Truths From a Two-Year Old

Eternal wisdom from the mouths of babes

1. **Post Bath Time is Awesome: Evan loves splashing in baths and trying to convince the shaking dogs to join in on the fun. But the best times are when where he can run screaming through the house and feel the breeze. Lately, the call of the wild has mesmerized him and he wants to share the joys with the world. My explanations of social mores seem to go on deaf ears, so I'll keep the doors locked and refrain from taking too many girlfriend-embarassing, blackmail photos.
2. The Case of the Missing Baby: My lil girl frequently moves from my belly to Evan’s tummy and will often give him life-threatening boo-boos that require the immediate healing power of kisses. It’s also his excuse to have more ice cream, a cookie, or fruit snacks. I blame David b/c I never eat ice cream for dinner. Nope, never. And those aren’t Oreo crumbs on my mouth. It’s just a little dirt.
3. Other Babies Can Live In Mommy: Friends, relatives and strangers have kindly donated their already born children back into my womb. Me: “I guess that’s why I get kicked so much.” Evan: “Yes, and why you sooo big now, mommy.” Gesturing with his hands spread wide and teetering on tip toes. Awesome, thanks, honey! Mommy feels so pretty.



Proof to Evan that there's really only one in there.

4. Butterflies are Fun Until They Spit On You: Evan desperately wanted to catch a butterfly at the show. When one finally landed on him, he sucked his entire face in and tried running away like Scooby from the masked Old Man Smithers. “It’s not kissing me; it’s spitting. Yucky.” I could only convince him not to fling the poor creature off if I held his hands. 

5. It Should be Called Tongue Painting: When asked how he paints, Evan joyfully added, “With my tongue. Yucky, but fun ‘cuz I have BIGGEST tongue. See, pbbblt.”
6. Scorpions are Everywhere: While trying to distract from a hissy fit, I pointed out fish, trees and a pond in a painting. My imaginative guy saw scorpions, frogs, turtles, and alligators. Not sure the knock-off Monet painter would have dreamed his painting could contain such mystery and delight.
7. Coughing is Funny Until You Can’t Breath: We were in the ER again for Croup as Mother’s Day turned into just another Maniac Monday. Earlier in the day, coughs created giggles, as snot is slimy and cool. Then, waking up in a panic, coughs turned into wails of agony and terror. A breathing treatment and steroid dose later, we’re back to giggles and tall tales to pretty nurses who cooed over how smart he is. But mommy was the real winner, as she got a soothing rose from sympathetic nurses. David: “You know, Evan, there are better ways to give mommy a rose.” Evan: “Okay, daddy. Next time you give rose and no coughing!” Ahh, music to my ears.

**Note: I had to change my original post due to some unsavory people searching Google for terms/implications I had not intended when describing my two-year old's fascination with post bath time. That's just wrong!

Mojo Rising

It's less than a week until my lil bambina will be here. Thank goodness because I am so ready. It's been another rough pregnancy, but I know the payoff will be worth it. I see it every time I look at my monkey, my Evan. He surprises me with the sweetest things and even tries to take care of me when I'm sick. 

The other day he told me, "Is Baby Mojo kicking you. Bad Mojo. You in time out. Don't worry, Mommy. I love you noodles and noodles." (Instead of oodles and oodles.)

I will also be happy to have the old Bethe back. The one who doesn't need to be hoisted out of couches, the one who laughs more, and the one who can match shoes by looking down instead of in a mirror. Until then, I'll rock my baby bump with pride.

                   

Inanimate Clowns: Scary as Hell

I’m not afraid of much. The typical creepy crawlies never fazed me and I’m always the one racing to the top to see what heights I can conquer. Global warming, strangely alive toupees, and bees (they’re the implement of my death) do get me quaking. But most of all: I HATE inanimate clowns. They're also no. 1 on my "Top 10 gifts to send your child screaming to psych appointments" list.

I’m a product of the 80s and watching Poltergeist ruined me for clown-related glee. Sure, I can take slapstick, red-nose wearing clowns any day. Because I know I can always kick them in the shins and run like heck if they start going all Tim Curry in IT. “They all float down here.” EEE!

It’s those creepy, glass-eyed, I’m going to strangle you in your sleep ones that get me. My own childhood clown took a few trips to the hall closet during the night before my parents got rid of it.

So imagine my horror when a friend sent me this link to a blog with an “unintentionally creepy clown” that's also pictured here.  Now, if that had been in the subject line I never would have clicked it. But this sadistic lady phrased it as, “Something for the New Baby's Room.” Seriously, what is wrong with toy makers? I'm sure, and desperately hope, the knife was inserted later.

Just close your eyes and drift off. Nothing to fear here.

I’ve since admonished said friend while she laughed gleefully, and told her I would tell this cautionary tale here. I did promise to keep her anonymous for fear of retribution in the form of more nightmare-inducing finds.

Just let this be a lesson to all who want to buy me new baby gifts. Creep-erific clowns and anything that inspires childhood trauma will instantly be re-gifted, and you will have to pay my or my child’s psychiatric bill. Oh, and sorry, Tim Curry. I really do love you, but if you come near me in any form of cake paint, I’ll strike first and ask questions later.

He’s Not a Monkey Any More

Lately, Evan has really been into self-identification. Everyone and everything must have a definition and a proper noun. No longer just a dinosaur; it’s an orange triceratops whose name is Cera. Mommy is also Bethe and a woman. Daddy is also Dave and a strong man.  My baby is no longer my Monkey. He wants to be called a boy or Evan. Sometimes I can sneak in the occasional buddy or baby, but true identification still remains important to him.


It all came too fast and I don’t know when the heck we progressed to this phase. He’s only 2½, yet far too independent for my mommy worries. He climbs, he runs, and he wants to explore. And I fight the urge not to coddle or overreact to every scrape and bruise. David watches with a cautious eye, too, and sometimes he has to place a hand on my arm to soothe.

Seriously, can you please stop making such a big deal?

Logically, I know this is all part of growing up and so much more is to come. Evan is advanced for his age and has my fierce independence. He will always be my baby, my first born, and the first one to teach me about truly selfless love. And he still does like to cuddle, give growly bear hugs, and big juicy kisses. He runs to me after barreling down the waterslide to make sure I saw his daredevil, head-first move.

First cuddles

I’m just scared because time moves so fast. One day I’ll have to park the car down the street just so I don’t embarrass him in front of his too cool friends when I hug him a little too tightly before saying goodbye. And one day he might move away from me just like I did to my family.

It’s all so crazy to think about and I try to focus on the now. He’s so funny, so smart, and asks the most random questions. I’m trying to stay in the present and savor every moment. But I’ve always hated when trailers give away the movie. I want to be surprised about the coming attractions and enjoy watching the drama or comedy unfold. So I guess, for now, I’ll just turn a blind eye until I’m forced to retire the Monkey moniker forever.

--Signed the writer formerly known as “Munchkin.”

Patience Takes Too Long

I’m impatient. Once I make a decision, I want that thing right away. It’s not one of my finer attributes (just ask my husband), but it does cause me to be decisive and self-assured. Then, once that initial rush is gone, I’m only left with the agonizing oh-my-God-it’s-only-been-5-minutes (just ask my family).

This IS my patient face.

Lately, impatience has reared it’s mocking, ugly head in so many ways. I found the perfect ocean decals for Evan’s new big boy room, ordered them, and then realized they have to be shipped from China. Sigh!

"Under the Sea. Darling it's better when we get things faster. Take it from me."

I talk to my belly, telling Mojo to cook faster and come out healthy before the due date. I’ve decided she shouldn’t re-decorate her living quarters with an eviction of my ribs, and I forcibly push those powerful feet back in.

I’m aching for that Mega Millions check to be placed in my hand, for gas prices to drop back to when I started driving at $1 per gallon, and for TV to go back to real content and quality actors. ‘Cuz really, how many cutthroat dating, dancing, and singing shows do we need? Except, I’ll keep Wipeout, b/c dudes falling in the water amuses me as much as Evan.

Now, the chances of any of those things happening or even coming about quickly are slim to none. But that doesn’t mean my stubborn streak decreases. In fact, it just gets worse as time goes on and my impatience meter goes into the red.

Seriously, why do we have free will if we can’t speed up the space time continuum? Sigh again. I think my super power would be like Doctor Who’s so I can go anywhere at any time with a trip in a phone booth.

Of course, if we could speed up time, I would get gray hairs faster, my children wouldn’t want as many hugs, and goodbyes would come much quicker. But that doesn’t mean I will grow patience any time soon or stop trying to rush the days. I’ll just try to remember that patience is a virtue and life sometimes takes its sweet time unveiling the mysteries of the world.

Hey! He Has My Mouth, Or At Least My Sassiness.

Sorry to be gone so long. My little bambina has been making herself known lately and has been taking impish glee from making me sick. On the bright side, there are only about 57 more days until she's here and can take even more merriment from my sluggishness and general lack of prompt bathing. Oh the joys of motherhood!

But seriously, kids are amazing. We take pride in their accomplishments and some sick satisfaction that they look more like us than our mate. Case in point are some recently unearthed photos from Dad's latest scanning project. I’ve laughed and cried at quite a few of them. Plus, it’s amazing now to look back and see the similarities between Evan and me.

Sly grins right before we pounce on unsuspecting pets.





Our love of all furry woodland creatures.

Our love of reading--even if it is through osmosis sometimes.





Our love of soccer and hanging out with guys with dark hair.

And we have parents who dressed us up as deranged animal-like creatures, then are surprised when we're caught looking bewildered and slightly ticked.

Who Doesn’t Want to Marry a Dog?

My little comedian has been inventing stories again, and lately the details have been quite elaborate.  Here are just some of the gems:

David: “Tell Mommy what you ate for lunch.”

Evan: “A bug. It went on my tongue like this, see… It was chocolate and good. Yum!”

Me: “Really, because that looks like a bug bite on your arm.”

Evan: “It bite me first, so I ate it.”

I wasn’t sure if this was true or not, but I figured at least it was extra protein since he needs the iron and it’s good that he’s sticking up for himself.

Evan: “Me marry Sascha.”

Me: “You married Sascha? What did Nola think about that?”

Evan: “Me marry Nola, too. I love Nola and Sascha (our dogs). Marry like you and Daddy.”

Me: “Yes, Daddy and I are married and we do love each other. But why did you marry Sascha and Nola?”

Evan: “Why not?”

This one I heard secondhand, but I guess Evan decided to put crayons in my mother-in-law’s subwoofer because there was a hungry dragon that needed color. While I don’t support the hiding or destruction of property, I do give him kudos for empathizing with the poor, lackluster dragon.

Evan: “Me STRONG!! EERRRR (showing his muscles). Daddy strong, too.”

Me: “What about Mommy? Is Mommy strong, too?”

Evan: “No, you pretty. You gorgeous, Mommy.”

Me: “Why thank you, honey. That’s very sweet. But I can be strong and pretty.”

Evan: “No, just me and Daddy. We strong and help Mommy. You not strong. Just pretty.”

Me: “Okay, but honey, why can’t I be strong like you and Daddy?”

Evan: “’Cuz you girl and you have Baby Mojo in belly. Daddy and me strong for you guys. Okay, Mommy? You just be pretty. Daddy says you gorgeous and I'm strong 'cuz I eat me vedables (vegetables). What you eat to be pretty?”

Lastly, I hear Nola whimpering so I look in and see Evan basically waterboarding her with his milk while holding onto her collar. I quickly rescue her and tell Evan that he can’t do that ever again, because it hurts Nola.

Evan: “No, Nola very thirsty. She told me.”

Me: “ Evan, Nola can’t drink milk and that really hurts her when you just pour it on her face. She can’t breathe.”

Evan: “She fine. She breathe through tail. Nola loves milk.”

Me: “Nola can’t breathe through her tail. She breathes through her nose and mouth, and she can’t breathe if you're pouring milk on her. That is very dangerous and you don’t want to hurt Nola, right?”

Evan: “No, no hurt Nola. Love her. So it goes in her tail, right, Mommy? Doesn’t breathe through tail, so drink like bendy straw. Okay!”

Nola, a pug, does indeed have the perfect curly tail/straw if evolution ever deemed it necessary for a separate drinking apparatus.