of trying to get the Bub to sleep, finally, a glass of wine and a few minutes of TV. That half hour feels like a whole party to me now.

Choices

The bub is now really and truly two. It’s only been in the past few weeks that he’s been trying out tantrums. I’ll tell you, they are working. Many times I am just too tired to do anything but help him with whatever is freaking him out.
Want milk not juice? Sure. Hot Wheels under the couch? I’ll get them. Whatever. But, I was getting concerned enough to pull out the parenting books and see what they have to offer. And what do they suggest? When your kid is having a tantrum, distract him with choices. Then, he’ll feel that he has control over his little world and will stop freaking out.
Totally wrong. Because what if they don’t want ANY choice? What is nothing offered is the right thing? What if it takes 20 minutes of crying to decide between a spider t-shirt or a spider MAN t-shirt? What then? What if you give up and offer the entire drawer of t-shirts and they ALL are WRONG! Then, you just have to grab a shirt and yank it over his teary and beet red little face. And then you have to hear, “NOOOOOO SPIDER T-SHIRT!!!” So then you have to switch shirts. And then you are an hour late. No more and then.
I’m going to give up on the choices stuff. I’m just going to present things as a fait accompli and see what happens. And if what is presented is wrong, then I’m not offering a choice. If he comes up with a “right” thing that is doable then we’ll do that. But if all he does is freak out, then we freak out. And if it works, I’m writing my own parenting book.