"That's Not Food!"

I can't wait until Alex is old enough to actually play with Andy.  My eldest son needs a constant playmate.  It's not enough that he has preschool and his park district time and a couple play dates a week with our best friends, Jovie and Heather (I still haven't decided who Andy likes more- his buddy Jovie, or Jovie's mommy.  I think it's a draw, since Jovie's mommy feeds him.).  Oh no, Andy is incapable of playing alone for longer than five minutes at a time, and the new sentence that I am hearing all day, over and over, is, "Mommy, play with me." If only Andy would just play in this box all day. Much of the time, I'm happy enough to oblige Andy, showing him how to put his Elmo and Cookie dolls down for a nap ("Night, night, Elmo!") or have the Mega Blocks man go to the potty on a crudely fashioned Mega Blocks toilet.  See, I'm trying to put Andy's toys in situations that I'd like him to relate to:  taking regular, leng...

Andy's been sliding open the back door, and no amount of time-outs has kept him away from it.   I know I need to get a stick thing to keep it wedged shut, and it's on my growing list of things I have to buy from Home Depot, which I believe I began in February of 2011.  If anyone's making a Home Depot run, let me know, because I just can't seem to get there myself.  Anyway, finally today, I decided to explain to him the consequences of opening the back door, other than "You'd be able to walk out of the house and play all by yourself in the back yard and probably have the best time of your life."  I said, "Andy, if you keep opening the back door, you might let an animal in, and the animal might not be nice, and it'll be a huge problem."  I don't know why I said this, but it was the story that came to mind, and I went with it.  I stuck Andy in a time out after explaining the animal thing and relocking the sliding door.  After the time out, I...

So, apparently the tale of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer is a little more complex than I initially thought.  I knew about the red nose part, the other reindeer not letting Rudy join in on their games (like Monopoly!), and then the whole saving Christmas situation by flying Santa's sleigh.  I didn't realize there was more to the story, because, really, does a story that good really need anything more?  It's got action, adventure, taunting from peers, and a situation that brings a sweet, slightly disfigured reindeer right to the brink of alcoholism.  What other components could add to such an already complete and complex tale? There's a snow monster.  I learned this while reading the story to Andy, and now his favorite Christmas character is the terrifying snow monster who sets out to eat (I assume) Rudolph and his abusive parents, who originally tried to hide Rudy's red nose as opposed to teaching self-acceptance.  Andy loves this snow monster and h...

And then there's Alex, suddenly and abruptly asserting that, at five months old, he's his own little person and HE WON'T BE IGNORED.  Used to be I could just stick him in the swing while the three of us- me, Daddy, Andy- scarfed down our chicken nuggets and corn for dinner.  He'd sit in the swing (which no longer swings thanks to Andy's heavy assed flops into the swing seat) and either nod off or just stare down at whatever doll or baby toy I'd tossed into his lap.  It worked, and it was fine.  But now, oh now Alex is not even remotely okay being dumped into the swing while the three of us eat.  He stares mournfully at us from across the room, moaning and reaching out and making sad eyes at me while I wipe ranch dressing from Andy's face.  He's calling out for me, and he seems to be saying, "How come you're not wiping anything off of MY face?" It's time to bring Alex to the table.  He's not sitting up super great yet, though, and ...

There are some moments in life that feel like memories even before you're done actually living through them.  They get crystallized and stored away into the folds of your brain while they're happening.  It's almost like you get robbed of the actual experience, because it's already over and done with while it's occurring, and you can clearly hear an older version of yourself talking about it somewhere down the road.  In this instance, I am an old lady in the home (not MY home, but THE home), and my grandson Andy Junior is sitting before me trying to mask his boredom while I drone on and on about how his father was such a cute ring bearer at Andy Junior's Great-Aunt Beth's wedding.  "And he was just so darling in his tuxedo," I'm telling Andy Junior.  "Even if he did spill soup all over it during dinner." Unfortunately, I didn't get to see Andy's full journey down the aisle, because I was tucked into my row at the church and t...

Very few things in life are as difficult as grocery shopping with a two year old and a baby. The looks I get at the grocery store match up neatly with the life spectrum.  If you are looking at me and are older and/or a parent, you smile at me with pity and comradeship.  If you are younger and are carrying a basket (a basket!) full of cheeses and wine while talking on your cell phone, you raise your eyebrows at me in disapproval.  You twenty-something yuppies in your pre-24 American cheese product slices stage just simply can't relate to the likes of me.  Perhaps you fear becoming me.  Well, keep drinking that wine on date night, accept that proposal, and before you know it- YOU WILL BE ME.  Only not as skinny. Even though it's a disaster every single time, I still insist on doing my grocery shopping during the week with both kids.  Sure, I could eat up my free time on the weekends with getting the nuggets or go at ten at night like some lunatic, bu...

And Andy's okay with Alex, too. Andy's demonstrations of love towards Alex are more of the give-the-baby-something-inappropriate variety, such as when I caught Andy cramming a goldfish cracker into Alex's open, grinning mouth. "Noooo!" I shouted, heroically leaping over the couch and tucking and rolling until I could reach the offending cracker and pluck it out of my four month old's slobbery little mouth. "Do NOT give the baby food," I scolded Andy. "Do you remember why Alex can't eat food?" Andy nodded solemnly and replied, "Teeth." I have tried to ingrain the fact that Alex can't eat because he has no teeth into Andy's head. I know that Andy gets this, but I guess he just wanted to see what would happen. On a side note, Andy thinks the reason that Alex cannot do many other things also has to do with Alex's lack of dental parts. "Can Alex go to preschool today?" "No. Teeth!" ...

Andy was a bus for Halloween. We (Chris) transformed a diaper box, some yellow wrapping paper, and a handful of craft supplies into what was arguably the best costume, two year old division, this side of Lake County. By "this side," I mean the wrong side, the side that ISN'T near Lake Michigan. It would be nice if this small tidbit were noted by our tax assessor next spring. Originally, Andy was going to be Cookie Monster for Halloween, since he does an admirable impression of the crazed blue dude. Then I looked up Cookie Monster costumes online. Forty dollars for some blue fabric with a couple of eyes glued onto a hood? Seriously, what kind of schmucks do the Halloween costume people think we are? I flat out refuse to spend forty dollars on a costume for a two year old, and this is not just because I'm cheap- it's the PRINCIPLE, dammit. Also, I can think of a million better ways to spend forty dollars, including the following: - Forty boxes of graham ...

Alex is four months old.  Four months is not that long.  It's shorter than a single basketball season, which I specifically looked up because I am the mother of sons, with penises, who will likely, unfortunately, be interested in sports one day.  So now I can act like I know what I'm talking about should one of them bring up basketball at the dinner table in ten years.  I can say, "Oh, hey, did you know the season runs from early November through... Smarch?"  And they can say, "Mom, you are so lame, but I like the fact that you doubled the cheese in this recipe.  Love ya!" So, Alex has been here four months, not even half a year, and yet it's hard to remember life before him.  Hasn't Andy always been a big brother?  Haven't I always had two kids?  And was there EVER a time all those size one jeans in my dresser fit just right?  Doubtful.  It's amazing how quickly the new has become the new normal.  I am a stay at home mom...

What happened to these??? Andy probably gets a Happy Meal about once every three weeks or so.  Happy Meals are ridiculous these days, including only about six French fries (freedom fries?), juice or milk, and a bag of apple slices.  It's the apple slices that really get me.  I remember getting Happy Meals when I was a kid- back when you could SMOKE in a McDonalds.  I'd be eating my Happy Meal, inhaling second hand smoke, eating a big ass bag of fries and pretending the extra long ones were Virginia Slims, and if anybody had tried to offer me a damn apple slice, I probably would have thrown a supersized tantrum.  And even still, with all those fries, fake smoking, and very real second hand smoking, I managed to turn out okay.  Which is one of those arguments that mean nothing because everybody has some horrible tale in which extreme irresponsibility turns out "okay."  My uncle used to run blindfolded and barefooted across I-90, and he turned out oka...

I noticed that one of Andy's school mates was absent last Thursday, and on Tuesday I asked her mom, "Oh, was Mia sick last week?" "Yeah, she was just a little under the weather, so I kept her home," her mom replied. "She had a sniffle and was a little mopier than usual." This is one of the differences, I've noticed, between the two realms occupied by (a) the stay at home moms and (b) the working moms.  As a former working mom, Andy would have to be more than "just a little under the weather" in order for me to keep him home.  A sniffle?  Mopier than usual?  Forget it.  Andy would have to be bleeding profusely from at least two separate wounds and/or running a fever of equal to or greater than 102 accompanied by occasional, but measurable spells of losing consciousness before I would consider keeping him home.  That's the general litmus test I used to use back when Andy was in day care, and I'm pretty sure it's going to ho...

If Andy is struggling while I try to change his diaper, I have a secret special tactic that I employ which will instantly change his demeanor.  I smell his feet.  I grab his feet, wrinkle my nose, take an exaggerated whiff, and then react as if I've smelled raw, hot sewage bubbling up from the city grates.  "Oh my God, Andy," I gasp, crossing my eyes and gagging.  "You have the stinkiest feet in all the world!"  Andy rewards me with a full on belly laugh and then will often ask, "More!"  Or, lately, "Two!" which is his request for me to smell both feet at once and act TWICE as sick to my stomach.  "UGH," I'll dry heave.  "Ugh!  Oh man, I had my mouth open that time.  Gross!"  And as Andy laughs harder, I change his diaper quickly, and we are off to enjoy another two hours of playing "Elmo takes a nap" with his Sesame Street play set.  See Andy?  Even Elmo likes to nap!  Good job, Elmo! I chalk this up to ju...

There are three other parents at Andy's preschool who have babies aside from their toddlers.  These are the three people that I've aligned myself with during drop off and pick off times.  We're the Sleepless Four (as I refer to ourselves silently) and today I learned that all of us are having our kids share a room.  I'm one of those people who need to know that other people are just like me in order to feel secure.  This goes back to my childhood, when I was the only girl in kindergarten who wore pants on the first day of school and felt so very alone.  If only my mother had put me in a damn dress.  Or if only, if only, one of those other girls had had the kind of mother who thought jeans, a stained t-shirt, and uncombed hair was an appropriate first day of school outfit for a budding young outcast.  Me and that mystery girl, we would have been best friends forever.  Or until we moved to Tinley.  Where, I might add, I also had to share a bedr...

Alex is thirteen weeks old!  If I were returning to work, my maternity leave would have ended last week, and I'd be there right now, staring at my computer and blinking back tears as I wondered if my baby was missing me. Returning to work after Andy was born was beyond heartwrenching, and I'd break into sobs whenever anybody asked me about him.  Granted, this time around, it would probably have been a little easier since I'd gone through it once before, but I know it still would have been rough, and I'm glad that I don't have to do it. Staying at home is not all smiles and giggles, either.  Not being at work means that I miss out on a lot of "me" time that I don't otherwise get.  Even a brutal commute can be a relaxing venture when you have coffee, Pandora, and a backseat that is empty of screaming children.  There's no leisurely bathroom breaks or lunch hours filled with joyously greasy fast food.  My lunch hour now is standing over the sink stu...

Yesterday, Alex pooped himself to the tenth degree.  I forgot about the kind of poops that ooze both down the legs and up the back.  I must have been visibly frazzled as I cleaned him up because Andy approached me, cocked his head, and asked, "You okay?" "I'm okay, Andy," I replied, smiling at his concern. Andy cocked his head further, furrowed his brow, and asked, "Poo poo?" "Yes, Andy, Alex made a lot of poo poo," I replied. Andy nodded in sympathy.  Here it was, yet another one of our conversations initiated by Andy and demonstrative of his understanding of the world around him. You okay? Poo poo? I get the feeling Andy will be repeating those two inquiries quite a bit in the coming months. **** Andy was the mayor of Target yesterday, walking alongside the cart and saying "Hello!" to every person we happened upon during our journey down the aisles.  "Hello!  Hi!  Hello!"  He waved at everyone, and it w...

I take the boys to the park at least two mornings per week.  There are two parks in my neighborhood, but there are never any kids at either one.  I can't take Andy to a park without children; then I get roped into actually having to interact him as opposed to just sitting on a bench with the baby, which is the vision I'd constructed for myself when I first dreamed up the life of Stay At Home Mom. The vision of Stay At Home Mom involved me doing lots of sitting, and I have to say I'm disappointed in the actual amount of sitting I get to do, because the numbers aren't exactly adding up in my favor.  So, if there are no kids around, I have to go down the slide, crawl through the tunnels, and assist in batting away all the bees.  I can tell you, I'm not interested in doing any of this.  Plus, I really am no fun, and Andy grows tired of me after a short time.  He squints off into the sun and asks forlornly, "Friends?" To solve this problem, I found two parks ...

Alex has a megawatt smile.  I looked up "megawatt" to make sure it was a real thing, and, yes, it's a million watts.  Think about the brightest lamp in your house, multiply it by a thousand or so, and that's Alex's smile.  He's been smiling brightly since shortly after birth.  He must be noticing how Andy always gets his way and is anxious to cash in on the "What the hell, just give him a popsicle" mentality around here. In the first three days of Alex's life, his cry sounded like a tea kettle going off.  At first, we didn't know if Alex needed assistance or if someone was making Earl Grey in our hospital room.   Alex's head seemed really small to me when he was born.  "Nope, it's fiftieth percentile," the doctor told me when I expressed my concerns.  "Although sometimes small heads run in the family."  She then seemed to size up my own head, which I have always thought it kind of on the small size.  The res...

Andy is set to begin preschool at the Christian farmhouse in a week.  I just received the welcome packet in the mail, which details a list of items Andy is supposed to bring the first day.  This list includes a ream of printer paper, a check for $5 (to assist with printing needs), a large container of juice, a box of tissues, one box of gallon sized Ziploc bags, one refill of liquid soap, two packs of glue sticks, one pack of colored card stock, and a roll of paper towels.  I find this list of items unacceptable.  Seriously- what's with all the printer paper?  Is Andy going to bring home 500 pages worth of activities / correspondence?  And the five dollar check for printing needs?  Tuition is $160 per month, there's a $75 registration fee, and now you're going to nickel and dime me for miscellaneous "printing" needs?  Not to mention all the juice and glue sticks and what not.  Forget the whole thing.  Andy can't carry that much juice, a...

Andy is a social butterfly.  I'm not sure where he gets it from, as Chris and I were initially drawn to each other out of a shared dislike for others.  "People?  They're the worst," we've been known to mutter to each other, snapping shut our living room curtains.  Sometimes we watch "House Hunters," where prospective home buyers talk about needing a home with a good space for "entertaining."  Chris and I, our main goal in purchasing a home was to find a home without ANY entertaining space, a house with an uncomfortably small dining area and a dark, tiny family room that could fit precisely one sofa and a large television at which to aim it. Anyway, Andy loves people.  He gets ridiculously excited around other children and is very quick to inject himself into the activities of other kids.  He will insert himself into the organized lines of day cares, preschools, and church groups of which we have no affiliation.  If two siblings at the library...