You Never Know What You'll See at the Zoo

Thing One and I were talking about our upcoming trip to the zoo.

Thing One: "Do they have frogs there?"

Me: "Yup. We'll see frogs. And gorillas and a giraffe and.."

Thing One: "And maybe we'll even see some heinees!"

Yeah, probably. And after that maybe some hyenas.

Watch Out, Mall Rats--There's A Cat on the Loose

I never thought I would be one of those moms whose kids hauled around a "lovey". I'm barely motivated enough to include the kids themselves when we go places. When they were infants, my kids had pacifiers long enough for me to realize that it was my job to re-cork them when the stopper fell out of their mouths. I'd rather listen to them cry.

When it comes to a certain stanky kitty, however, Thing Two was the creative mind behind that acquisition. She used to only want it when she was sleeping. At four months old, she could deftly reach behind her head while lying in her crib, grab Stanky Kitty, and give it 1 1/2 turns on the way to her face so that she could suck its ass and her thumb at the same time. And I, with smug satisfaction, would tell the moms at the park that we "only let her have it when she's sleeping." Who am I kidding with that fantasy?

Of course, Stanky Kitty wasn't always stanky. An acquaintance gave it to Thing Two the day after she was born, and the kitty shone with all its orange, furry, unmolested luminescence. After 18 months of being dragged to breakfast, lunch, dinner, and one surely non-consensual date night with the dog, however, Stanky Kitty is...well...not clean.

The night we came home and found that Stanky Kitty and the dog had eloped was a sad affair. We came home, saw Lenny the dog sitting on the couch looking beat and smoking a Pall Mall, and Stanky Kitty's fur, clothing, and bodily fluids scattered all over the house. No one in our house can sew. Not even Thing One. So Pete valiantly tied Stanky Kitty off at the torso and each limb with a piece of string and put her to bed with Thing Two to talk girl talk.

Yesterday I took Thing One and Thing Two to the play place outside JcPenny at the mall. We call it the flu pen, but what are ya' gonna do when there are at least 8 more weeks of winter and you live in a 1300 square foot house? Stanky Kitty and the kids played until they were wiped, at which time I proudly ushered them toward the mall exit so we could go home and make dinner and I could announce to Pete that, although we did go to the mall, I hadn't spent a dime.

Potty stop? Check.

Jackets? Check.

Hats? Check.

Mittens? No chance.

Stanky Kitty? Stanky Kitty?

OhgeezIfrickenknewthiswasgoingtohappenwhydon'tIhavethat
stupidthingonaharness?

We go back to the flu pen, looking at the floor the entire way for an orange dirty mess. Nothing. Well, at least we didn't have to go back into 15 different stores like when we lost the keys (two weeks ago) while looking for replacement mittens for Thing Two (seriously, what retailer in Minne-fricken-sota quits selling mittens in mid-February???).

No, we don't have to go back into 15 stores. We have to stop by every stinking cell phone booth and South American hoodie/jewelry/wool sweater/Crocs kiosk in the whole damn place to see if someone happened to take pity on us and turn in a Stanky Kitty.

With no luck.

The kids are starting to get mean. Pete has likely arrived home from work to find an empty house to go along with his empty stomach, so I call him and tell him to make himself a sandwich--we are going to split a Subway and look for kitty.

His reply? "Nice one." I don't think he thought through the potential hazards of that comment.

We go back over every inch of the mall again. Back to the flu pen, where I shrilly ask all the moms to get up and see if there is a stuffed kitten below them.

To Bath and Body Works. No one has turned in a stuffed kitty.

"Be careful," says the cashier.

"Oh, I'm sure we'll find it."

"No, be careful, that's.............(shattering sound to the left of us at the end of Thing Two's stubby little tuna-fish-Subway hand) glass."

Fortunately, nothing broke. As I bent to pick up little bottles and trinkets, the cashier and her helper guided us out the door gently but emphatically. "Really, we'll get it. We just want you and your ragged monsters out of our store."

Once more through the mall, with no kitty in sight. By this time, Thing Two has realized that the damned thing is gone and is calling for her:

"Here tittytittytitty. Here tittytittytitty. Titty, are you??? Dere shees."

"SHE IS??? WHERE?"

Nope, Thing Two is simply on an audio loop now. "Here tittytittytitty. Here tittytyittytitty. Titty, are you? Dere shees."

I wish I had a pacifier to stuff in Thing Two's mouth, because I'm pretty sure the tuna-fish Subway is scattered on the floor with various sundry at Bath and Body Works.

On our third trip back to the flu pen, Thing One chose to surf on his portion of the double stroller. I don't even care--I tell him to look high for Stanky Kitty.

I apathetically notice an ancient janitor cleaning up what looks to be tuna-fish and American cheese off the floor across from Bath and Body Works. I turn around so he doesn't notice my tuna-covered kids, only to be faced with two Bath and Body Works staffers with their arms crossed in front of their aprons.

Damn! I'm cornered. There's nowhere to go.

I turn back to the janitor and weakly ask him if he has seen an orange stuffed kitty on the floor, wondering at the same time if the state has mental health beds available for scrappy, sleepless toddlers.

"A ratty one with no bottom?" He asks.

Sweet. Mother. Of. Jesus.

"Yes. Nasty old kitty, have you maybe seen it?" I'm crying now.

Without blinking, he dives head-first into the garbage bag part of his supply cart. After some grunting and stirring, he produces...

that thing which will allow me to breath again.

"Stanky Kitty!!!!" screams Thing One.

I hugged the janitor, possibly for a little too long. Wiped my tears. Wiped a little goo off Stanky Kitty, and gave her to Thing Two.

Who immediately stuck what used to be the ass in her mouth.

Thing Two

Thing One

You Can't Put Baby in the Corner Anymore--Or At Least You Can't Make Her Stay

I remember the blessed days when she nursed, slept, nursed, slept, and then watched contentedly from that rock-ee thing in the corner. Now she goes everywhere tummy-first, propelled by her elbows and her sass.



Today, she twisted my nose harder than my mean uncle ever did. I didn't think I was going to break loose.




She's an independent, this girl, that's for sure. Today she spent 45 minutes methodically trying to stuff her big, orange, smelly kitty into the shape sorter. When she finally got frustrated, she came over and bit me with that snaggle-tooth. So I put her in the corner, just because I can tell I'm going to need the practice. She ran after me all-not to be sexist-girly and crying real tears just because I bellowed, "YEOWWWWWWWWWWWW! NOOOOOO BITING!!!!" Then she grinned and bit me again.

We know when she's done eating because she gives us the baby sign-the one that looks just like dumping a half-full bowl of pasta/soup/goopy/sticky whatever over her head-and states, "Igetdooowwnnowah."

"Do you want to get down, Thing Two?"

"Noooooo. Igetdownowah."

"Do you want to get down?"

"Noooo. Igetdownowah."

Jesus, that's hilarious--I could do that for hours.

Is That Thing On?

Last Saturday, Pete took the day off of work so that I could travel to Duluth for a little me time. Granted, it was for a last kiss to a dear, dear friend at her wake, but hey--kidless is kidless, right??

On the drive back, I had a lot of time to think about how lucky I was that Pete can handle two kids all day by himself without whining or complaining, and how he was probably going mental right there on the spot with all the taking of Thing Two off the dining room table and the explaining to Thing One why he cannot take the hair dryer into the bathtub for water play. I thought about how he is not used to spending the whole day with two kids, how frazzled his nerves must be, and how he would sure appreciate a break when I waltzed into the door all fresh-faced and armed with silly kid-rhymes to save the day.

So I stopped at the outlet mall.

My first 45 minutes in The Gap were spent fielding generous offers from perky headsetted twenty-somethings to "start a room for me," "help me find a top for that," or "help me find something I like". Satiated with a pair of black fleece bottoms, a long-sleeved crew, and a pair of funky tights for Thing Two, I entered the black hole of the cashier's area. As I worked my way through the two hundred-foot roped-off maze intended to safely and methodically funnel all of the shoppers (me) to the next available cashier, I passed a headset attached to a gum-chewing face and a clipboard. The gum bobbed up and down in thin air as the headset stared blankly at me and spoke, "Um, Lindsay, could you hop up on a register for me real quick please?" I think of those creepy Stepford Wives and another headset materializes before me, the only difference being the color of the layering cami she was wearing. Lindsay, I presume.

It started benignly enough. "Did you find everything you needed?" Lindsay asked the register.

"Yup. Aren't these the cutest little tights?"

And then it happened. Lindsay spoke the word which I was to quickly learn she had spent her late teens/early twenties perfecting. She wrapped those thin lips around it and tilted her head so that the word floated my way almost effortlessly.

"Whaaayet?"

"Oh these tights are just so cute," I labored, already, unfairly, annoyed with Lindsay.

Then silence as Lindsay did her thang with the tags and the register.

But I couldn't stand it. Partly to make small-talk and partly because I hadn't peed in about 2 hours, which was about an hour and 50 minutes longer than is normally comfortable for me, I asked if there was a bathroom in the store.

"Whaaayet?"

"A bathroom," I said a little more quietly.

I saw a spark from the top of Lindsay's headset.

"In the store? A bathroom?" I asked.

"Oh!! No, no bathroom in the store." She shot a we got a live one look at the gum-chewing headset and went about ringing me up.

Lest she forget about me, I piped up again.

"You have the prettiest red hair."

"Whaaayet?"

Am I on freakin' Candid Camera?

"Nevermind," I mutter. She's giving me the look that I got from fat Lance Fareman in the first grade, when I was making those noises with my mouth closed, thinking no one could hear me. Yup. She thinks I'm weird.

"I think your hair is so pretty. You probably get that all the time."

"Oh, huyeah, I kinda do."

Almost done. Just one more thing from Lindsay.

"Would you like to save $15 off your Gap purchase today by opening a Gap credit account?"

"What?"

"Would you like to save $15 off your Gap purchase by opening a Gap credit account?"

"Oh, no thanks."

"Have a great day and thanks for shopping at Gap," Lindsay twitched.

"What?"

Where I've Been

I've been working on a sketch every morning for weeks now which would explain pictorially where I've been for the last, um, season. Infuriatingly, even if you put pants or triangle dresses on stick figures, it's really tricky to bring them to life and tell the true story of a mom who went to Babies-R-Us and bought four baby gates, enclosed herself inside with 45 consecutive issues of the New Yorker, and let her kids spend the winter poking at her with a stick.

The other day I was reading one of those child development wheels--you know the ones that are supposed to tell you whether or not your children are acting normal at any given age from birth to three--and Thing One asked me what I was reading.

"Oh, just a card that tells me some things that Thing Two can do now, like take off her shoes without mom and dad's help, or say a bunch of words..."

"Or climb on the table with no one's help again and again and never get down ever?"

"Yup, that's about right."

So that has taken up some time. Also, we joined the YMCA. I've always been a sort of ten days on eight months off kind of gal when it comes to exercise, but the Y has worked out really well for us. You see, the Y offers free child care while you are working out, up to two hours a day. TWO HOURS A DAY, PEOPLE!!!! As Thing One would say, "That feels me really happy."

My intention was to drop the kids off and go sleep in the sauna without actually lifting a finger, but there was a draft in there that kind of stressed me out. So I went to the front desk and asked for directions to the cafeteria. Nothin. Then I tried just sitting in the lobby chairs with the old guys, but I couldn't stand the "are-you-seriously-just-going-to-sit-there?" looks.

So now I work out. "You look great," a friend said the other day, "Are you working out?"

"Well, sort of. I think it's more that I'm dumping my kids on someone else at the most stressful time of the day several times a week, though."

And lifting a giggling, wiggling, 25 pounds of snaggle-toothed girl off the dining room table two thousand times a day. 100 sets of 20. You know, for my core.

This Really Happened

"Hey Mama, look at the elephant I made!"

"Wow--look at his enormous ears."

"Yep. And also I made an enormous nose, an enormous butt, and an enormous penis."

Okay, then.

Crazy Car-Lover

Context Shmontext

"Vermouth??!!! You can't handle Vermouth!!!!!"

--I think it stands pretty well on its own, don't you?

A Few Minor Things

My mother-in law can stand on her head. And not with her feet against the wall, either. You know the pose--I call it "Getting Ready to Go Through the Birth Canal"--where you put your head on the floor and your knees on your elbows and then gracefully lift your feet into the air until your body resembles a flag pole. Yeah, me either. But I've seen it done. And while this may not astound you young and flexible types, let me tell you that my mother-in-law is probably almost twice your age. Not old, definitely not elderly, my mother-in-law is one of those women who I just know will live long enough to raise money for my funeral by posing for one of those Naked Old Ladies calendars. And she will be the best looking. There is an old family story that says someone was complaining about their weight and my mother-in-law said, "Just come to my house for two weeks. That's all I need to whip you into shape."

She has one of those immaculate townhouses where you know to take off your shoes -and wish you could hack off your grimy feet at the ankles- before you enter. Once I spent a week there while our floors were being done and I compulsively cleaned up after myself every moment of every day. But it didn't stick.

When Pete and I have had our fill of the mental illness we euphemistically refer to as parenting, we call my mother-in-law to babysit. Invariably she asks for something to do while we are gone, because she gets bored. Apparently it is not enough for her to stare at the television and contemplate what she thinks she might have time to prepare to eat during the next commercial. "Give me something to do," she says. "I can fold laundry or whatever. Anything. I get bored." I always refuse. I give her a DVD and the remote and run like hell out the door. Come to think of it, though, I do have a few things I've been meaning to get to.

Here's a partial list.

1. There is a splatter of coffee on the stairwell wall that has been there since 2002. That was when Pete spilled it and refused to wipe it up because he was actually bringing the coffee to me. After a battle of wills that lasted three months, I finally cleaned the coffee off the rug, but I can only go so far and still keep my dignity.

2. There is something that resembles a booger on the bedroom wall. In the kids' room? No, ours. On Pete's side of the bed. In any case, that should just take a minute. You can use Pete's pillow case if you like.

3. There is some vacuuming to do in the basement. Those little white round things hanging from the joists are not party lights. They are egg sacs. From spiders. In a colony the size of which would make Warren Jeffs beam.

4. While you're down there, maybe you can take a moment to take care of that yucky I-emptied-but-didn't-clean-the-deep-freezer-when-the-power-went-out-in-August smell. That would be helpful.

5. There is a dress on the floor by the washing machine. It has been there since our friends got married four years ago. Why? Because while I thought I looked incredibly sexy in it, subsequent wedding reception photos told me differently and I left it there thinking I would wear it again when I lost some weight and gained some abs. Plus it needs to be dry-cleaned and those kinds of things I only wear once.

6. If you're really ambitious, you could brush the dog. He really loves it when you do that. You'll need a contractor's bag and a canine straitjacket for this job.

7. If you're really bored, you could try to clean out the fridge a little. You can probably guess what belongs there and what doesn't. For instance, 8 gallons of whole milk? Those belong. A toddler's slipper and a plastic letter M? Give 'em a quick smell, but those could probably get thrown out.

8. Throughout the house, on every level, you will find stacks and stacks of mail, fliers, ripped-out reminders from newspapers, downloaded lyrics sheets, and mathematics scratch-papers. These belong to your son. I have tried every method imaginable to control this paper storm, including forcing him to take it with him whenever he leaves the house, to no avail. Maybe you could pack them in one of those bazillions of boxes of his stuff that you shipped to our house when we got married? Then we'll just mark it, "Valuable Things," and send it to Thing One's wife when he gets married.

9. Thing Two is over a year old. If you have time, she could probably use a bath. Take pictures, though, okay? The first one is a milestone.

10. Finally, if you could just do a quick run-through in my car, it has been "Mom-ed." You know, sour-milk sippy cups rolling around under the seats, cast-iron french fries and chicken nuggets stuffed into the cushions, that sort of thing.

Don't feel obligated to fill all of your time though. These things are not priorities, they are just busy-work. Take a break. Relax. Do some headstands.

Happy Birthday, Little Lady

Politicians Make Larry Strange Bedfellows

This week it was (finally) revealed that Idaho Republican Senator Larry "I am not nor have I ever been gay" Craig was arrested in June at Minneapolis St. Paul International Airport for allegedly soliciting anonymous sex from an undercover police officer in the men's bathroom.

Police reports state that Mr. Craig made "inappropriate toe and finger gestures" - which are widely known to be solicitations for anonymous sex - in the presence of an undercover police officer. The alleged gestures included sliding his foot under the stall and rubbing the officer's foot in the next stall. Mr. "I am not nor have I ever been involved in inappropriate conduct" Craig states that his finger and toe gestures were simply misconstrued and that his foot "may" have touched the officer's foot in the next stall, but only because he has a "very wide stance" when using the toilet.

Seriously, Lar, if your stance is that wide either the toilet is a hole in the floor or your legs are longer than your Pinocchio nose.

According to police and apparently several gay anonymous sex websites, tapping your toe in the next stall is secret code for "I want to have anonymous gay sex with you right here in front of the toilet." In all fairness to Mr. "There is not nor has there ever been a fairy on the prairie" Craig, could we be a little more specific about the toe tapping? What exactly is the secret code? Is it Morse Code for, "Hey, haven't I not seen you ever here before"? "Don't I not know you?" "What's a straight guy like you not doing in a place like this?" Perhaps it was a simple request for toilet paper?

In any case, Lar, I too think it's time for you to come out of the, uh, stall. You can still have bathroom sex with an undercover police officer. Or a domineering French butler. Your call.

And finally, while I'm here, which one of you douche bags got to my blog by Googling daddy finger spank?????

I'm Not Getting Paid for This

If you like motorcycles, or motorcycle stuff, or even just like to hang out with people who really do like motorcycles or motorcycle stuff, go here to buy, sell, or trade your motorcycle stuff:

http://www.cyclehound.com/

According to my friend, who is kind of a decent guy, http://www.cyclehound.com/ is a FREE site to BUY, SELL and TRADE motorcycle stuff and just $25 for bike ads. The first bike ad is FREE too with the COUPON CODE: 1free (used when placing the ad).

I think word of mouth is the way to go when building or expanding your business, so this is a great place to add the link to http://www.cyclehound.com/ . I mean, just think, I get one hit a day on this blog--and that's usually me checking to see if I got any hits on my blog. If I go to http://www.cyclehound.com/ and tell me about it, then I go to http://www.cyclehound.com/ and tell myself about it, well I think you can understand the implications for my friend's business.

http://www.cyclehound.com/

The (Internal) Vagina Monologue

As Thing Two approaches her first birthday this month, I feel a slight panic setting in. But I'm not reaaaddy!!!!

Not ready for walking? Nah, I'll just take some friendly advice and knock her down.

Not ready for sibling rivalry? Trust me, Thing Two has proven herself a brave, bloody, and worthy opponent.

It's not nostalgia or sentimentality that has me daydreaming these days--it's boobies and bicycles.

Thing Two is done nursing. I know this because of the high-pitched scream she produces each time I present her with the prize. She retracts the scream only when a sippy cup is lodged in her mouth.

Although I'm not one of those women who insist despite all evidence to the contrary that nursing your offspring until they are 30 is indicative of extra-good mental health and selflessness, I would have liked to continue just a bit longer. You see, the wonderful scientists at WeightWatchers gift nursing moms with an extra ten points a day. Points which, if you are familiar with the program at all, you will remember allow a nursing mom like me to continue to eat like a junkyard dog with little or no real exercise while still achieving my weight-loss goal.

Now, as Thing Two gnashes breakfasts, lunches, and dinners that would astound the Monty Python Just-One-More-Mint Fat Guy, Thing One and I seem to be competing to see which one of us can survive on the least amount of bread crumbs a day. Even thus, I am still required to get in 5, 435 minutes of "fast-paced" exercise a day in order to shed a pound.

So, what is a lazy mom with an epic case of exercised-induced hives to do? Bicycling, my friends. Bicycling. Take out a second mortgage to pay for a Burley to attach to the back of my bike, strap the spawn in with nothing in arms reach to throw at passing cars, and go. The great thing about riding a bike is you can do a minimal amount of work and then coast for a breeze. Work, coast. Work, coast. Definitely my kind of fitness. I have even taken to going on long bike rides by myself after the kids go to bed, and I am honestly astounded at the distance one can cover on a bike.

If you intend on following in my healthy example, however, and want to ensure you are able to enjoy the biblical act ever again in the future, I have two words for you: Bicycle shorts.

I know. They're not pretty, but they are definitely a necessity. For men, the choice is limited to a pair of skin-tight black Spandex with a video rocker built in. Thankfully, I was born a woman so I could choose the much-lovelier skin-tight Spandex skort with the couch-cushion crotch. I wore it last night on an 8-mile ride. Sort of cute in a Monster Truck All-Star cheerleader kind of way. And way cushy. But I still don't trust the ride. And I am convinced that each and every other cyclist I pass along the way knows what's going on. At first I imagined they were thinking, Look at the cute mama in the skort riding her bike with such talent. She must be really healthy. Then I recognized my folly. What they were really thinking - each and every one of them, I know - was,

Now there goes a woman trying really hard to keep her vagina from touching her bicycle seat.

What's That Again?

Me: "Hey Pete, 'member when Thing One used to stand in the living room window and scream, 'DADDY'S COCK!!!!!!!' for the whole neighborhood?"

Pete: "Truck. He was saying, 'Daddy's truck.'"

Overheard at the Park

"I could never just get my kid a Black baby doll. I would feel pretentious or overreaching or something."

"Well, yeah, but I think I understand what she is trying to do. It sort of defeats the whole purpose if the White girl is dragging the naked Black girl through the sand behind her, though, don't you think?"

How To Drive Your Wife Absolutely Crazy in Bed

Announce, by way of an historically unprecedented "half-birthday" card - without Previous Spousal Error - that you have gotten her a gift which will arrive in the mail today. Then watch her run to the ungifted mailbox daily and then lie awake at night, bubbling with anticipation, as she wonders if said gift is ever, ever, ever going to arrive. Now that's hot.

Do Not I Repeat DO NOT Go Here and Play This Game:

http://shygypsy.com/farm/p.cgi

Lookin For a Hard-Footed Woman

The other night I was painting nail polish onto that little flap of skin on my pinkie toe, trying to make it look like a real toenail, and I got to thinking about the ridiculous amounts of money gullible fools like myself spend in the name of beauty - or in the case of my feet, extensive rehab - when we can usually get the job done for a lot less with a few simple tools from Sears.
I spent my hour of "me time" in the toenail aisle at Target (I only went for toothpaste), hopefully scanning the labels for something that read, "Use just once and your blackened, abused, leather-calloused feet will turn creamy white. With no effort. Also guaranteed to shrink those knuckly finger-toes." With no luck, I grudgingly spent like $7 okay $9 well $9.99 on a home pedicure kit. When I got it home and examined the implements of my transformation, I was furious. Duped again! I had all of this stuff in my house already.


This pretty little number is called a pumice. To soften and gently scrub away your callouses.

Feeling a little sheepish, I ran to the toddler contraband bowl on the kitchen table, where we keep all of our tools and implements of toddler destruction, to find that yes indeed, I already owned a pumice; Hardware Hank calls it a sanding block. Perhaps someone like myself could try a belt sander next time?

Next, we have the heavier-duty, well, I don't know exactly what it's called. Callous grinder, perhaps?

Again, I ransack the kitchen looking for a familiar something that I knew, just knew, I already had. It is a backup instrument used to play along with Dan Zanes and friends. We also use it sometimes as a cheese grater. No yucky foot-pun intended.

Finally, if you cant scrub it off or grate it off, perhaps the Lady wouldst like to

lop it off like a slice of...

Cheese?

Whacked On the Butt

You know how when people sit around and talk about the pros and cons of spanking, you always hear someone say something ridiculous like, "Well, the only way I would spank is if he was running into the street or something"? Right. Because then it is justified. I am always left to think, Well, okay then, what about if he drank Drano? Poked himself in the eye running with a pencil? What if he swallowed a dirty quarter? It's the principle, right?


None of this matters. What I want to talk about is the 500 or so things I never ever in the whole of the universe thought I would do as a parent.

Things like going to the local firehouse and asking them if maybe, on a day that they weren't so busy fighting fires and stuff, they might come to a certain corner with their ladder truck and get a cheap-ass kite down from a telephone pole. (They said maybe, but after some thought I decided it was probably so they could lure me into giving them my name and number for future crazy-lady identification purposes).

Or like lugging Thing One and Thing Two to a Volkswagon showroom and telling the salesman, "We don't have any money; I just wanted to show my son his first love up close and personal."

Things like letting the not-quite-able-to-unlock-the-door-but-sure-as-hell-able-to-lock-it toddler into the house before me, with the keys, in the bone-chilling springtime cold and then pleading with him to "turn that little black thing." "No this way." "No, honey, I can't do it. Can you do it?"

Or biting him back when he bit me for like 8 months one time. I know. But not hard.

Or giving him a whack on the butt in the middle of Rainbow Foods produce aisle. Yes I did, and do you wanna know why? Because he was throwing things out of the cart left and right. Grabbing things off the shelves. Jumping on his head. Why couldn't I restrain him, you ask? Well, for one thing, he spent his nap time that day practicing the "Mama you have a nice blanket" (Lo-di lo-di lo-di) song rather than snoring. I should know better than to expose him to humankind when he hasn't had a nap. And furthermore, the only grocery store left in the Twin Cities area that I can securely restrain both of my children in the cart at the same time is Costco, and I did not need a case of cilantro that day.

So there's Thing Two strapped into the front of the cart, chewing on my shopping list, and Thing One is in the big part, grinning, drooling, and loaded for buck. See the thing is, up until like 75 days ago, Thing One did not do bad things. That is why my friends laugh at me. For them, I think it's a little like seeing someone fall down the stairs. A little sad, but freakin hilARious.

Out goes the bread. I give the look. For which I receive the deli meat, right in the look. I tried to include him into behaving. "Here, you hold the milk." He wouldn't throw the milk, would he? With a big-brotherly flourish, he tosses the milk up front for Thing Two to hold. The milk doesn't fit in the same cart as her thighs, so Thing Two shrieks.

Then I try to nice him into behaving. In a nanosecond of calm, I remember the Good Mommies and say, "Wow, see now that's the behavior I like". This is lobbed back to me in the form of his shirt. I try to keep him busy putting on his shirt while I run through my grocery list, but he keeps throwing it at the elderly woman who is keeping a nervous eye on us.

Leave the cart full of groceries you say? Uh uh. These are MY groceries, this is MY grocery trip, and I am going to make veggie burgers for supper tonight if I have to duct tape him to the wall while I do it. Maybe you see from whence the power struggle is originating?

Finally, in a moment of desperation, I tell him, "If you do not let go of the butcher, I will spank your little butt."

"Noho ho ho you won't." And then, then he laughed at me.

It'sallaboutfollowthroughnowyouhavetodotitit'sallaboutfollowthroughnowyouhavetodoit....

Quick look for witnesses, and a hearty whack on the butt, along with some nice, low, Tony Soprano-ish threats.

He didn't even cry. Just gaped. For about thirty seconds. Then back to jumping-on-head business.

Later, over veggie burgers, I say, "Thing One, tell daddy about the grocery store."

"Mama spanked my little butt. Like this," and reaches around to give himself an ultimate cage-fighting type thump on the butt with an expression that would make Joan Crawford cringe.

"It wasn't that hard."

"Why did Mama spank your butt, Thing One?"

"Because Thing Two wouldn't hold the milk."

It's a Toddler's Prerogative

"Thing One, are you ready to go?"

"Wait, I just gotta run upstairs and change my mind."

A Simple Meditation

Persistence is a good trait that will serve my child well...
persistence is a good trait that will serve my child well...
persistence is a good trait that will serve my child well...

Thing One, Tell me a Story

"Umm, the screw is gone. We went to the hardware store and put the screw in the drawer and bought a new screw and mama yelled at the man."

No, I didn't.

Does Anyone Think This Looks Like the Virgin Mary?

She is a Thing Two of Beauty

Lest anyone think that, as I mine the comic landscape of my two and a half year-old's life, I have forgotten about my second child, I will take a moment to pay tribute to the lovely Thing Two.

Thing Two does not laugh. She shrieks with delight. Or sometimes if I am really on my game, she will give me a polite huh huh. She has tackled her job as the youngest child with gusto, and her first task - egging on inappropriate big-brother behavior - has been perfected. I was finally making headway in convincing the big orangutan that, while we don't scream in the house, he can scream outside all he wants to. The neighbors love it. But one scream from him at the lunch table has the little orangutan in stitches. My guilt-driven insecurity about whether or not Thing One would ever look her in the face led me to do what I did next. "Scream again, Thing One."

Also, a yogurt cup doing a half-nelson off the dining room table is always good for a laugh. As is the dog rolling in yogurt on the dining room floor. Thing One has found an audience, and his life now has new meaning.

Thing Two is a thing of beauty. For one thing, she has a fat rash. Her thighs are as big as mine. Okay, so they are as big as mine were when I was 24, but still. Her wrists and ankles look as if someone has held her captive using orthodontic rubberbands.

She has no hair that the human eye can see. When I proudly ask friends and family, "Isn't her hair growing in nicely?" they politely say, "No."

Many a stranger has been shocked by the "riveting" blue eyes on the girl. I tell them the eyes are just catching the light off her head.

She is oddly irrational when faced with varying life events. For instance, she does not like having ice cold plastic swimming pool water dumped over her head by Thing One. She does not seem to mind, however, when Thing One prys open her mouth and checks her for teeth horse-auction style.

On a positive note, I can say that Thing Two has mellowed out a little in her old age. Lying in my hospital bed on the night of her birth, I heard a scream that made my skin rise and I knew that Pete was right--I hadn't been good to him and so the spawn had turned out like me. At eight months now, Thing Two is content to munch her way through life like little Miss Pac Man. Plus I think she is casing the place. I can see her eyeballs wiggling back and forth, memorizing every detail so that when she begins to walk she doesn't have to waste time sorting through harmless material and can get right to the good stuff. Like maybe the swimming pool water...

Use Your Words

Dear Thing One,

Please stop calling me Big Mama, okay?

Thank you,

Mama

International Relations

It's not that I am overly in touch with my feelings. It's just that I am married to a first-generation American Swede who is genetically prewired to believe that the world is a double decker crap sandwich and if he can just get a good big bite in every day, he is living the good life.

The Drama of the Verbally Gifted Child, Part II

There are days when I start to wonder if I made the right choice to be a stay at home mom. Those days when I can only muster a weak, "You're on" when Daddy arrives home after work. The days when I have wiped so many noses and rears and tears that I have given up and resorted to using my shirt sleeve for all three jobs.

And then Thing One and I have one of those moments that only a toddler and a parent can have, a moment when I am sure he gets It, a moment that, while likely gone from his memory by 3 p.m. Tuesday, will surely live on in his little heart forever.

Thing One: Where's Connie?

Me: Connie is at home.

TO: Where does Connie live?

Me: Connie lives next to Mr. H.

TO: Where does Mr. H. live?

Me: Across the alley.

TO: Where's the alley?

Me: Behind our garage.

TO: Where's our garage?

Me: Behind our house.

TO: Where's our house?

Me: On _______ Ave.

TO: Where's Connie's house?

Me: On _______ Ave.

TO: Where's _______ Ave?

Me: Across the alley.

TO: Where's the alley?

Me: Between our house and Connie's house. You know where the garage is? That's the alley.

TO: Where's Connie's alley?

Me: Well, the alley belongs to everyone, so our alley is Connie's alley.

TO: That's Me'ses alley.

Me: Yes, that's your alley and Connie's alley, too. It's also Mr. H's alley.

TO: Where's Mr. H?

Me: Oh, probably in his house.

TO: Where's Mr. H's house?

Me: Next to Connie's house.

TO: Where's Connie's house?

Me: Across the alley.

TO: Can we go see Connie?

Me: Maybe we'll see Connie when we take a walk later.

TO: But we can't touch shes's skasketball without asking.

Me: No, we can't touch her basketball.