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.

Gettin' ripped

So I recently won a workout DVD through ChickAdvisor (there's the plug, misschickie!), and although it took me a while to get off my keyster - you may recall it was quite sore for a while - I recently started using it regularly.

Yesterday evening as I was lounging around in my sweats I had one of those big, full body yawns (I just love those) and as I cat-stretched all over the couch and half onto Tweenie's lap, she remarked:

"Wow, Mom! You lost weight! You lost a lotta weight! I mean, you really lost A TON of WEIGHT!"

Ok, I have lost maybe 2 lbs but my fatpack has slowly congealed into something more resembling a flattish stomach region. The point is, I haven't really lost anything that noticeable, but apparantly it was enough to elicit this, um, wonderful compliment. After all, she did mention my size in the past...

Two all-purpose cleaners

I have tried most of the cleaning products available on a typical grocery store shelf. They all work well in their own specific ways. Surely, though, there must be a universal cleaner out there that can tackle the tough stains only a two-year-old can make.

One I've known about forever but am forbidden by Husband to use on our children. Yup, nothing quite works as well as mama spit. A good lick of the thumb, apply firm pressure to the offending spot on a body part and rub briskly. Handy, neverending supply, and economical to boot. Hey, the animals do it! Why is this so unnatural and gross? Of course it goes without saying that once your children are old enough to realize just what you're doing, that would be a good time to quit and start carrying WetOnes in your mamapurse.

The second one I must give props to my S.I.L. for clueing me in on - diaper wipes. They can get out any stain on any surface. Just don't use them on hardwood floors because the nice shea butter additive for tender tushies creates a beautifully slick sheen on your walking surface that doesn't dry or evaporate. You can have the pleasure of wiping out on your fanny over and over again until you get wise and whip out universal cleaner #1 to fix the job.

Just kidding! Well, mostly.

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.

Multitasking

Anyone who still thinks that staying home with your children isn't a real job is obviously a complete idiot.

Husband will grouse a bit about what goes on at the office - having to give the same instruction over and over again, having to mediate office squabbles (well, more like hide from them), working late, rewards few and far between, no time for lunch break, the boss pressuring about some overdue report, blabbityblabbityblab.

I listen, nod with sympathy. Then it's my turn. Yesterday I attempted to vacuum the house, Kye on my hip, Rascal sitting on my foot grasping my leg with peanut-buttery hands, both wailing because they hate the sound of the machine. Phone rings, I shlump over there still with both boys attached (still yelling). Like a total moron, I answer it even though I don't recognize the number on call display.

"Yaddayaddayadda war veterans blabbityblab?"

"Sorry, not interested," I holler above the boys' screeching.

"Oh, is this a bad time? When should I call back?"

"How 'bout never? Not interested, sorry."

"Well, don't you agree that our freedom has been provided at the cos--"

Can't say I didn't warn them. And anyway, if they can't deduce that I'm serious about this being a bad time to call, it's their own fault.

After vacuuming, it's potty-training session #4,523. Which pretty much goes as well as the previous 4,522 sessions. Bottom line: no peeing, lots of shouting, then escaping while Kye distracts and quickly run away and do our business on the carpet in Tweenie's room.

So eventually Husband comes home, the house is in shambles, barf on my shirt, Kye on hip clutching to bedhead hair, Rascal running around roaring like a dinosaur with his naked butt. Everywhere there are small signs that I was trying to make improvements, like the baskets of folded laundry, dishes drip-drying in the sink, the lawn mower and wheelbarrow sitting outside, the garbage can dragged halfway up the driveway, groceries half unpacked on the kitchen counter.

Then the phrase I never thought I'd hear him say: "What do you want me to make for supper?"

I almost fainted, I was so shocked. Someone once told me that it's best not to have everything looking perfect when the hubby comes home because it suggests that the job is much easier than it really is. Some days I do manage to have things looking tidy by 6 o'clock, and then he wonders why I pass out on the couch 15 minutes into "Deal or No Deal".

His job is very demanding; I would never assume otherwise. I'm just glad he notices that my day is busy too, and then I still pull nightshift.

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.

Lessons learned from the animal kingdom

I received this as an email attachment this morning. Not being one to open, much less pass on forwards, I was in a charitable mood this morning (Kye and Rascal are still in bed, that's why!) and clicked on it.

And it's just too good not to pass along! Enjoy...

In this life I'm a woman. In my next life, I'd like to come back as a bear. When you're a bear, you get to hibernate. You do nothing but sleep for six months. I could deal with that.

Before you hibernate, you're supposed to eat yourself stupid. I could deal with that too.

When you're a girl bear, you birth your children (who are the size of walnuts) while you're sleeping and wake to partially grown, cute, cuddly cubs. I could definitely deal with that.

If you're mama bear, everyone knows you mean business. You swat anyone who bothers your cubs. If your cubs get out of line, you swat them too. I could deal with that.

If you're a bear, your mate EXPECTS you to wake up growling. He EXPECTS that you will have hairy legs and excess body fat.

Yup, gonna be a bear!