You are not stupid (despite what my child says)

 

Life is hard. It's harder when you're stupid.

 

 

Lots of interesting things to discuss this week…

First up? Vincent’s surprising vocabulary development. Last week, it gave me a bit of a shock and I really thought hard about where it could have originated from. I came to the conclusion that it must have been school. Lets be honest, that is where all of the negative things seem to come from.

And the phrase? Oh, it’s a good one. It sure it. It has shades of me picking up ‘shit’ in middle school and using it as often as possible. Remember Jodi? This might be the ‘shit’ equivalent of pre-school.

“You’re stupid”, Vince said, fake angrily to himself in the backseat.

We were driving home from work and daycare last week, when I hear this from the backseat. Now, I hear a lot of things from the back seat, but this was the first time I had heard a word like that.

I tried quite hard to ignore it. He kept saying it. A few days passed, I thought he’d forgotten it and then it made a reappearance. And there was an odd conversation. A conversation between Vince and his potty.

His turtle potty. The one that has a happy, smiley face on it.

He picked it up, right off of the potty where it usually sits. He looked at, eye to fake plastic eye and proceeded to say “Look at me. Look. At. Me. Don’t do that! Don’t. Do. That. You stay here. Right here”.

And then, there was some dramatic license.

“You stay here, in da dark. Ders monsters. See? I show you! It’s ok turtle! It’s ok!” It was a kind of good cop, bad cop thing. It made me giggle.

And then today… ‘you’re stupid’ made a reappearance. In the car on the way home, he whipped out the phrase.

I was SO mad. Plus, it’s stupid daylight savings time which always does an awful number on our family. Plus work sucked. So, I was not in the mood.

And so I tried various methods in the car on the way home, trying to reason with my 2 1/2 year old, something to get him to stop saying that phrase.

“Those are Mummy and Daddy words, Vince. Those are not words for Vincents to say” was the first attempt. Which resulted in more repetition of the phrase. Which resulted in the what I thought was the ultimate threat. A spank on the bottom.

Well, that threat had no impact at all. Guess what did?

“I’m going to tell Daddy what you said”.

Oh man!! I hit the big time! Best threat ever! In the whole world! I for sure deserve a parental high-five for that.

And that threat seemed to bring the rest of the threats in line. V repeated “Dees Mummy Daddy words. Not Vincent. I getta spank on da bottom. Dont’ tell Daddy!”

Nice. And all I ended up doing was looking stern and glancing in Daddy’s general direction. But I hate how this is happening so soon. Shouldn’t he at least be in some elementary school class before he learns something impolite? Or is it just inevitable?

Or maybe I am just too strict? Too strict  with language (as I am a huge pushover-slash-toughest other ever). Regardless, I disapprove of the language.

night night! xoxo a.m.

Things that happened this weekend..

… things that I didn’t tell you.

Things you might not even care about? Or maybe you do. Aw, I know you do!! You love us!

You love Edward (who doesn’t?!). And who can’t love a saucy Canadian and a plump, cheeky 2 year old? Literally, its impossible.

V had multiple booboo’s this weekend. Some of which he announced to me while I was driving. A booboo must be kissed by Mummy, that’s just the way things go. It is very difficult to kiss a booboo when one is driving and, say, the booboo is on a plump little foot that is being thrust towards you from the back seat. And then there is crying because you don’t pull over and kiss it.

So I suggested that Vince kiss his own booboo. And to my surprise, he did. And when I finally stopped the car at our destination? He didn’t want any additional kisses from me. And then I felt hurt, because I wanted to kiss those little plump, slightly smelly feet. Sad disappointment, eh?

I went back to the organic farm this morning with V, post-thunder storm. Pulling into the makeshift parking lot, our tires clung and stuck to the mud that we churned up. And as I got out of the car and walked over to V’s side, my flip-flops slurped and stuck with every step and I had a ‘My Cousin Vinny” flashback.

Inside, we picked up a stir-fry greens pack, some farm-fresh eggs and some goats cheese. Vince picked up some basil and squished it. And so I picked that up too.

On the way home, the car had the most delicious aroma. That basil was strong, it permeated everything. I literally would have rubbed it on my wrists, the aroma was so gorgeous.

Post-farm trip, I hit the sidewalks for another run. A repeat 5k, just in my immediate neck of the woods. Of course, I run as a super-thunder storm approaches. Mid mile number 2, Edward calls: “Do you want me to pick you up? I saw lightning.”

Me: “No, I think I’m ok. I haven’t seen any here. It isn’t raining yet either. I’ll call you”.

This? Because I was determined to do 3 miles and was pissed that I’d logged 1 1/2. And happily ignored the suspiciously black clouds that looked like they might be maybe right on top of me.

7 minutes later, I rang Edward “Hey!! Hi! Can you pick me up?!?!”. Oh his face was something to behold when he picked up my wet, smiling mug at the shelter of the YMCA overhang.

My response? Pure cheek.

Literally that is the only thing that would have been a good response. He is Italian, after all….

xoxo a.m.

Broccoli (and Stieg Larsson)

Tonight I am taking a break from Stieg Larsson. Well, I am trying to take a break from him. Originally I had purchased ‘The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo” as an interesting book to read in Vince’s bedroom while I was waiting for him to fall asleep.

You know, since we have been having non-stop sleep issues over here. The idea was for ‘Edward’ and I to each have a book in his room, one we only read there and nowhere else. A little something to entice us to stay throughout the whole ‘I’m sleeping but not really, oh look, here’s a toy. No, wait, I am really sleeping’ thing that we toy with every night.

I think it stayed in there for a few days before I had a chance to crack it open. V had a rough time getting to sleep, so I was up there for a while. And then after he felt asleep? Well, Edward had to come and get me later that evening.

“He’s been asleep for a while, hasn’t he!!” he jokingly confronted me.

“Um, I’m not sure”, I replied guiltily. And not convincingly either.

And that was it. I’ve been tearing through the series, just sucking it back. Currently the 3rd book is lounging next to me on the couch. Edward is sitting in a separate chair. See the kind of pull this book has?

Alright, no worries, I’ll stop talking about Stieg.

And talk about broccoli instead.

Who knew that if a person happens to have broccoli on their plate at a restaurant, that this immediately becomes a desired item?

Also, it is delicious. Or at least V thought it was. SHOCKER.

I want to say I have always loved it, but I have a vivid memory of stuffing into the cracks under the family dining table. Mum never noticed and I think that was probably because we had a dog that would eat.

I would also like to say that I have always loved veggies, even as a small child, but I am pretty sure my memories and my mothers might conflict a little.

But damn. The veg is a hard thing. Actually, right now, all food appears to be. Not hard exactly, more of a total bitch. Or bastard. Or shithead.

As in, he screams at it and throws it on the floor. And then I cook a second dinner and he eats most of it. And sometimes by ‘cook’, I also mean ‘open a container of yogurt’.

Don’t judge, it’s a survival thing. . And I am happy that he is eating something. This eating thing and this sleeping thing is just killing us.

We make V the nicest of dinners. Tasty little sandwiches, yummy little biteables, raspberry milk (which is kid smoothies plus milk… this is how we get him to drink milk), corn quesadillas, oh we make him this little gourmet things all the time. Are we being too gourmet? I don’t want to get stuck in a chicken nugget mac and cheese rut.

Both of us refuse to overly cater to him, food-wise. If we did he would be eating waffles, syrup, chocolate milk and Nemo fruit snacks.

But we also don’t want to push food on him if he doesn’t want to eat. Let me assure you , this child of mine is not starving. His hugeness will attest to that. But, you know, he’s two.

And ‘two’ means “I hate everything” and also “when I get angry I bite” and then also “more Mickey Mouse! MORE! MOREEEEEE!”.

So just another post in the ongoing struggle of feeding and raising a two year old.

Any suggestions food-wise as to how to get a 2 year old to eat some veg? Apart for this out of left field broccoli interest…

xoxo a.m.

Well, this is embarressing…

We all know you would rather read about the vomit, poop and general embarrassment then, say, me. I like to sneak in a ‘high-five Jaime’ post every once in a while, and it always makes me laugh because no-one reads it. But write about poop or vomit?? Hits a-million. Ha!! I know, I know… just put up with me. Sometimes I need a little self-indulgence…

Anyways, switching to bodily fluids and such…

V has developed several new skillz (with a ‘z’ ’cause they’re totally mad skillz). One of which I have only heard about but have not yet witnessed. And it scares me a little.

Sometime during the middle of last week, I came home, went upstairs and discovered that V’s bedroom door had a child-proof knob-thingy on the inside of his room. I asked M about this new addition and he turned to me with a total dead-pan face and said:

“Yes. He opened his door. It is all over. FOR EVER.”

I had thought it was over when he climbed out of his crib. And previously when he started walking. And then just before that when he started crawling. You see where I am going with this? This is the latest incarnation of “It’s over FOR EVER.”

So there’s that. And then there’s there this other thing that surprised me yesterday while V was cruising in his diaper around the living room.

I went upstairs for a minute and when I returned, V’s diaper was just hanging off of him. It usually sags in the butt a little anyways, but this time it was proper hanging off. As in one side of it had been undone. And his hand was making a move down the front of his diaper.

“Don’t touch!!” I shouted. And he listened. This is the only good thing that he’s learned from day-care. Not to touch ‘things’ and ‘bits’ or the ‘area’ while you are getting your diaper changed. And this has evolved into a whole ‘don’t touch’ approach for anything in the zone.

That hand shot out of that saggy diaper so damn fast.

“Mummy help”, he said. And so off we went upstairs to sort out this out.

And then it happened again later. And my imagination went crazy. Things rubbed on walls. Things like urine-soaked diapers and poo.. Stuff jammed in toilets. And things unexpectedly where it they shouldn’t be (ie: diaper on my pillow etc). I should accentuate that none of these things have happened. YET.

Ok, so he can (apparently) open doors and remove his own diaper.

And then this morning? Oh just you wait for this one…

This morning, on Father’s day of all days, he came over to me as I was standing in front of the dishwasher cutting up papaya and PUSHED me and shouted “Move!!!!”.

What? Since when do you push your mother that gave (painful) birth to you and cleans up your poop every day and tell her to move.

Well, I guess since you hit the two-year old mark.

I wish you could have seen my face. And heard me say “EXCUSE ME?!”

And then heard V say “Peeeeeeez.” Oh, well saying please right after a big ol’ push makes everything all better.

Didn’t you know that?

Well, now you do…  xoxo a.m.

Two

Wee fish all in a row

Two.

It’s almost time. It’s in 2 days. I am freaking out. And not the same way as last year, because this year is something totally different. It’s called ‘friends’.

And I’m talking about V’s birthday, which is practically right now.

Not only is he going to be two, but he’s in ‘school’ and has ‘school friends’. And those friends equal about 18. And every single time that one of those little people have a birthday, V comes home with a bag of cute party favours.

I had been in the process of talking myself out of doing something like that… And then V came home Friday with a cute bag full of Pirate ‘booty’. Sigh. The pressure is on. I know you think I have a choice. And in some other dimension I do, but not in this particular one. And the other part is that I want to. I want to send home something adorable to the other children in V’s class so they (the parents) will (assumingly) think that Vincent’s Mum is super cool.

And while writing and reading what I just wrote, I realized I am back in high school. Preschool is like high school. In a manner of speaking.

Super popularity contest.

But, at the same time, since I have never really been able to do something like this for a class of children… I feel like I must. Like it’s just the biggest honour to plan things for my little man. Like I MUST show EVERYONE that I am so creative and awesome.

Probably I will get over this by next year. By then, he might be able to request things and not have them simply decided for him.

So he might not have a “No Monkey No Fish” birthday party like his mother has decided for him, because she thinks it’s the funniest thing ever. This party might not be filled with monkeys and fish. Because everyone loves them. I think I am confusing my self with negatives and double negatives.

So last night I painstakingly put together 20 little paper treasure chests filled with goodies for his birthday party on Friday. The Nemo cake has been ordered, party favours complete. Mummy is taking short lunch breaks this week in order to pick that Little man up  early and celebrate proper Italian style.

Which really means just celebrating with some more Italians. At an Italian restaurant. (Which should include red wine, which I will  probably need by the end of the week).

He is 2. Honest to god. Can you believe it? I can’t. Couldn’t you just die?

I have been so giddy this week, like I am going on holiday or something. I have this unreal sense of anticipation. And part of that could be related to M finally being done work for the year and Summer of Dad starting momentarily.Or not.  I have had super energy all week. It’s almost kind of psychotic. I am going to crash so bad one of these nights.

I am trying really hard to not work myself up into a total state like last year. My goal is to not need to go and lie down somewhere quiet during his birthday party like last year.

Hence the super-super low key teeny tiny party we are having this year. TEENY. And TINY. And CALM. I mean ‘calm’. Ah! I mean calm… Ya, that’s much better…

Send me some smooth, cool, sleek vibes for this upcoming weekend. Some calm, all bass with a little bit of sax silk…

Two

Did you know that M and I will have been married for 5 years next month? And also that V will be 2 years old in June.

To me, both of these things are rather exciting but, mostly, I am in shock.

Not so much about number 1 (that man is locked in forever)but definitely number 2. Number 2 is going to be 2! Although really he’s number 1. So number one is going to be 2… (my mind is giggling right now, it’s usually in the gutter anyways…).

Anyways, things have been changing over here in the last week or so. A sign of things to come? Of schedules to be disrupted?

It started off Sunday. My fault. Back from Spin class and feeling full of energy, I showered, shaved and felt alive. It was 3 pm and he was still sleeping. As far as I was concerned, that was too late to be sleeping and if he slept longer we would totally be f’d in the A.

So I woke him up. Sweetly, of course, and with many a gentle whisper and caress. Would you like to guess how all of my sweet efforts were greeted? With huge gulping, sobbing, wet, gasping cries. With big head-shakes at the mention of ‘Daddy’. And ever further head-shakes and wailing ‘Noooooo’ ‘s at the mention of Chewie the dog.

And the crying didn’t stop there. It continued for a good 15 minutes. And the day didn’t get any better from there. M just looked at me, gave me a total side-eye.

The rest of the day was just a huge, whiny, temper-tantrumy mess. So was the evening. So was dinner. And so was bath-time.

Bath-time was actually so bad it was kind of funny. Lowered into the lovely tub, all he did was wail from the time his feet touched the water. And then he tried to climb out. And then, when he couldn’t, he proceeded to wail and wail and wail like he was being scalded (which he wasn’t, for the record).

And bedtime that followed wasn’t much better. In fact, bedtime took place at 6:45, 8 pm, 10 pm, 11 pm and 1 am.

And Monday night wasn’t much better.

Tuesday was a slight improvement.

Happily Wednesday night was fine and so was Thursday.

So what the hell was all of that? In 3 months, he’ll be 2. Is it that? He’s getting quite opinionated. He will no longer ‘Moo’ on command. This disappoints me.

On the other had, he is developing a delicious sense of humour that is so infectious I just want to nibble on him. The giggles, the cheeky smiles, the mischievous looks and the endless “tic-el-tic-el-tic-el-tic-el” noises that he makes…

So if this is the terrible twos, I’ll take it.  Those grins make those weary nights worthwhile…