Category Archives: 2 Year Olds

Thanks for Taking Care of my Poop Day!

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There seems to be a lot of talk about whether or not Mother’s Day and Father’s Day should be celebrated. Some say they’re just another Hallmark holiday, some say why do we celebrate Mother’s day when there are so many shitty mothers out there, others argue that we don’t actually get these days off and therefore it really isn’t a celebration (there’s some truth to this one but it isn’t the point I want to argue here) and so on. With respect to the first two, I concede Hallmark makes a fair amount of money off these holidays and well there are a lot of shitty mothers out there, perhaps their children shouldn’t buy them a card, but alas I know it isn’t that simple.

However, I have a proposition, instead of Mother’s Day and Father’s Day lets have “Thanks for taking care of my Poop until I was able to do it myself Day! Because before becoming a parent and therefore earning one of the aforementioned holidays, I knew a fairly reasonable amount about kids, had done a lot of kid watching and assisting child rearing, but what I didn’t know and hadn’t had to deal with was a whole lot of SH$T, LITERALLY! My knowledge of poop has grown exponentially since I became a mother.

I have learned acceptable colors for poop, acceptable consistencies for poop, what certain foods look like in poop, which foods affect the color and consistency of poop and the frequency of which one should or should not poop, and how certain medicines affect poop. This is a whole lot of information for someone who didn’t even like to admit that she did poop. In addition to all this, I have been pooped on directly, stepped in pooped, had the shower that I was in pooped in, cleaned poop out or off of the bathtub, bedding, car seat, and floor, routinely washed poop (although admittedly I do this willingly with cloth diapers), generally spend an average of close to an hour dealing with other people’s poop on any given day and on more than one occasion have come far too close to almost eating poop.

So again lets not fight over whether a Mother’s Day or Father’s Day is necessary or deserved or whatever, because regardless of how shitty your parents are/were, no pun intended, someone dealt with your poop until you could. So again I propose:

Thanks for taking care of my Poop until I was able to do it myself Day! 

and you can thank whoever it is that you need to thank, because unless we were raised in a pack of wolves, we all have someone probably lots of people we should thank. No gifts necessary just a really nice Thank You and finding someone else to deal with your poop for a day would do.

I can’t even begin to imagine the greeting cards that would come with this day…

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A Case of Toddler Morning Wood

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I knew having a boy would have its awkward moments. I keep telling my husband I’ll potty train him to sit and he can teach him to aim someday. Needless to say, I just wasn’t really prepared for one at 7:30 a.m. after another crappy night of sleep and before any coffee or caffeine. I also didn’t think awkward moment number 1 would start at 27 months and 5 days. At least this time it was only awkward for me, of course until he’s 14 and finds this blog post =). Brecken already knows he has a penis, I wasn’t a big fan of the idea of having some silly name for it, I’m not a medical professional but calling it by its actual name has always seemed to be the best approach. Frequently he will point or touch it during diaper changes and say “this my penis” and usually the answer is “yup that’s your penis.” Interestingly that is often followed by “where’s my other penis?” Apparently Brecken has a spare, who knew. Where he keeps it, only he knows. Anyway, I digress.

This morning when I walked in to my chirping/yelling son, he stands up in bed and points to his diaper and says “What’s this?”

In my groggy still semi-sleepatose state, I say the obvious “Ah that’s your diaper?” Then I launch him onto the changer and pull off the diaper only to be greeted by what you menfolk refer to as “morning wood”. Ok whatever, this isn’t the first occurrence, he is a baby boy, but I’m pretty sure his penis has grown since the last occurrence, no pun intended.

Sure enough, Brecken points to it and says “What’s this” for lack of a better explanation and because well that’s what they call erection seemed a little much for 27 months and 5 days as well as 7:35 a.m. before coffee or caffeine, I simply said “that’s your penis”, to which he responded “it hurts.” Hmmm crap, I don’t remember anything about this hurting, I thought, perhaps it’s just awkward feeling, unusual maybe. Egads, what if it does hurt, what does one do?  “I’m sorry that it hurts” I say, hoping to G*D he doesn’t ask me to kiss it which is the routine follow-up when something hurts, because if he does, I don’t care what time it is, I’m busting out the ice cream. Thankfully he did not, although when I went to put his new diaper on, there was no good way to do it.  So I slapped the diaper on and off he went, with a little larger diaper this morning than most and thankfully already over our awkward conversation. Me, I may be scarred for weeks.

 Photo Credit Here

Lucky Won

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No, I did not misspell won, that was not meant to be one. This is not a Britney Spears song. If my life starts to resemble a Britney Spears song, please put me out of my misery. It says Lucky Won, because quite simply, I was lucky  or I like to think I was and consequently I won the original oval tree swing from The Original Tree Swing’s Facebook giveaway. Lucky me!!!! This swing can bring nostalgic childhood memories to people who didn’t even have nostalgic childhoods, it’s that quintessential american childhood. We have exactly one tree that is not on our curbside, and this beautiful tree swing now hangs from its largest branch. Muchos gracias to my husband who literally climbed the tree to hang it, in his work clothes, like a freaking monkey. Apparently once an eagle scout always an eagle scout, rule number 923. If you like nostalgic, natural wooden toys or Waldorf dolls or are just looking for something unique check out http://www.theoriginaltreeswing.com, they have amazing toys, I really want one of the slingshot making kits, possibly more for myself than even my child and don’t even get me started on the Waldorf dolls, adorable.

Here are some pictures of how we do tree swings in the City….

He climbs trees like a monkey, it’s just hidden talent no. 753 I didn’t know about it…. just be careful if angered he may throw coconuts at you

and now to test it out….

WHEE!!!!!!

OH MAN THIS IS HARDER THAN IT LOOKS!!!

Disclaimer: The Original Tree Swing did not pay me to write about them, I did win the tree swing out of I believe pure luck and liking them on Facebook and commenting on a post and not because they had any idea that I would incorporate them into my word vomit, in fact had they known that they may have tried to take it back…but now they’d have to fight my two-year old for it, and trust me he fights dirty, with puppy dog eyes and alligator tears!!! P.S. does anyone know what alligator tears even means?

The Picture that Says it All

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I rather suck at taking pictures, every now and then I get a really good one, but in general it’s an area that doesn’t just have room for improvement but more like fields and prairies of space for improvement. It’s on my very long to do list, but it keeps coming down to first getting a better camera, then I am going to take one of those classes where someone teaches me how to use it. Someday. I. Swear. Preferably before my kids graduate high school, even better if it’s before they start kindergarten. In the meantime I dutifully schlep my kiddos to someone else religiously to have their pictures taken at birth, three, six, nine twelve, and eighteen months and on their birthday every year thereafter.

Since moving back to my hometown we’ve been going to Endless Images Photography to the wonderful Savanna for our pictures. It never ceases to amaze me how between her and I we can transform my children into proper looking little gems and she can magically capture their humor and innocence and make them look like wonderful tiny little humans instead of the little sadists I think they are some most days. Anyway during this last session, they were not so cooperative. Brecken gave us exactly 10 minutes of charm and then was done. Have his picture taken with his sister, you couldn’t pay him. Pippa wasn’t going to smile if her life depended on it for most of the shoot. Until she got in the tutu, there is something this baby just loves about tutus. There was a lot of tickling, teasing and diving out of the camera shot at the last minute. I mean this was a serious workout, I was sweating by the time we were done. In an act of desperation toward the end to try to get them to take one good shot together, I pulled out my last card, my last trick and offered to be in the picture with them. NO MAKEUP, not dressed to be in a picture, I was even wearing white for gods sake and I’m not even sure I had washed my hair. The funniest thing though is that while not an amazing picture, it’s the most real picture of all of them, me trying to maneuver and hang on to two kiddos at the same time, with one wrestled under each arm, it is the truest representation of me and our life right now. This could have been shot multiple times on any given day if she were just to follow us around. So below are some of the “best” pictures and the one that says it all. Tomorrow look for the part of the photo shoot that captured Pippa in her baptismal gown aka my wedding dress, if you missed that story, see Hacking Up My Wedding Dress!

The Best of Intentions…

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We (Brecken and I )frequently make up little games and songs. The newest little game is where I huff and puff and blow air at his face so his curly hair flies all over the place. Sometimes I even say I’ll huff and puff and blow your hair all over, borrowing a bit from the three little pigs. This has come full circle to bite me in the ass. After getting Brecken after he awoke from his nap and changing him, he kept saying something like “I bow” (think bow as in rhymes with mow or you shoot a bow), after a few “what’s that honey”, finally as in a voice full of sheer exasperation rather loudly says “I BLOW YOU”. Not exactly something you want your 2-year-old walking around saying, which he will, although I understood exactly what he wanted, me to lean forward so he could huff and puff and blow air on the top of my head. After which he goes “You blow me.”

I think it’s time for a new game, or at least some fine tuning of the language used to describe this game!

Brecken is 26 months old and please disregard the mess in the background =)

Size Matters

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Having given birth to one of the opposite gender, I assumed at some point in his life this would be an issue, much the way weight is with the female gender. Whether the “perceived” issue was his actual physical size, of which there is a strong possibility at some point he will dislike having been born of two people who do not weigh a combined total of 300 pounds together and are each below average height for their respective measures, or whether out of some perceived stroke of genetic misfortune would come in some locker room comparison in the form of a small penis syndrome sort of way, (btw did you know there are support groups for this, don’t believe me, check this article out for an interesting perspective on how Americans set immeasurable standards based on the porn industry and the related problems that causes). Admittedly, I assumed, ok hoped, if it came in the locker room sort of way, I would probably be left in the dark of such situation because what could be more humiliating than having to explain said situation to your mother and that we would have instilled enough self-confidence in him that it would be a non-issue. What I didn’t expect was for my first-born to want to grow up before the age of 2 and to direct his unhappiness with being little by trying to compensate in the form of “big” everything. It started when we first began dancing around potty training and bought the standard potty chair for our bathroom, before he was even 2. He humored me with sitting on it for maybe a week, and by humor me I mean he would plop his little bum down for like 10 seconds stand up and say “all done” then dive for the standard toilet saying NO BIG ONE!!! Back then he couldn’t even climb on it himself, but already he was determined not to be “different”, in this case different from his Mama and Papa. Despite all measures taken to ensure that he will always feel like he could/can be whoever he wants to be, he wants to be just like us. Heart Flutters. Don’t worry I’m not naive, I understand this stage will pass, probably soon and when later in life he has his hearts set on being a professional wrestler or some unlikely role model, I’ll wish back to the days he wanted to be like us, although a better us because there’s always room for improvement. What I wasn’t prepared for was the constant battle and demanded reassuring that everything he was doing/getting/eating was “BIG.” Give him a sippy not full to the brim of milk, how.dare.you, No Mama BIG MILK BIG ONE. Don’t even dream of trying to give him toddler eating utensils, who do you think you are. Thank G-D, he likes his toddler plates because there is no fecking way he is getting to use our “big” and oh so very breakable more like easy to shatter ones. The newest most popular word in the house is now “BIG”! Usually used argumentatively when given something he perceives as “small” in the form of “NO BIG ONE.” Everything must be super sized to adult proportions. Because it is impossible to always have the time/effort/sanity to counter these demands we try to use them as a learning experience and I just try to accept the fact that this one wants to grow up too quickly and other times let’s be honest I just comply while I bite my nails and hope to fecking g-d that he doesn’t break something or spill his entire cup of milk on his sister’s head.

To further illustrate what is wrong with our society and why there are articles on “Small Penis Support Groups” an illustration from someecards.com

The Great Hair Cut Boycott

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I refuse to cut Brecken’s hair. The more friends, family and acquaintances that inquire, the more I refuse. I wavered briefly but have made my decision, I will not cut his hair anytime soon, maybe when he turns 3, maybe not. I can’t help it the golden curls he has on the warm humid days simply make my heart swoon. Besides once I cut his hair, that’s it, I’m done, I have to keep cutting his hair. I am also simply not ready for the transfiguration that I believe will occur, my darling little baby boy will transform before my very eyes into a little boy, I just know it. Further, when you think about it, it’s the one milestone that we as mothers have complete control over. I couldn’t pick when he crawled, walked, talked, sprouted that first tooth, but I can control when I cut those first locks of golden hair. Not to mention this hair is precious, we worked really hard at getting this hair (and by we I mean he). He spent his whole first year nearly bald and at 1 year just had a sort of mop that had just sprouted on the top of his head. Then it took forever to grow from there and only recently has he sprouted a full mop, but it’s filled in so randomly. I’ve convinced myself if I were to cut it, it would just be a disaster, all full in places and sparse in others and I would be the mom who gave her kid the worst first haircut in their life. Is that any way to start out, didn’t think so.

(Brecken @ 1 Year)

I thought maybe then his hair would fabulously take off and he would grow tons of beautiful locks.

This was not the case, as if reading my mind, I think his hair growth slowed down.

Because 6 months later, he looked like this.

Can we discuss this picture briefly, I LOVE THIS PICTURE

read: Hey Mama, no way I just shoved the last of your ice cream cone in my mouth, wasn’t me?

Musta been some other kid!

See the little curly Q’s forming on the side, swooning, I just want to play with them

which is what he does when he is tired.

Finally, yet another 6 months later, we’ve made enough progress that the complaints have started…

when are you going to cut that kid’s hair?

Ummm, maybe when he’s 3?

And so begins what I’m dubbing the “Great Hair Cut Boycott”

we’ll see how long I last?

and now folks, we’ve got wild hair!!