What was I thinking?

Baby loves his siblings. He watches their every move and laughs hysterically whenever Tweenie or Rascal does anything funny or naughty.

I suppose it was just a matter of time.

He's outgrown the baby bathtub and is thrilled to now be allowed to use the big tub with everyone else. The joy on his face is echoed by ear-piercing shrieks and frantic flailing with all four limbs in the water, drenching the entire room in Johnson&Johnson.

One problem with all of this is that our tub has a textured floor and the bathseat that I bought back when Tweenie was that age is made for a smooth surface. There is no way to use the seat reliably despite multiple attempts. Also, because of the aforementioned flailing, I can't really hold him safely and soap him up at the same time.

There really is only one solution, and that is for me to get in there with him. When Rascal saw this, he wanted in. Things started off pretty well. The two boys splashed each other and laughed; they splashed me and laughed harder, especially when I scowled at them. This continued for a few minutes.

Then Rascal upped the ante.

He farted a loud, smelly, bubbly fart (all the more so because of the soapy water). Baby stared, stunned for a moment. Then he shrieked with delight, and Rascal squeezed another one loose. Even I thought that was kind of humorous.

I was just about to put an end to the antics and finish up with our bath when Baby farted too. He had this look of concentration, and as soon as he felt success whooshing between his fat little legs, he looked over at Rascal for approval.

Rascal clapped and whooped with laughter. Baby giggled and then farted again. This time it wasn't just air.

I scrambled up onto my feet, holding Baby at arm's length.

"POOP! POOP!" yelled Rascal. "Yucky!"

They both giggled and snorted while I called for Husband to come help. When he arrived, he took stock of the situation.

"Well, what did you expect?"

and a partridge in a pear treeeeeee.....

On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me - one digital camera (yay!)

On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me - 2 new sets of dishes (to replace the ones Rascal broke)

On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me - 3 fashionable Barbies (as if Tweenie needed more!)

On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me - 4 musical toys (grrrrrrr)

On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me - fiiiiiiive half-eaten candy caaaaaaaanes stuck to the floooooor with hairs and schneeblies on theeeeeeeeem (you have to sing that part)
________________

Ok, so the song could go on and on, but the bottom line is that everyone got what they wanted and asked for, the carpet needs shampooing, the recycling pickup guys had a lot of work this morning, and we need a vacation from our Christmas vacation.

Also there's the teeny outstanding issue of a large amount of fancy chocolates consumed with several bottles of Zinfandel and Arbor Mist (Tantie helped a little)... so the treadmill will now come out of storage, and I should be my svelte self in no time.

Y'know, except there are a few more goodies still in the freezer that didn't get eaten, and we wouldn't want them to go to waste. After all, that's what hideous bulky Christmas sweaters are for, right?

O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum...

I always knew Christmas trees and little children wouldn't mix. That's why when my stepdad offered us his hand-me-down artificial tree, I figured it was the cleanest and sanest choice despite personal misgivings about the whole idea of a fake tree.

This year Tweenie had a big hand in helping decorate it. We first laid out all the decorations on the coffee table and floor and decided on a method. I have many different pieces, lights, garlands and ribbons, non of which truly go together, so finding a cohesive scheme was a bit of a challenge.
This is what we came up with. Two strings of mini multicolored lights, several ropes of gold beads, a gold star on top, small gold balls for the top half and medium gold balls for the lower half. To finish it off, we chose all the ornaments that had a story or meaning (there are quite a few as it happens). We used the rest of the decorations elsewhere in the house and on the front porch. There was one sorry little 6 ft. string of green mini-lights that didn't otherwise find a spot, so we thought we could arrange them among the other lights on the tree.

We were quite proud of ourselves! The finished product was properly oohed and aahed by Husband and Rascal. Twit and Baby couldn't care less, of course.

Now it's 1 1/2 weeks later. Let's see where we're at.

At last count, we are down 4 medium gold balls because Rascal likes to climb on the kitchen counter and let them fall onto the tile floor. They make this jingly jangly sound when they crash, which must be just way too cool. The lowest-placed ornaments were used by Twit for batting practice, and some of them were carried off into her bed for future use but were rescued by an indignant Tweenie. Rascal tugged on the lights and bead garlands, and bent all the twig parts in weird directions.

The final result is this: all surviving ornaments are clustered on the top half of the tree, the lights are skewed off to one side, exposing the little line of green lights so they look like runway lighting, and some of the bead strands were bunched up in my hand and literally thrown at the top of the tree (I was in a hurry to rescue the next thing from Rascal's naughty little hand, ok?).

It is a pretty sorry sight...Now I wait until the latest possible moment to rearrange everything for the last days before Christmas so that I don't have to do this all over again! I'd post a picture of this beauty, but I don't own a digital camera and frankly, it's a little embarrassing.

Playing CSI

I always know who to blame for the messes I find around the house. Some examples, just off the top of my head...

-Fingerprints on the coffee table. Closer examination revealed Dorito particles embedded in the Nutella ridge detail. Conclusion: Tweenie!

-A hair print in Husband's car. Yes, you read that right. The oily residue was identified as Vaseline. Something triggered my memory there...

-Little dots of (pardon me) barf on the carpet. Due to the even spacing roughly 1 meter apart, I must conclude that Baby spit up while I was burping him and pacing. This was at some inconceivable hour of the night, so I must not have noticed the stinky matter dribbling off the back of my shoulder.

-Unidentifiable biological tissues. Twit's been hunting again and apparantly raw vole doesn't sit well on the stomach. Who knew?

-Items stolen from refrigerator of a junk-food nature. It seems that labelling such articles with "Do not eat - for Tweenie's school party" is not an effective deterrent. I'd like to blame Rascal, but I'm sure Husband was in there like a dirty shirt aiding and abetting.

This all plus stinky diapers and snotty noses; what's a mama to do? Why do YOU think they invented coffee and donuts?

A very hairy pedicure

Husband loves Tweenie very much. This is how much...88

On a recent trip to Toronto to visit Tantie, the long hours in the van must have fried Husband's brain and given Tweenie certain ideas.

The evil Tantie and her sidekick concocted an "Ambush Makeover" plan that was to include the family members most opposed to such, um, beautification.

"Papa, I need your help with something," Tweenie asked in a falsely angelic voice, fluttering her eyelashes and twirling her fingers in her hair.

"What?" grunted Husband from the couch.

"Oh, you'll see!" she simpered, trying unsuccessfully to smother an impish grin.

So Tantie and Tweenie locked Husband in the bathroom and fixed him up real purty. I wasn't in the room at the time and I'm not sure what recriminations were promised, but everyone is still in one piece, so I guess I should be happy for that.

The funniest part is that it's now been over 2 weeks and Husband is still walking around like this. He knows I have nail polish remover somewhere in my cosmetics drawer, but he won't go in there (girl germs I guess). Actually I shouldn't be surprised that Tweenie did this. I've been "What Not To Wear"ing in Husband's closet for years...

and I'm... too sexy for my shirt... so sexy it huuurts...

Our extended family has been having a run on boys - 5 in the last 2 years. Tweenie is not impressed; she really wants a sister. Unfortunately I don't know that I can do 4 kids!

I recently sat down with her to discuss this.

Tweenie: "The boys are taking over, mom! Please pleeeease can't you have another girl baby?"

Mama: "I think I'm all done with babies, honey. And besides, you might end up with another brother."

T: "Even if you think you might be done, you might even be pregnant right now."

M: "Well sweetie, that's pretty unlikely because we're being very careful."

T: "I think you could really be pregnant though."

M: "Why do you say that?"

T: "Well, for one, your tummy is kinda sticking out, like, roundish. Plus your butt is looking a bit squooshy."

M: (splutter, huffy breaths)

T: "I'm not trying to be mean or anything, because you only look a bit fat, not very really."

So there I stand in front of the mirror, sucking in my gut while Tweenie looks on curiously. She's got her elbows on the vanity and is making fishy faces while I pose. Eventually she starts to leave the bathroom but stops for one last thought.

"You know, even if you make me have another brother, you could just try again until you do have a girl. I would be willing to wait."

Good thing she's on board.

Monkey see, monkey do

We were at church today, something that doesn't happen as regularly as we plan for the very reason of what happened this morning. We had on this occasion made an extra effort to go because Tweenie's junior choir was performing 2 songs during the service and she had a solo.

It started out with singing from the hymn books. Rascal made it through 1 1/2 verses and not a beat more. Shockingly, despite frantic shushing, bribing and pleading by this mama, he would not settle down. So, I took him out of the main sanctuary into the foyer.

He screamed even louder because now he was away from his beloved papa. Now, Rascal has the loudest voice I have ever heard. In fact, we never have used a baby monitor for him; it was never necessary. Unfortunately, this church is quite small so the deafening shrieks were only slightly dampened by the sanctuary doors. I hauled him down to the Sunday School rooms.

By the time we got down there, he was weepy and contrite.

"Are you going to be mama's good boy?"

"Yeth", he lisped pathetically.

"No more shouting?"

"No." The big blue eyes won me over, and I carried him back to papa.

Seconds later, he forgot his promise and I hightailed it out of there with him in tow back to the rear of the building.

"I good! I good!" he howled.

Once again, his sad little face won me over and I brought him back to papa.

Of course he acted up yet again. This time, during our backstage pep talk, he turned the tables.

"You, go! OK? No dat! Go carcar! OK? No good! OUT! GO!" He berated me with all the force in his 30-pound, 3-foot tall body. I made the fateful mistake of cracking up with laughter.

"No DAT! 'Top! What doing?! NO!"

He put his hands on my butt and pushed me into the Sunday School rooms. I managed to regain control just before he put me into Time Out in the corner.

A virtual virtuoso

I was catching up on some much-belated emailing today. Baby started to howl in his crib so I took him onto my lap and tried to type one-handed.

What a mistake! With his fat little hands, he raked up and down the keyboard like Mozart on his harpsichord, frantically punching out staccato lines of script and grunting with effort.

After a moment I realized there was a method to his madness. He kept hitting the same combinations of keys in repeating sequences, and not because he was positioned just so and leaning on places. He would actually bang in distinct areas of the keyboard one after the other.

Then he started fiddling with the 'Alt' key, opening new browser pages, reordering the icons on my desktop, Googling nonsensical words, and starting Excel. In an attempt to ensure he didn't reconfigure any of my defaults on the applications, I closed each program using the mouse. The little guy would just open it again... the same program.

I'm thinking, this dude's a freakin' genius at just under 7 months old. Today the World Wide Web, tomorrow stellar domination! I sat there dumbfounded for a few moments, trying to decide if any of his behavior could actually be deliberate.

Just as I was about to dial "Ripley's 'Believe It Or Not"', he picked up the keyboard and jammed the corner into his mouth. Within seconds that half of the board was completely covered in slobber.

He stopped, looked up at me, smiled, and then farted. In that moment of hilarity I could feel the drool seeping through my jeans.

A freakin' genius, I tell ya.

Is nothing sacred?

This mama really tries to provide her kids with nutritious snack choices. I like when they watch PBS because of the (near) lack of commercials.

How shocked was I to see this label pasted onto some bananas I bought. Sure, it's only a movie ad, but what's next, Barbie? Lego? Or heaven forbid, McDonald's?

Leave my fruit alone, advertising schmucks! I'm just waiting for the day when, if you buy a sack of Granny Smith apples and send in the UPC, you can get $1 off at Pizza Hut.

There, that's my rant for the day!

Snapshots of life

There are some quintessential moments where my children's personalities are so completely revealed; I must write them down so that I won't ever forget.

Tweenie was on the phone with BFF last night. She was slouched on the couch, one ankle resting on the knee of her other leg. She had a lock of hair in her hand and was twirling it around her finger as she chatted. I could hear her sweet innocent voice from the kitchen:

"Yah, and, like, then she's like, "I'm so wearing this for the Christmas concert" and I'm like, "no way!" and she's like...."

Rascal found out about horsie rides. Tweenie was only too happy to oblige. They played that game for at least an hour yesterday, with Rascal shouting "GO GO!", digging his heels in her sides and she responded with neighing enthusiastically. Mama participated for a little while, but then they wanted to both be on my back and I proceeded to undo all the work my chiropractor had done that afternoon. So now I sit here with an icepack and shake my head at what sort of 30-something moron would allow 80+ combined pounds of children on her back.

Baby is teething we think, because he drools and chews on everything. Yesterday it was Rascal's huge remote-controlled racecar. This thing is about 18 inches long, 10-12 inches wide and 5 or 6 inches tall. In other words, nearly as large as Baby himself. So there he lay, trying his darndest to cram the rear bumper into his mouth. Rascal wasn't upset at all about this; he sat on the couch watching and laughing hysterically.

Twit watches all of this with cat-like disdain, only to jump in like Tigger when the squealing gets too loud and she realizes she's missing out on something.

Husband sits on the side, impassive as always. You wouldn't think it was possible, but sometimes the children's antics are enough to distract him from his Blackberry. Then he jumps into the fracas and starts tickling thrashing body parts.

No one got to bed on time yesterday, but at least we all slept like logs.

Rah rah rah!

Tweenie started cheerleading this week and is very excited about it. We had the first practice/orientation and received her uniform, pompoms and megaphone.

There are 9 girls on her squad aged 6-8. The squealing was deafening! Husband was at a business dinner so I had to drag the little boys with me. Rascal was quite overwhelmed and uncharacteristically quiet.

So much estrogen--I can't blame him!

The car ride home was a steady narrative from Tweenie about who she knows on the squad, whether I would buy spangly sparkly new sneakers to match her uniform, and exclamations of "This is the BEST DAY of my Life!" Much of this information was delivered via megaphone.

I quickly invented a rule about megaphone use indoors.

"The problem with a megaphone is that it makes your voice much louder and hurts our ears. It's used on the court to get the audience and team's attention, and so I think you should save it for those occasions."

At home Tweenie pranced around in her uniform shaking her pompoms and making a general ruckus. Eventually the megaphone came out and I had to put a stop to it.

"What did I tell you about that megaphone?"

"Thaaaaaaat... it works?"

Being parented

"I am your mother, that's why!"

This is my standard reply when challenged, especially when the real reason I want my kids to comply is because I don't have a good reason. Ever heard of "just because"? 'Course you can't say that to the shrimps, they can see right through that one.

Sometimes what you say or do comes right back to bite you in the arse. This morning Tweenie missed her bus, so we had an extra 5 or 10 minutes to get ready before I had to drive her to school. I was actually pretty thrilled to not have to run around the house nagging and prodding her to get ready. I must have been acting a little out of character...

"Mom, why aren't you busting my butt to get ready? Don't you know that we're going to be late if you don't?"

"If you already know that we have to hurry, then just do it already!"

"C'mon, mom, do I have to do everything around here? Let's move it, missie!"

So she busted my butt all the way into the van and proceeded to back-seat drive all the way to school. Where DO they learn this stuff?

*****
Epilogue
Rascal is learning this important skill too. Yesterday I was taking too long with Baby and not getting around to his PB&J sandwich.

"What DOING? No dat! Come! NOW!"

Then the funniest part of all...

He started, "One... two..."

That got me hopping.

Yeeeeeeeehaawwwwwww!

Another tale of when Tweenie was just a little Mausie...

Tantie loves her niece, has always claimed to be Mausie's favorite aunt. When Mausie was 6 months old or so, she loved to bounce on laps like a lot of other babies that age. When Tantie heard about this she decided to try it out for herself.

"Bouncy bouncy bouncy bouncy!" Mausie was propelled higher and higher each time.

Tantie stopped to coo at Mausie, who at this point was probably thinking about how that icky green bean mash from lunch was digesting poorly. She wasn't impressed, so what should one do?
Well, according to Tantie, the only cure for a crabby baby is to try that trick again.

"Bouncy bouncy bouncy bouncy BOUNCY!" Mausie began to howl.

"BOUNCY BOUNCY BOUNCY BOUNCY!" Now Mama had to step in.

I rescued Mausie, who clutched my hair tightly and began to whimper into my ear. She stopped briefly, shot Tantie a scowl and then went right back to tattling. Tantie felt right guilty about it.

Here is a picture, because yes, I was such a mean mama that I took a moment to record this moment for posterity.

Talk about "Shock and Awe"

Where are the WMDs? I know, they're right here at home. Here's a little taste of the arsenal my children employ daily in our house.

1. Biological warfare: Ain't no diaper like a two-year-old's diaper. As if the stink weren't enough, I have found stickers, Legos and LiteBrite pegs in my son's poo.

2. Roadside bombs: Trying to navigate through a darkened house in the middle of the night in search of a lost pacifier or blankie, and stepping on Hot Wheel or Barbie shrapnel. I could have sworn the hallway was tidy a few hours ago! Try not to scream too loudly, k, 'cuz we don't want to wake anyone up.

3. Laser-guided missiles: I was lying on my back with Baby on my legs, bouncing happily. He had a big burp and then, while smiling broadly, dribbled some vomit into my mouth. I was smiling back up at him and talking when the putrid mess was unloaded. That was I think the grossest thing I ever have experienced. The crazy thing is that he was at least 2 1/2 feet above my face. That's great aim.

4. Bogies at my 8 o'clock: Floaties in the tub, oh yeah. Who gets to clean them up? My kids are happy they get to stay up an extra half-hour while I Lysol the tub from top to bottom.

5. Plausible deniability: If Husband doesn't react to my plaintive cry for help, did I actually make a sound? I know, the question is purely rhetorical.

One thing's for sure, my family's strategy is quite obviously to "stay the course".

Twit earns her keep

Anyone who is squeamish about snakes should stop reading right now!


I hate snakes, even the "good" ones like this rat snake. We now live in an area where snakes are a lot more common than at our previous address, and so I have little experience with this.

Twit to the rescue! Well, sort of.

Our screened-in porch is her room; she has her bed and food there, and does her own accessorizing. A few days ago she hauled in two dead baby mice. I can manage that.

Yesterday it was a partially eaten black snake. It was a baby, the uneaten portion was maybe 6 inches long. Unfortunately the eaten part was also there, regurged onto the floor.

Utterly revolted I returned inside with an agenda.

"Your cat left a little something in her room that requires your attention", I informed Husband and Children.

They looked at me expectantly, but when I handed the paper towel over, they knew I wouldn't relent. With a sigh of resignation, Husband shuffled off to clean it up. I smiled triumphantly, reveling in my small victory.

Husband came back moments later with that thing, saying, "You see, it's just a baby, it's no big deal." My scowl sent him over to the outdoor trashcan.

So even though his impudence momentarily landed Husband in the doghouse, Twit was permitted to sleep beside my bed last night. But she still isn't allowed to lick me with her snake-breath tongue!

It's only fun until somebody loses an eye

Let me tell you a story about Tweenie when she was Rascal's age. It's a very popular story in our home, one that never fails to make us laugh. It's also one of those things that wasn't funny at the time, but now... well, you get what I mean.

From the beginning, our daughter was fascinated with eyes. She loved to touch them, especially opened. She also loved to climb into our bed in the mornings and wait for us to wake.

Do you know that feeling when someone's watching you? That was the feeling Husband had one morning, just as he was waking up.

He blearily cracked one eye. He never saw the fat little finger coming. He grunted with surprise and, since his injured eye was streaming with tears, he cracked the other one open. She was waiting for it.

A few days later we were going out for the evening and my sister was coming to babysit. We neglected to inform her of this most recent habit.

When bedtime came, Daughter was restless, so Tantie (that's Auntie's nickname) tried lying down with her in her bed. She gave a really convincing show of being asleep, even pretending to snore gently. After several minutes of Daughter not moving, Tantie tentatively cracked her eyes to see if she was asleep.

She wasn't; she was in position.

10 Things I Love About You

Lest y'all believe that my life races along purely in a state of chaos, there are those little moments that make it all worthwhile. Sometimes all it is, is a funny moment in the middle of a trying one.

1. I am still nursing Baby. He is a very hungry boy and can get a little frantic while waiting for me to get into position. Once my nursing bra is in sight, he usually grabs it with both hands, opens his mouth really wide, screws his face into a look of absolute determination, and goes in for the kill. He won't relax his grip until he's nearing the end.

2. Once the nursing session is in full swing (the other lactating mothers know what I mean here, but I won't elaborate for others who may become squeamish), he gulps and gulps and gulps, rolling his eyes back in his head in true Homer Simpson fashion ("ohhh, donuts"). My brother-in-law used to tease Tweenie when she'd do the eye thing, but now I have the last laugh, as they just had their first child a few weeks ago (mwa ha ha ha!).

3. Rascal's come up with a new way to tell me he's got a stinkie in the diaper. He spreads his arms out like an airplane and zooms around the house, buzzing and yelling "POOP POOP!!" He also announces when others have released spies (silent but deadly) and are trying to pretend they didn't by yelling "POOP!! YUCKY!!" You can't get away with anything in this house.

4. Husband works a lot. There's little he can do about this, so I don't waste my time being angry with him since it wouldn't change anything. But since we've recently relocated far from family and friends, he is my only source of face-to-face adult conversation. So when he provides a little comic relief, I get a week's worth of laughs about it.

Last Saturday Tweenie played her last soccer game of the season. During the game the ball was kicked in our direction and nearly hit Rascal in the head. Husband went after the ball, and in doing so tripped over it. From my vantage point I saw the head go down and the heels come up. I erupted with laughter and am still giggling about it right now. Husband is not impressed. Hey, I don't get out much, ok?

My only regret is that I had turned off the video camera just minutes before, or I would have caught the whole thing on tape...

5. When Rascal does naughty things, he immediately tries apologies and kisses to get out of trouble. It doesn't always work, but it does make me melt. If only he were sincere...

6. Baby loves me best. Sometimes I hand him off to Husband so I can do other stuff, but he starts to howl. Eventually I go to pick him up, and when I do he shoots a triumphant look at Husband and clutches me for dear life. Needless to say, I get very little done most days.

7. Tweenie had a sleepover with BFF the other night (as they do most weekends). She called me at 10:30 just to tell me that she didn't miss me. I allowed the illusion and smiled all the way to bed.

8. Tweenie is at an age where I've decided she should have a few chores. She hates chores. A few days ago I asked her to set the table. When I re-entered the dining room, she had laid out my best china on my best tablecloth, with napkins, the real silverware, and wine glasses. For herself and Rascal she put out the shot glasses. I thought that was really cute!

9. Rascal pretends to be a dinosaur for at least 80% of his day. He roars and stomps around the house, scaring Baby and annoying Tweenie. When I, however, try to be a dinosaur it ticks him off. He gets offended and sits down, sulking. I think this is incredibly funny!

10. My kids' favorite game is to make a mama sandwich. The two older ones climb on top of my back and Baby is carefully clutched against my chest. Then we roll around on the floor, squishing everyone except for baby and the squealing is deafening. We all love this game except for Husband.

****
I was recently out grocery shopping with all 3 kids plus BFF in tow. An older gent stopped me and said, "Good Lawd, missy, is all them kiddies yoahs?" I happily corrected him, but he still walked away shaking his head. I wonder why?

psy·chol·o·gy: (4) mental ploys or strategy

I think I was the only one of my friends who didn't take Psych in my first year of university. They all laughed about the non-cumulative exam and throwaway term papers and quizzes that each represented tiny fractions of the overall score...

I fixed my face in an intelligent frown and thought myself all the wiser for filling first semester with calculus, physics, and chemistry.

So begins my re-education.

pas·sive-ag·gres·sive [pas-iv-uh-gres-iv]:

Rascal is 2 (I may have mentioned this!). We're not totally sure how much he understands. Probably a lot more than we think. I was in the hot tub with him this afternoon and was trying to play a game with him. He wouldn't even make eye contact.

Is he deaf? No, he understands certain things perfectly, like "cookie" or "papa's home". We have come to realize that when he doesn't want to do certain things, he will simply ignore us. Cajoling, threatening, wheedling... no effect whatsoever.

Ok, fine, two can play at this game. I'll just sit back against the jets and relax. My eyes are closed, I'm mentally going through my day and week ahead. Moments of peace and quiet are few and far between.

self-as·ser·tion [self-uh-sur-shuhn]:

Suddenly I'm hit by a spray of water. It's Rascal spitting like a beluga whale on my hair. I'm really ticked but under control, just what he wants. So far my training is coming along nicely.

He's laughing with delight, and after a minute I too see the humor in the situation and lighten up. He says something about a ball, climbs out of the tub, and heads into the house. I assume he's going to get some water toys to play with, and since I know my husband's inside somewhere and can surely prevent anything serious from happening I stay in the tub and relax. Close my eyes againnnnnnnnn.....

Once again ripped back into reality with a splash but am slower to react as I assume it's his ball. Well, as the picture gave away, it was actually his snack from earlier... opened.

He's really cracking up now. Quickly climbs back down and heads for the stack of towels, bathrobes and slippers. I can see where this is going, so I jump out after him, snatch him up and head inside.

I'm really annoyed now, so he's gotta expect to be put in Time Out. But first a brief reprieve, since he needs to be changed into a fresh diaper and clothes. Of course he manages to escape as I'm digging for the necessary items and won't come back despite the extremely effective counting method.

Goes something like this: "You come back here! One, two, two-and-a-half..... ththththththrrrreeeeee....." Very effective.

de·ni·al [di-nahy-uhl]:

I'll get back to you on that.

Rascal's Revenge

Steve Urkel famously asked, "Did I do that?"

Today I made the mistake of giving Rascal orange juice with floaties. But in my defense, this brand has the floaties chopped up so tiny that they are invisible to the naked eye. Unfortunately his tongue uncovered my deviousness.

So Rascal was ticked at me. When he gets mad, he roars like a dinosaur. He roared "YUCKY!" at me during breakfast and refused to eat his cereal. In response, I put him in Time Out where he quickly decided that his interests could be most easily pursued while not in Time Out. He behaved for a while.

Then Baby began to stink.

"Poop, poop!" hollered Rascal.

We went to change Baby's diaper. Rascal had an epiphany while we were there.

Later, I took Baby to the living room to play, assuming Rascal would come too. He didn't, and after a few minutes of silence I had a bad feeling.

I found him perched on the change table smearing Vaseline in his hair. Do you have any idea how hard it is to clean that mess up? The good news is that I've had experience with this, because this isn't the first time he's done it.

Of course I scolded him thoroughly as I wiped him down.

He looks at me calmly and says, "What?"

Like, meet Tweenie!

There is another character in these stories. My daughter is 7 going on 15. So I feel justified in dubbing her "Tweenie".

She recently went from being my sweet and innocent baby girl to savvy preteen in about 4 seconds. She knows how to navigate through most websites without any help, beats me at "Memory" every time, and now refuses to give kisses or say she loves us (mom and dad). Yup, it's confirmed--she's growing up.

She has a very important person in her life, BFF (I am so out of touch that I had to look up that term. For the uninitiated, this means "best friend forever"). Tweenie and BFF spend every possible moment together. Boys not allowed.

Of course Rascal couldn't let this little detail stop him. After being sent away for the hundredth time, he adopted a new strategy--he decided to shmooze BFF. Whenever she comes over he tries to hug and kiss her. Unfortunately for him, he hasn't figured out that he's only making things worse. Apparantly he doesn't know what "Ewwwwww!" means.

Recently Tweenie was waiting for BFF to come over and had been waiting for "like, hours mom!" when the doorbell rang. She began to inhale and jump up and down. I watched her suck the air from the room for at least 30 seconds, then, since she was still in gaga mode, I figured someone should answer the door.

Later, BFF was literally walking up the driveway to go home, and Tweenie already wanted to call her. Because it's been sooooo long already.

Another reason I know she's growing up is her new vocabulary. For starters, every sentence must have the word "like" liberally sprinkled throughout. Yesterday she was telling me about something that happened at school, and it went something like: "so then Ms. Moore, like, she, like, told us that if we, like, collected enough, like, cans for the the, like, food drive our class would, like, y'know, like, um, like, win."

I told her that from now on she needs to think about what she wants to tell me and then say it in a more fluent fashion. I tried to ask her what her class would in fact win, but she couldn't say. Mainly because she was tripping over "like".

She finds my advice on this subject, like, totally lame.

Rascal vs. The Twit

We have a cat.

This was not my choice. My husband and children harangued me for days until I finally gave in. Needless to say, all promises of helping with litterbox duty and Kitten Chow refills were promptly forgotten. By them.

This cat seems to love me best. I just don't get it. I think her loving attention irritates me so much that I feel evil delight when something befalls her. Y'know, as long as it's nothing serious.

So when Rascal gets it into his head to "play" with her, I am honestly conflicted about what my response should be. I'm glad the two of them are playing with each other and staying out of my hair for those few minutes, but still I am concerned that Twit's life not be prematurely ended.

Today he put her into the washing machine. Last week he threw her into the hot tub. But this is in fact an improvement. A few weeks ago while I was mopping the floors, he chucked her into my bucket of Murphy's Oil Soapy water.

This silly Twit keeps coming back for more. I think she likes the attention.

Rascal's Worst Day Ever

I love my son. Really I do. But some days I'm not his biggest fan. Like last Friday.

For all of you childless adults out there, this is a spoiler site. All the little catastrophes that you have to look forward to, should you decide to reproduce.

Here's how it went down.

My son is 2 years old. He loves cars and he loves our microwave oven. Unfortunately the two don't mix. I left him watching an episode of "Buzz Lightyear" to take out the mail; I was gone for about a minute.

When I returned, black smoke was billowing out of the kitchen from the microwave. Yes, some sorry car was nuked. Thankfully my son had chosen one of his plastic models, not a diecast metal one, but the microwave still didn't survive.

I needed to remove the unit from the house, but it was really hot. I found my oven mitts despite the tears streaming down my face from the acrid smoke and carried the microwave outside. Then I returned inside to air the place out.

While I was doing that, he whipped off his diaper and began to run around the house shrieking with laughter. We're potty training now too, so he has a huge fascination with toilets and private parts. I could sense what was coming, so I hurriedly opened the last window and rushed over to ...

yes, it was too late. He piddled on the carpet, 'cuz goshdarnit, peeing on the hardwood, tile or linoleum floors just isn't naughty enough. I was pretty ticked, and the house was still smoky, so I sent his naked self outside for a time out while I cleaned up.

Another thing he loves is my front flower bed. There is a large clay planter beside it. At least there was. Spank #1 followed. I cleaned that up, too.

Finally, he and I went back inside. I could hear little brother wailing in his crib, feeling left out of the action. So I took Rascal and Baby into the living room, which was now relatively smoke free. I put Baby on the couch for a moment to grab a diaper for Rascal.

When I returned, there was a fresh spot on the carpet... of piss. Spank #2, then I put on his diaper. I made him sit on the "naughty chair" while I went to get more towels to clean up his pee.

I walked in on Rascal standing on Baby's chest. I ran at him like a linebacker and plopped him back onto the naughty chair rather firmly. As I frantically checked Baby for permanent damage, I heard Rascal behind me playing with his cars again.

That kid never misses a beat.

So I have to buy a new microwave now and probably should shampoo the carpet again (I just did it a few weeks ago). What a great day!