Now who's scary?

Rascal thinks he's a "scawwy wowoff".

He received some hand-me-down clothes recently, most of them featuring dinosaurs. His current fave is a T-shirt with a very realistic T-Rex graphic. He wears this as often as possible, roaring and stomping around the house. Kye is terrified of him.

This is Fwog.

Actually, it's a hand puppet stolen from Gamma's house that belonged to Uncle once upon a time. Tweenie uses him as the bad guy for her Barbie stories. Rascal says Fwog is a vewwy scawwy wowoff.

Fwog is not allowed to sleep in Rascal's room. Mama has to move Fwog out of Rascal's way for him. Rascal will not roar at Fwog because he says Fwog will scare him back. Kye found out about this and carts Fwog around with him -- I must assume -- for protection.

So far it's working.

Tres chic

My SIL once teased me about my kids' wardrobes.

"So preppy, so GAP," she laughed.

I purposely don't shop at GAP so I didn't really agree with her. We have mostly hand-me-downs and gifts from other people so their clothes are as varied as it gets - or so I thought.

A few days ago we made an unavoidable stop at Toys 'R Us. This being a favorite shopping destination it was no surprise to me when, instead of the usual whining and begging to stay in the car and watch DVDs, Rascal and Tweenie tore off their seatbelts, jumped out, and ran across the parking lot toward the front doors shrieking with delight.

I shouted at them to hold hands and watch for cars. They turned toward me, and then for some reason their outfits caught my eye. Tweenie was wearing a dark blue denim skirt with discreet pink stitching and a pink polo shirt with an embroidered tennis racquet on the pocket. A matching pink scrunchy and (surprise) GAP sparkly flipflops completed the ensemble. Rascal was wearing a striped blue-and-white button-down offset by a red T-shirt and khakis. They were both impeccably attired.

Thinking this was just a strange coincidence (at least on Rascal's part), I thought nothing more of it until yesterday when I was folding laundry with Rascal.

Apparantly he's ok with wearing gitchies now; however, he has discriminating taste. He stood yaykit beside me as I fluffed and folded. Then he reached into the basket for a pair of underpants, held it up and gazed at it with a discriminating eye.

"No dis gitchy mama," he said, pointing out the dangling thread. He found a more suitable pair, then started to dig for clothes. I suggested a cute sporty outfit with State Champ emblazoned across the chest.

"Nope, no dat." He didn't approve of the Winnie-the-Pooh shirt and shorts set either.

Finally he found his striped shirt and khakis from the other day and held them up triumphantly. He started looking for the perfect T to finish off his look, but I objected since it was at least 90F outside and his choices were too warm to begin with. He was mad but eventually allowed me to dress him. His pants were to be cuffed just so, as was his shirt. He admired himself in the mirror.

"Is my buddy a handsome boy?"

"Yeahhhhhh!" He pranced and giggled, then ran outside and promptly plopped himself down in the flower bed. He came to me later in tears.

"Is dirty, mama."

I undressed him and went in search of replacement clothes. While I was gone, he escaped outside and shrieked "YAYKIT!" to the neighbors. He refused to wear anything else that day and personally oversaw the reloading of the washing machine, including his vêtements beaux.

Nekkid no more--sorta

Rascal has consented to use gitchies after all. I don't think he really gets it, though.

Today while sorting laundry, for example, he wore his undies on his head. Then his bear wore them. Last, Kye had the pleasure... he was a little less pleased. Rascal laughed so hard he almost peed his--

well, he would have peed his pants if he would have been wearing them.

Back to sorting laundry. After the Nemo gitchies had all been tried out, he moved on to Husband's pile. He held them up in front of his eyes, thought for a while and then--

"Ooh, big gitchies!"

He whipped them on his head and ran around the house roaring. Kye squealed with laughter and scooted over to the change table, ripped out the carefully stacked diapers and chucked them around the room.

I ranted and raved at the two of them, but apparantly my red face, flaring nostrils, and huffy noises were just fuel for the fire. For a brief second they looked at me surprised, then giggled and finished the job.

Rascal logic

"Dat agusting, mama!"

Agusting. Rascal's word du jour, usually delivered with hysterical laughing and pointing. Although we've completed the main potty-training stage, there are still many accidents. Current "wisdom" says parents should simply disregard undesirable behavior because reactions (either positive or negative) validate it.

Whatever!

I can't stop myself from at least informing Rascal how gross stripping soiled underwear and pants off wriggling legs is to me in the hopes that he will be sufficiently repulsed and do his nasty on the potty for a change. I can dream, can't I?

The upside is that Rascal now finds poopy accidents agusting. The downside?

"Mama, me no eat. Dat agusting!" Giggling at his pile of mashed potatoes.

"Mama, Kye have 'tinky. Dat agusting!" Shrieking with delight when Kye farts.

"Mama, no clothes. I yaykit. Dat agusting!" Remember, he prefers more casual attire.

"Mama, you no yaykit. Dat agusting!"

Uh, wait a sec...

When it rains, it pours!

During a momentary lull in our daily chaos, I urgently needed a telephone break with my sister. I was behind on the family gossip and then there was recent plot developments on a certain show we watch (which I will never admit in public) that required detailed analysis. We gabbed for maybe 3 or 4 minutes.

Then the lull passed. I suppose it was the 'calm before the storm' or something.

Kye began to hitch his way up my pant leg, grunting with effort. The noises drew Rascal away from Christmas of Enchantment, who decided now would be a good time for a snack. I hobbled over to the fridge with Kye still firmly attached to my calf and pulled out a yogurt - usually a safe choice.

Well it was the wrong thing this time, and Rascal started to wail. When he gets into full turbine-strength bellows, there's not much you can do to stop it even if you have the sheer luck of figuring out what, exactly, you did wrong.

So at this point, I asked Tantie to "hang on a sec" because not only was the ambient volume an issue, but I also couldn't keep the handset wedged under my chin with two squirming boys fighting for total lap domination.

Somewhere in the midst of all this wonderfulness, Tweenie came in asking if BFF could come over. She had to shout to be heard. At this point, Tantie had been hanging on for many secs, so I snatched up the phone so she knew I was still there.

"I'm sensing this isn't the best time to talk," she brilliantly deduced. But I wasn't ready to relinquish the few moments of adult conversation I get in a day, so I struggled to talk, pacify, and keep from injury as best I could.

That's when Rascal bit me in the butt. You may recall this has happened before. By the time I had all the kids sorted out (Kye in his crib, Tweenie working on homework, and Rascal in Time Out), Tantie had to go.

Apparently she has a life. Go figure.

Cruisin'

Rascal went for a yaykit motorcycle ride today.

Here I'm muddily planting away in my flower bed and I hear the hum of his Power Wheels Harley Davidson in the background. This is nothing new. He loves that thing so much, we're already on set #2 of batteries and charger.

Eventually though, I hear him heading up the driveway toward the street. I take my time standing, brushing off the dirt from my shorts and drink a swig of water. As I lift the bottle to my lips, I glance over and see Mr. Yaykit roaring and laughing as the bike putts down the street.

I went chasing after him, the clods of mud flying off my rubber boots and splashing water from the bottle with every jolting stride. When I caught up to him, I could see his baby fat jiggling as the wheels rolled over gravel.

I took a picture, but I won't share it with you today. I'm saving it for his wedding.

Eating breakfast

For some reason, breakfast is the craziest meal of the day. Take for instance this morning.

I set out Cheerios and (grr) Cinnamon Toast Crunch, 2% and skim milk. Not too many choices or we'll be there all day. And yet....

We start off with a small helping of Cinnamon Toast Crunch for Rascal, no milk. Just the way he likes it. Kye receives a Tupperware bowl with a few Cheerios. I'm in the middle of slicing strawberries into my own bowl when I hear the beginnings of trouble. It sort of sounds like when a jumbo jet fires up its engines.

Quickly quickly chuck a few Cheerios into the mix - I had cleverly deduced his demand based on the covetous look he directed at Kye's bowl. This obviously required a rethink of his position, and he sat there for a moment deciding how to proceed.

Just as I returned to my own preparations, the siren started up again. What now??

"No touchy! NO TOUCHY!"

Oh oh oh right. Non-alike items cannot share space; I can't believe I made such a basic mistake - after all, Tweenie trained me on that one for years.

I set his bowl aside and haul him onto my lap. He immediately starts eating from my breakfast. I feel a little like Mama Bear watching Goldilocks trash everyone's stuff and then snarf down the best choice. He's really cramming it in, milk and watery strawberry juices trickle down his chin and onto his shirt. This is another huge problem.

I tug the shirt off as gently as haste permits and wipe him off with (of all things) the sleeve of my bathrobe. Luckily his eyes had only managed to fill with tears and the mouth stuffed with cereal was not able to multitask in a good cry. Whew, another crisis averted.

Once he crawls off my lap, I glance over at Kye who's been really quiet during this entire event. I can't believe I didn't take a picture of this, so here is the mental one:

A fistful of Cheerios in either hand
Rascal's bowl sitting on the tray of his highchair
Kye face first in the bowl eating and grunting.

Au naturel

I may change Big Boy's nickname from Rascal to Yaykit. Not because he runs around screaming "Yay!" but because he runs around NAKED.

Yaykit is how he pronounces his ensemble du jour. It's mainly my fault. After months of halfhearted attempts at potty training, I am going for broke. My theory is that he'll find the prospect of peeing or pooping on himself so disgusting that he'll hold it in until his butt hits the cold porcelain.

Like I said, it's just a theory. And how do we prove a theory? (Anyone?) We do our darndest to DISprove it first. 4 liquid and 2 solid incidents later, we are still working on disproving. Which is why he's still yaykit.

We've been doing this now for about 2 weeks. So far the neighbor, mailman, BFF, BFF's mom, and the propane delivery dude have also met Mr. Yaykit. He runs up the driveway, winkie a-dangling and shouts (what else?):

"YAYKIT!!!!!"

We stay-at-home mamas need a little comedy to overlook the accidents that no amount of Rug Doctor, Spot Remover, or Tide can fully banish.

Like two peas in a pod? Not quite.

It never fails to amaze me how different my children are, particularly my two boys. Here is an example.

Kye tastes everything. He casually lifts this and that into his mouth, slobbers on it for a second or two, and then moves onto the next thing. He does this in Tweenie's room with great delight mainly because (I believe) he and Rascal are almost never allowed inside. So when I was in there recently picking up, he roamed from corner to corner tasting as he went.

Rascal bashes everything. He casually lifts this and that up into the air and smashes it against a second object to see what happens, then moves onto the next thing. As with Kye, he gets very excited about being in Tweenie's room and tries to destroy as many things in as short a time as possible. Tweenie has all her Barbie, Polly Pocket, and My Little Pony stuff set up very deliberately, and so there are many many targets for Rascal's rampage.

So this is how yesterday went. First Kye came into the room and tasted. When he was about halfway done, Rascal came in and destroyed behind him. I chased them both out and plopped them in front of the TV. Kye looked at the screen for a second, then glanced over at Rascal who was mesmerized by the singing vegetables.

Kye casually lifted Rascal's hand and tasted it. And, well, you already know what Rascal does...

Let's just say there is no permanent damage.

Nope, that's not chickenpox

So there I was, doodling around the house cleaning up this and that. I was happy Rascal was off somewhere playing with his carcars and not underfoot.

Whoa, back that up a sec. I should have known better. Eventually I became worried and went up to check on him. This wouldn't be the first time he's colored on himself. It would, however, be the first time he's chewed right through a gel pen ink tube. Amazingly, he didn't swallow much that I could tell, but as you can see, he's well, um, decorated.

Very soon after this, Husband came home. Though I can't read his thoughts, his face had such an expression that could only mean,

"Did you HAVE to use pink?"

Yes, it's true. Although we have the full color range in gel pens, Rascal chose the Aurora (aka Sleeping Beauty) pen for his teint of choice.

Kye watched the exchange. "Eh-jeh!" he opined, as always.

Husband covered his eyes with his hand.

Mama took a picture.

Rascal just grinned.

p.s. don't try this at home - it does NOT wash off... Rascal kept his magnificent glow intact for at least 3 days.

When Corporal Punishment bites you in the arse

When Husband gets chauvenistic, I give him The Look.

When Tweenie has a sassy mouth, she loses TV privileges.

When Kye tries to stick his fingers into the VCR or fireplace, he gets a little swat on the hand.

When Rascal konks Kye on the head or yanks Twit's tail, he has to sit on the Naughty Chair.

Apparently when Mama fails to comply, she gets bitten in the @ss.

Turns out that when Rascal asks for the 4th granola bar in a row instead of eating his sandwich, he means business. Current "wisdom" directs parents to ignore bad behavior, as acknowledgment in the form of any reaction (even negative) reinforces that behavior.

It also happens to be true that when one turns one's back on an obstinate child, one presents one's derriere to aforementioned shrimp, who finds said fanny right at eye, er, tooth level.

That freakin' hurt.

Cooperating for a common purpose

"Come, Kye!" sang Rascal.

I looked around the corner suspiciously. Usually Rascal hates Kye horning in on anything he's trying to play with.

Don't misunderstand - Rascal really loves his little brother. Just so long as he's well out of reach of his carcars.

As I observed for a moment, Kye looked over indifferently toward Rascal. A wad of drool blobbed onto the floor.

"Kye! Come, Kye!" Rascal patted the floor beside him enthusiastically.

A fresh driblet of saliva began forming on Kye's lip. He returned his attention to Tweenie's Polly Pocket car. I was satisfied that nothing improper was going on, so I returned to the stack of laundry.

Eventually I heard some strange grunting noises. I looked over curiously to see Rascal standing on Kye's back, straining to reach the TV and DVD remotes I had purposely placed out of reach.

I frantically stuffed the sheet I was folding back into the basket, roaring at Rascal to get off Kye's back.

He responded quickly, prize in hand, then immediately handed one of the remotes to Kye who sat up and crammed it into his mouth, shmatzing loudly.

I firmly plopped Rascal into the Naughty Chair, who looked at me calmly and said,

"What?"

It goes both ways

We're potty-training with Rascal ... again. Just when it seems he's on the verge of it, he loses interest and then we have to start all over.

We've been working on this since last summer.

This time around, we're back to our same old tricks - bribery, letting him run naked, and leading by example. This is where it gets amusing.

I debated today about telling you all this, but then quickly realised that any shame I may have once had was swept away during childbirth - very possibly the most shame-shedding experience of my life (but that's another story!).

So there I was, on the can, with Rascal watching intently.

"Where da peeeeeepee?" he sang out encouragingly. I obliged.

"Ahh! Hi peepee!" He was very excited.

"Mama 'tand, 'tand." He tore off some toilet paper and attempted to help me-- well, you know. I thanked him kindly but took care of it myself.

"Good mama, you good, you choklit! Okee?"

We went together to get me a chocolate chip as reward. Once there, he held out his hand patiently waiting for his chip.

I guess I forgot he gets his cut up front.

I hate it when she's right!

Tantie the childless. Tantie the insightful. Tantie the smartass.

I called her a few days ago because I was at the end of my rope. Rascal was getting on my last nerve and I needed to hear someone feel bad for me. Husband listens but does not respond - I guess he learned his lesson a while back...

Tantie has a special bond with Rascal because they are both the 'middle child'. She claims she understands him.

So although I did get some ego-soothing platitudes about my fantabulous parenting skills, she also had some words of wisdom. I didn't expect advise on this topic from her but it appears she has some insight.

So her solution was basically to use huge amounts of positive reinforcement and to absolutely not acknowledge bad behavior, other than a single stern "No!"

"Be a robot. Don't let him see that he's got your number. He thinks it's funny when you're mad."

I didn't believe this at first, but last time I was on the verge of losing it, I caught my reflection in the mirror. My face was beet red except for some white splotchies around my mouth that was wrenched into a scowl, my hair was wild and woolly, and I am pretty sure there was smoke wisping out of my ears.

Ok, ok, so I did look pretty funny. Rascal didn't laugh, probably because he learned along with Husband that a poker face gets you into a lot less trouble.

I tried this method for a few days and I think there was some limited success. Ever looking to gain an edge, Rascal found a way to crack my armor. I called Tantie in a panic.

"I'm a robot! I'M A ROBOT!" I shrieked. "But it's not working!"

Calmly she replied, "What did he do now?"

"He whipped off his diaper that was loaded with %&*@ and is rolling around on my bed, smearing it all over the sheets!"

My knuckles were white, my eyes squeezed shut as I clenched the phone to my head, waiting for the pearls of wisdom to come. I waited... and waited.

Finally a response: "Oh!"

What, that's all? I could hear laughy breaths on the line. She was trying her darndest to hold it in. Eventually she got herself back together and proceeded to do some damage control.

"I know what you're thinking," I accused. "Better you than me, right?"

A pause, and then "uh, listen, hate to do this to ya but Y&R is on..."

____________

Lest anyone should think that Tantie is anything other than a wonderful aunt and incredibly supportive sister, let me assure you that she has been an anchor, sounding board, and cheer squad for me. I only tell this story because it's freakin' hilarious... well, it is now anyway.

Toddler-proofing: part 32,489

We thought of everything, supposedly.

The books are on the topmost shelf of the bookshelf behind glass doors - he took care of that Spidey-style.

His clothes are in the oldest dresser we own, the one that you have to really yank on to open it - he's in there almost everyday.

The garage door opener is way out of reach - he knows how to get into the van and press the remote control.

Husband's car door usually requires a certain amount of technique to open - Rascal can do it in 0.6 seconds and uses the seat controls to recline both front bucket seats all the way.

Here's another thing we never thought of: the venetian blinds that I hate and have been planning to replace ever since we moved in.

I was in the kitchen making coffee when I heard, "Hewp, hewp!" from the living room.

There he was - one leg on the floor, the other looped through the slats of the blind, one wrist tangled in the string clutching 3 Hot Wheels, and the other hand hanging onto the back of the couch for dear life. A very precarious situation indeed.

How does he think of these things?

It's my party and I'll cry if I want to!

Today marks another occasion where I shouldn't have to do anything except enjoy myself and leave the work to others. In the past, it has also been the middle of winter...

oh wait a sec, it IS the middle of winter, though to look outside you'd never know it.


Rascal is too young to understand that mama deserves a break today, so in typical fashion he started the day by dumping chocolate pudding on the table, floor, chair, a few of his Hot Wheels, and a plastic bag for good measure. Then he smeared the whole thing around with his hands and then on himself. This picture was taken after I had already cleaned up about half of the mess.


Now that he was clean, he trotted off to the living room and somehow - I'm still shaking my head - managed to spill Danimals drinkable yogurt down his back...

As I sat down to write this post, he was watching the movie Cars. He munched on some Princess cereal and at some point realized I wasn't paying attention to his antics.

So he dumped his bowl on the floor again, but at least it was only dry cereal. I scolded him and sent him over to clean up his mess. As long as I was watching, he dutifully picked up piece by piece. The moment I turned my back to continue this post I heard the crunchcrunch-crunching of naughty little feet.

I'd take another picture, but frankly I've already done more work than I was planning to on this day...

A place for everything and everything in its place

Is it horrifying or hilarious? Medical emergency or laughter as the best medicine?

Rascal is up to old tricks again.

He hasn't done this in a while, and so I didn't even worry about leaving certain items lying around the house.

A little background information while I allow the suspense to build to epic proportions! I am not the neatest housekeeper. Husband and I believe in the 20/80 rule (that we invented), which basically states that 20% effort will make things look 80% better. We also believe in the law of diminishing returns, which states that you can strive for perfection, but as you approach infinity you can never attain it.

Sooooo, I make my children pick up their junk, but am satisfied enough if they use a bin or box that we have in the living room for such occasions instead of carrying it up to the playroom and put it away properly. That happens once a week or so, otherwise it would be hours and hours a day of trudging up the stairs.

Back to Rascal. He has a sense of order that will not tolerate deviation. He lines up his cars in roads on the coffee table and stacks his movies one on top of the other.

He also shoves sunflower seeds up his nose and pencils in his ears.

Didn't see that one coming.

It's not a Lemon, it's a Pickle

Rascal loves cars. It's all he thinks about, the only game he'll play. He lines them up end to end and if you mess with his road, you need to head for cover.

I put out some pickles for supper a few nights ago. Rascal looked at them for a long time.

"Carcar?" He stuck one in his mouth. "No carcar."

Oh well, what's a boy to do? He grabbed it in his fat little hand and trotted back to his road.

Later as I was washing dishes, he came in with tears in his eyes yelling about his carcar. He only has about 700 carcars, so I sifted through the whole box. None that I produced satisfied him.

Eventually Husband looked up from his Blackberry, wondering what all the commotion was about. He looked beside the couch and found Rascal's huge Tonka 4X4.

"Carcar!" Rascal shrieked. He ran over, yanked the truck away and dug in the driver's seat. He held the pickle aloft.

"Carcar, carcar, carcar, CARCAR!"

Okee dokee. So now everything could be a carcar I suppose.

The next day he was still driving the pickle, now covered in a fine layer of carpet lint and other unsavory items. Since then I have seen him drive Goldfish (the snack), pens, and a "Littlest Pet Shop" toy Tweenie got in a Happy Meal.

Kids are weird... but in a good way!

Husband would not approve

Rascal is all boy. He loves Buzz Lightyear, Hot Wheels, playing in the muck, and playing cowboy...

during Twister...

with Tweenie, who is maybe 15 pounds heavier than he...

really, anything he can get away with. I even saw him once try to sit on Twit (actually, I'm pretty sure she deserved it).

So basically very stereotypically male. Well, mostly.

This morning after Tweenie left on the schoolbus, Rascal got up and wanted to watch a movie. He uses mainly nonverbal communication sprinkled with vague comments, so figuring out which one he wants can be hard sometimes.

Mama: "Which one, buddy?"

Rascal (pointing at the whole rack of movies): "Dis."

M: "You want Buzz? Woody?"

R: "No. Dis." (point)

M: "Nemo? Tarzan?"

R: "No. Dis." (point patiently)

M: "Shrek? Larry Boy?"

R: "No. Dis." He finally approaches the stack and selects one.

I look at it in disbelief. It's Disney Princesses - A Christmas of Enchantment.

"Are you sure, sweetie?"

"Yeth. Dat."

Ok, whatever makes him happy I suppose. He sat on the couch clutching Tweenie's pink fleece blanket featuring (who else) Aurora, Cinderella, and Belle. Tinkerbell whooshed onto the screen lighting up the Disney DVD logo. Rascal clapped happily.

I went into the kitchen to make my coffee. A few minutes later he trotted over, grasped my finger and instructed me to come with him. He led me back into the living room.

A bouncy tune sung by all the Princesses was playing. He wanted me to dance with him, which I did. His dancing mainly consists of pumping his knees, interrupted by an occasional twirl. When Ariel sang her solo, he began to shake his tush.

Someone's been watching mama dance.