Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Little Randomness and the Beginning of Sibling Strife

My two year-old hears his father and I use the word "nice," oftentimes in response to said toddler catching a ball, running exceptionally fast, or finishing all the tiny green balls that accompany his chicken nuggets at lunchtime.

He wants so badly to use this word, but completely misses the context of its usage.

A few days ago the foul stench of fecal-filled diaper wafted over to where I sat on the couch, feeding the baby and half-listening to some frivilous travel tips from the Today Show gang. 

"Did you poopoo?" I asked The Tine.

"No," he lied with ease.

"Tine, is there poopoo in your pants?" I questioned in the skeptical tone of motherhood.


I set down the baby and lifted my little mass of stank onto the changing table.

As soon as I opened his Luvs for teenagers (my son is quite large for his age and wears what my husband and I affectionately refer to as ginormodiapers) his curious, little hands reached down for some foul scented play-doh action.

I blocked him like a seasoned goalie, apparently alerting him to the substance that filled his diaper with my quick hands and panicked expression.

He looked at me excitedly and said...

"There's poopoo in there?  Nice!"


We visited my parents this weekend.

It is a three hour drive and about five minutes from home the baby started complaining.  Nothing too serious, just airing his grievances and such.

My toddler detests the grating sound of Bady's cry.  I wonder if his reaction is anything like mine... racing heart, tightening chest, burning skin.  Probably not, but if so I can completely excuse his behavior.

When the baby used to cry The Tine would gaze sympathetically it his direction and croon, "OT, baby, OT" (translation: "It's okay, baby, it's okay").

Now he snaps his head around and with fire in his eyes shouts, "Stop trying baby, stop trying!" (I should note that in almost every other way he is a loving and attentive big brother, just not when the baby cries... which on days like today is ALL THE TIME). 

On this particular trip, however, instead of yelling at the baby he decided to match that annoying yelp with one of he own.

At the next pause he looked right in the baby's eyes and moaned a very deliberate "Ehhhhhhhhh!"

It wasn't very loud or fierce, but the baby's bottom lip quivered slightly before he burst, shedding hysterical tears and whipping his head from side to side in the carseat.

We turned up U2, which calmed the baby immediately and for two blissful seconds all was well with the world.

At which point The Tine, with a devilish gleam in his eyes stared him down and...


Not even U2 could bring the screaming bundle back this time. 

As much as we both wanted to chastise our son we were too busy desperately hiding our laughter from his attention-seeking eyes.

And in a long life of brotherly quarrels and sibling strife, the teasing begins...

Sunday, March 28, 2010

Deep Thoughts and Future Plans

I went to a funeral this afternoon.

Not to come in on a depressing note after a few day hiatus from blogging, but there is something about funerals that really sucks...

... and there is also something amazing.

And both things haunt you all day and you can try to write about the comically mundane, but what comes out feels fake and you end up deleting it a bunch of times.

What sucks is this...

There is a wife climbing into a cold, empty bed... probably huddling to "her side," aching for the warmth that slept mere inches away for twenty years. 

There is a teenage daughter wondering who will interrogate future boyfriends, teach her to drive, walk her down the aisle.

There is a mother who buried her child today and is supposed to somehow sleep tonight.

Nothing really takes away from the suckiness of all that stuff.  And the fact that after the meals and flowers and cards dissipate, the pain remains.  That still really sucks.

But the something amazing is this...

Those left behind, the onlookers to the family's grief and even the family themselves, get a second chance.

When you say good-bye to a great person you start to understand what made that person great.

I was not close with this person.  In fact, I only met him once, at our wedding.  But he impacted my husband's life and apparently quite a few others. 

Listening to the words of his closest friends I realized that two things really seem to matter when you evaluate a person's life.  Two things these speakers repeated over and over, as though throwing a lifeline to the family.  Something that wife and daughter and mother could grab onto and think that somehow everything would turn out okay, that somehow it was all worth it.

These are the two things...

That person's love for their family (in the broad sense of the word) and how that person used his life to help others.

I don't know why this stood out to me, and I know there is more to life than that.

But I also know that when people go to a funeral that is what they want to hear about.  And it really makes you think.

About your family and how precious every second is... even the seconds that seem like hours because your toddler is throwing a tantrum in the grocery store or your baby is crying hysterically in the backseat of the car.  Even when you think you might explode if you have to wash one more dish, give one more bath, or watch one more Elmo movie. 

And it makes you think about what you are doing with your life.

How you are helping and how you are teaching your children to help.

Sometimes I get so sucked into this routine of making it through the day.  Getting to tomorrow without going crazy.  Finding things to fill my time.

That I forget there are others really struggling to make it through the day... and not in the I-want-to-make-it-to-the-weekend-so-we-can-have-fun sense of the word.  But real struggles.

And I know there are a lot of ways to help, and while I do a little something here or there, it is just not that important to me.

But I want it to be.

Which brings me to some plans I hinted about in this post.

We want to go abroad.

It scares me to write those words, but I want to be honest here and that is honestly where we are heading.

And it feels crazy because we have two kids and live a really comfortable life and have 24-hour babysitters (I mean, grandparents) right next door. 

My husband is a teacher and we are currently exploring the international school scene, but looking for places we could really help. 

I know there are a lot of ways to help here, and it may be a while before (and if) we actually go, but it is something we wanted to do since before we were married and the desire just won't go away. 

And going to that funeral today felt like a big old shove in that direction. 

So we'll see what happens.  I may publish this post, go throw up in the bathroom, and proceed with a follow-up post illuminating my newfound desire to live the remainder of my life in the little, yellow house we rent from my in-laws.

Or I may not.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

My husband is so not a mind reader

Sometimes I ask my husband a question.

I know the answer already, but this is what I want...

I want him to recognize the question behind the question (which can usually be summed up in four words, "Do you love me?")

Then I simply want him to read my mind, which contains the best possible answer, deliver that answer with the utmost sincerity, and finish it off with some spectacular compliment (to which I will say, "That's not true," and he will spend the next hour stating example after example proving it is, in fact, true.)

Is that too much to ask?

This is what I get instead...


The Question: Can you believe I burned the baby's face?  I'm a terrible mother. (I didn't literally burn the baby's face, but I did allow for a pretty nasty sunburn on those precious, milky-white cheeks.)

The Right Answer: Honey, you didn't burn the the baby's face.  I mean, it's the middle of March, who in their right mind would think about sunscreen when there is still snow on the ground?  And besides, it was a Saturday, I should have been around to help you remember things like sunscreen since you do such a great job of remembering EVERYTHING else.

His Answer: You didn't put sunscreen on his face?


The Question: Are you proud that I spent a whole night alone with the kids (something I was previously too terrified to attempt, even though his parents live so close I can literally look across the lawn and see what they're watching on TV)?

The Right Answer: I am so proud of you!  You are an amazing wife to take care of our kids so I could have a weekend away with the guys.  And you should know that "guy time" is now completely out of my system and I will never leave you alone with the kids again.

His Answer: (without looking up from his computer or letting me get past the word "proud") Yes.


The Question: So was your weekend relaxing? (underhanded sarcasm implied)

The Right Answer: It was alright.  But I couldn't stop thinking about you and the kids long enough to really enjoy myself. 

His Answer: Yeah.  You should try it sometime. (Right, that sounds easy enough.  Let me just detach the baby from my breast and the toddler from my leg, get in touch with the magical fairy who picks up your wet towels, unloads the dishwasher, and scrubs the crap from your children's clothes, and I'll be off in a jiffy.)


The Question: Will you watch the kids so I can go out for a while?

The Right Answer: I would love to!  Also, I was thinking I could do the dishes, fold the laundry, and draw you a candle-lit bath (that will not lead to sex in any way, shape or form).

His Answer: Yes.

Good enough!  I'm out of here.


Do your husbands usually get it "right"?  Tell me about a time "his answer" was very different from the "right answer."

Linking up with Deb and Lee to finish the sentence, "My husband is so..."


Sunday, March 21, 2010

My Son is a Meanie (But I Can't Let Go)

"Who loves you?"

I posed this question to my son yesterday morning.

 The Tine was playing with the baby in the bathroom, causing tiny convulsions of infant joy as Bady basked in the attention of his big brother.

 So when I asked, "Who loves you?" I was looking for "The baby."

 Instead he answers, "Pap!"

 "Yes, Pap loves you, but who else?"

 "Mmmmm... Grammy?"

"Grammy loves you too, but who else?"


"Okay, Daddy too.  Who else loves you?"

At this point I could care less if he says the baby, I just want to hear Mama from those sweet, little lips.

"Mmmmm... BABY!!!"

I'm starting to panic and completely dismiss this dose of brotherly affection.  I just keep thinking, "What's going on?  I'm never this far down on the list."

"Hey," I gently pry, "does Mommy love you?"

"Nope," he answers matter-of-factly, retrieving his trains and chugging carelessly down the hall.

My heart breaks and I spend the next twenty minutes following him around, practically shoving the words "Mommy loves me" down his throat while counting the moments of failure that led to this devastating decree.


I felt like the invisible mom all morning... trailing my kids like a pathetic, little puppy dog just teeming for a pat on the head.

Meanwhile, my in-laws were clearly the stars of the show, gaining goofy baby smiles and exhuberant toddler hugs with their unashamed doting and ceaseless attention.

At one point The Tine decided it was time to move out front.  My mother-in-law followed and I took up the rear.

As we traversed the breezeway, heading for the open door, my son abruptly turned, glared at me and yelled, "No, Mommy!" 

I held my head high and stated, "Mommy wants to come too."

But as I attempted to break through his little hand pushed firmly against my leg and he repeated (louder, of course), "No Mommy!"

Now I know I'm twenty years beyond elementary school and am in fact the mother of this pint-sized bully, but tears welled up in my eyes and I wanted to run home sobbing, "My son hurt my feelings!"

Instead I commenced the teacher's role, coolly stating the implications of pushing and generalizing that "it makes people feel sad."

It makes Mommy feel sad.

And I'd like you to stop.


I never thought I would look back fondly on the days where Separation Anxiety crippled our life.  When, in the rare occasions I could leave his side, my son's screams and sobs haunted my consciousness until the moment I walked through the door (and he leapt into my arms).

I laughed at people who told me that one day I would miss those middle-of-the-night feedings, where the fog of sleep blurred the edges between baby and mother, leaving a mass of grogginess, hunger, and deep, pure affection.

I counted with annoyance the strands of thin, blonde hair ripped from my head as he grasped for comfort in the familiar aroma of his Mommy's shampoo.

My baby is growing up.

Eventually, he allowed me out front and together we basked in the sun and each other's affection.

This evening, when his Daddy asked, "Who loves you?" he stated (without hesitation), "Mommy!"

I know these moments of defiance are dramatic shows of his budding independence.  And I realize that hours spent holding my son on the couch, chasing each other around the picnic table, and giggling in bed at night far outweigh mere minutes of thoughtless rejection.

Yet the fact remains that in two short years of motherhood I have lost certain, irreplacable connections with my baby.

Connections that I do, in fact, miss.

But every day I gain so much more. 

When The Tine was a baby I sacrificed my independence for his happiness.

Now I am learning to sacrifice my happiness for his independence.

I still miss the days where he seemed more like an extension of me than a little person of his own.

But I love even more the person he is becoming... his thoughtfulness, his passion, his joy and laughter and boundless energy...

... and the fact that when he crashes at night, after a day of chasing the elusive prize of independence, he does so in his Mommy's arms, with his head slumped into her chest and his hands tangled carelessly in the remaining wisps of her thin, blonde hair.

Friday, March 19, 2010

Feel Good Friday: Grunty Babies and Hoyney Toddlers

Spring finally arrived here in my neck of the woods.  And nothing makes me feel more optimistic than warm sunshine after months of frigid temperatures and heaping piles of nasty white stuff.

So I am participating in Feel Good Friday, hosted by The Girl Next Door Grows Up, where I can give voice to the things that made me happy on this, the first real week of spring (at least in my mind). 

Here it goes...

1. The Growling Whine Grunt

When the baby is hungry he begins with a low whine. 

If that doesn't get my attention he grunts.  I mean, really grunts.  Like, slap on some low-riding jeans, pull the diaper down to expose his unusually long butt crack, and you've got yourself a little construction worker hauling one heavy load.  (I would like to note that he gets this trait from my husband who grunts his way through any and every physically laborious task just so I know what stud he is). 

If I allow him to build up to the dreaded scream cry there is no going back.  In fact, he ravenously takes his milk, then glares from the tops of his eyes, all the while loudly complaining (with a mouth full of breast) in a strange kind of growling whine grunt.

And I absolutely love it.  Probably the cutest thing ever (sorry there baby, but as long as you continue this behavior I just can't rush to your rescue and miss that sweet little wrath)!

2. My Hoyney Toddler

I posted a few weeks back about my toddler's translation of the word "hungry."  The word continues to draw loads of laughter in the privacy of our own home.

He decided, however, to take his act to the public this week. 

While playing in the kid's kitchen of our local library, during a rare moment of absolute silence (though not without onlookers), he began rubbing his belly, a physical sign of his pretend hunger.  Only instead of his belly he stroked his chest with both hands and yelled out, over and over, "I'm hoyney, I'm hoyney, I'm hoyney!"

3. Brownie Pizza

Need I say more.

Fun to make, and even more fun to eat (acutally, it was too sweet for my two year-old, but I loved it!).

4. A Husband Who Cooks

Picture this...

The kids are in bed, I am sitting down for the first time in hours, my feet kicked up and the TV tuned to NBC's "Comedy Night Done Right." 

As I giggle away at the latest Parks and Rec antics delicious, Mexican smells waft from the kitchen.

In no time a steaming plate of Huevos Rancheros, complete with yellow rice and homemade guacamole, an ice cold beer, and my angelic husband are before me.

In the tradition of Mexican food I eat until I am so bloated I can barely move, set my plate on the coffee table, and contentedly sigh.

At the next commercial break I tear myself from the couch's vice-like grip to clear our plates...

at which point I stop dead in my tracks at the door to the kitchen and think...

"If only I could find a husband who cleans up!"

5. Kids and Coffee

I know, they normally don't mix.

But there is this great, family-owned coffee shop in our town that is actually kid-friendly, and even kid-inviting. 

When you walk in a giant aquarium full of bright yellow and electric blue fish greets you.  And if that is not enough, shelves full of toys and books for kids await you in the back.  (I'm usually happy if a coffeehouse just keeps highchairs on hand.)

With an infant and a toddler we are still lucky to stay for just 15 minutes, but it is 15 minutes of glorious, coffee-sipping, kid-amusing semi-relaxation and in the middle of a long day it feels amazing.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Relief in the Bathroom

Important things in my life that prove two truly is better than one...
  • Twix, any kind of miniature candy bar, kit kats (pairs of two, but delicious nonetheless).
  • My husband/ partner in all things hungry, poopy, or migraine-inducing tantrumy.
  • Kids in diapers (I know it sounds crazy, but at this point it seems so much easier than potty training.  Am I right, or should I just take the plunge?).
  • Breasts (to soothe my crying baby, of course... though I'm sure my husband is thankful for the same thing for very different reasons).
  • Computers (this blog would not be possible without them... sharing is not an option in our household).
  • Travel mugs (my husband has about thirteen conniptions if I put coffee in the tea mug, thus tainting the taste of his tea for all of eternity, or something like that).
  • Tiny, little children (life is crazier, but so much fun and ironically more laid back).
One pair, however, I don't want to see for a good, long time...
  • Those two pink lines highlighted by a stream of urine and lurking like an intruder on my bathroom counter.
Obviously there is a reason I am thinking about this.  And no, it is not because I am pregnant. 

I did, however, think it was a possibility.  (Not a good possibility, but enough of a nagging suspicion to have me peeing on a stick and, three long minutes later, rejoicing over that one, beautiful pink line.)

There were a few signs, but mostly I keep hearing these stories of accidental third pregnancies.  As in planning number one and number two, then a few months later... SURPRISE!

I heard this story quite a lot in the past, few months... so there really was a reason for my paranoia. 

I would never invade these couples privacy, but part of me wants to know how it happens.  I mean, are they not trying, but also not not trying?  Or are they really not trying, but can't keep their hands off each other thus creating a greater mathematical possibility of conception even when appropriate measures are taken?

I am sure that a part of me would be excited, and I know that I would love that child... surprise or not, but at this point in my life I prefer the not (at least until my first son caves to M&M bribery in the bathroom and my second learns to do anything for himself... I mean, really, you still need help burping?).

Plus, I'm thinking about things for the future.

Things that cannot happen if I am pregnant.

Things that make me caffeine-high excited and close-to-vomiting nervous at the same time.

Things that I may not be ready to articulate right now, but will certainly talk more about in the near, near future...

Thursday, March 11, 2010

The person I am when no one is looking (and why I'm not that person all the time)

I'm not quite sure where to start here.

It is a beautiful day.  The sun is shining, our crock pot dinner is smelling delicious, both kids are napping.

I should feel great, and in a way a do... but in another way I'm in this annoying, contemplative mood that will not let me believe everything is so wonderful.

A friend of mine called this morning, wanting to walk to the library together (she is also the mother of a toddler and a baby). 

I jumped at the opportunity, wanting to take advantage of the warm weather and any excuse to socialize (it's not that I don't love playing choochoo's with my son and watching endless hours of The Wiggles... oh wait, yes it is).

So we fought with our double stollers, pulled our sons out of the mud, plopped them in their seats, and were off into the sunshine.

Our conversation was as good as the narrow, snow-lined sidewalk and two double strollers would allow.

But when we arrived at the library I felt an almost instant switch from camaraderie to competition.

Whose toddler picked up their messes.  Which one pushed the other and who was throwing play pizza across the room. 

Then I started thinking things I never think when I'm alone.

I started panicking when The Tine said "no."  And he's two years-old.  All he says is no.

I began searching for a glimpse of defiance in her son... just to show that mine wasn't so bad.

I made excuses for my son's tantrums (I even told her I scratched his back putting him in the stroller to explain his wild screaming when we left).

I don't want to be this person.

I want to be honest.

I want to admit that my son is not perfect.

I want to tell her that I don't always follow up on discipline... that I'm not the best mother... that sometimes I know exactly what I should do and I don't do it... that sometimes I have no idea what I'm doing.

That is one of the main reasons I started this blog.

I need to tell things how they really are and stop hiding behind the candy-coated, honest-only-to-the-point-I-start-looking-bad facade I am so comfortable with.

I need this to be a place where I can reveal the imperfections of my life.

People always comment on how calm and patient I am with my kids.

I'm not.

In real life, I'm not.

I need people to see that and I think they need it too.

If I really want to be the best mom I can to my kids (and I really do) then I need for people to see the kind of mom I am now. 

I need the encouragement and help that comes only through complete openness and honesty. 

I also want to reveal those little parenting triumphs... the giggling fits I share with my son before bed, my baby's heartbreaking smile as I sing softly to him, little pleases and thank you's, the eating of green, foreign vegetables...

Most of all I want my children to learn it is okay to screw up.

My son is just learning to catch a ball.  I can see the embarrasment in his eyes when he misses and I have watched him stop playing to avoid failure.

I want him to look at me and see that it is okay to fail.  That people will forgive you and you can forgive yourself... and move on.

My dad coached my high school softball team.  Every time we missed a fly ball or struck out we felt this strange need to apologize.  Every time my dad would tell us not to say sorry, to say we'd try better next time. 

It was cheesy, but true. 

I don't want to spend my life apologizing for my mistakes and I certainly don't want my kids to.  I want to try better next time. 

Or just try at all.

Monday, March 8, 2010

There's no crying in grocery shopping!

I cried in the grocery store this morning.

Yes, I was the 26 year-old woman toting two small children, a whole cart of groceries, and crying in the checkout line.

Very embarrasing.

There is an explanation (sort of).

I arrived at the grocery store extra early, ready to brave empty shelves and rotting produce in order to finish my shopping before nap time (and reward myself on the way home with a Starbucks coffee).

It was warmer than ususal, so I decided to leave my coat in the car, smiling at the feel of the sun on my face and joyfully aware of impending spring.

I strapped on my baby, tugged my toddler from his car seat, and set off bravely for the store, applauding myself as I waltzed through the sliding doors (I was still in Oscar mode... feeling very dramatic).

Strutting calmly through the aisles I played the part of a mothering pro, gracefully snatching a bagel for the Tine, leisurely comparing prices and checking off acquired items, graciously smiling at the baby-touchers in produce. 

I tossed in my very last item, Tazo tea for my husband, and proudly reached for my bonus card... which I keep with my keys... in my coat pocket...

OH CRAP!  I didn't lock my keys in the car!

I scrambled through my purse, knowing full well I always put my keys in my coat where they are "easy to find."

After mentally kicking myself in the butt a few times for my stupidity, I pulled myself together and called my husband... again... and again... and again.  In my mind I knew it was ringing, but not at work where he was busy herding 25 sixth graders to their seats. 

No, his favorite U2 song was playing cheerily on our bed at home... where he left his phone, yet again (and honey, if you are reading this, that is your cue to feel very, very bad).

I gathered myself once more and called my next-door-neighbor/ father-in-law to come pick us up.  Once again the phone rang, and rang, and rang... I pictured him throwing the pillow over his head, building his case against whoever had the nerve to call before nine in the morning, but not picking up the phone. 

So I did what every grown woman with children of her own would do... I called my mommy (who lives three hours away).

My mom, who always needs to have the answer, told me to call the police.

Standing in the middle of the grocery store I asked (loudly, what with the panic setting in and all), "Call the police?  What's the number?"

Now of course I was looking for the non-emergency number, but I'm sure anyone who overheard this conversation ducked immediately into the next aisle and proceeded to make fun of the girl who didn't know the number for 911.

We ended the conversation deciding I should talk to someone in the store and see if they could help. 

So I went to a familiar cashier, explained my situation, and waited for someone to take care of me like a Kindergartner in the guidance counselor's office.

The cashier guffawed a little, mustered some advice about the three A's (which we just recently canceled, but thank you very much to the man behind the counter for checking out my last shred of dignity) and basically told me I was out of luck.

In one last attempt I called my mother-in-law, knowing she was at work, but hoping she could get ahold of her husband.

When she picked up the phone I was able to get out, "Hi.  It's Kim," before bursting into tears and ugly crying my way through the story right in the middle of the check out aisle (while my toddler whined for more cookies, my baby fussed in my arms, and the kind cashier continued to scan my milk and diapers without looking up).

I won't bore you with the details of how things worked out from there, but after about an hour of calling, prying at my door with a hanger, and driving around, my father-in-law happened upon a spare key for my car (which would have been great if he found it an hour earlier, but at that point I was just happy to get in my own car). 

After which I drove straight to Starbucks... and don't feel bad about it at all.

What was the worst time you ever locked your keys in the car (please tell me I'm not the only dumb one here)?

Friday, March 5, 2010

Thirteen things I like more than snow, but less than severely stubbing my toe

Now that the sun is shining and spring is peeking its head around the corner, I find I detest the snow more than ever. 

I want to go on walks in my new double stroller without plowing through a snow tunnel, covering my children with the cold, white powder of winter.

I want to transport my kids the 50 feet to my in-laws without tugging boots on their feet and forcing hats on their squirmy little heads (though I probably shouldn't complain about this minimal effort in light of the free babysitting).

I want to see the budding grass and the white of the sidewalks and perhaps a flower every now and then (or a colorful weed for that matter, I'm not picky).

So this is my plea for the snow to melt and to stay melted (none of those April blizzards, please.  It feels like the harsh, prodding finger of a my sister's teasing and I just can't deal with it this year).

And this is my list of thirteen things I like more than snow, but less than severely stubbing my toe.
  1. Putting away Christmas decorations.
  2. Listening to my baby cry at my in-laws (knowing I could soothe him in a second, but will be denied the opportunity for an excruciating, 15-minute, adult version of a feisty todder yelling, "I do it!").
  3. People who consider themselves the grammar police, fighting linguistic crimes with their arsenal of "who's" and "whom's."
  4. Cold coffee reheated enough times to smell suspiciously of burnt breakfast sausage.  
  5. Short naps. 
  6. Any kind of potted plant (I don't care if it's "low maintenance", it is too much pressure and I will kill it in three days).
  7. Driving long distances on sunny days (it hurts to squint that much, even with sunglasses, and I find it extremely annoying to sweat profusely while sitting completely still for three hours).
  8. When you go to pass someone and they speed up.
  9. When you get behind them again and they slow down.
  10. Any time before 7am.
  11. Long and wordy picture books (I do not enjoy playing on my son's illiteracy by reading only one sentence per page or skipping multiple pages at a time, but I will do it in the name of an early bedtime).
  12. Cauliflower.
  13. The words "help me." 
What weather condition drives you out of your mind?  What is something you would rather deal with than that particular condition?

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Mary Poppins... for the moment

I love my clueless little children.

Which brings me to a very important question... when can I expect my boys to realize I'm not perfect?

I mean, when I yell, they laugh (which is actually quite frustrating sometimes, but a whole lot better than making them cry). 

When I cry, my little toddler climbs on my lap and kisses away my tears (making me wish I could cry at will, a talent I most regretably lack... suggestions welcome). 

When I stick the Tine in front of the television just to get him out of my hair he thinks... well, he doesn't actually care why, just so long as he gets to embark on a wacky adventure with Dora and her cute sidekick, Boots. 

This morning he sprinted out of his room and into our bed at 6:30.  While not particularly early for him, my late-night rendezvous with The Bachelor followed by multiple curtain calls to the baby's room left me completely exhuasted.

I drug myself out of bed and proceeded to heatedly chastise him for awakening before the sun.  As I stumbled around mumbling about my ridiculous life and my ridiculous son he looked at me with his big brown eyes and sang, "Happy dirtday to you!" with the goofiest grin on his face.

In similar news, recently my husband was home on yet another snow day.  While an extra day at home with the hubby may seem desirable, all I ever end up with is a third child to feed and clean up after. 

In the height of my frustration I yelled something about dirty towels or crying babies or worthless husbands (possibly all of the above) then stormed out of the room, slamming the door to the bathroom behind me. 

Meanwhile I hear a pause in the living room as though my family is recovering from an earthquake.  Then, with all the comedic timing of a trained professional, my toddler laughingly drawls, "Moooommy!  Oh Mommy," as though I cracked a killer joke (and also disturbingly like my husband's light-hearted rebuttals to my infamous, monthly mood swings).

I know someday when I yell he is going to yell right back.

I am sure a time will come when he rolls his eyes at my tears.

A realize that eventually he will turn the TV on to escape me instead of vice versa.

I only wonder how long I can enjoy this ignorant biss.
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