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.

The Fear Is Setting In

I thought this one would be different. I wouldn’t be scared of what’s to come with baby no. 2. But it’s there. Peeking its ugly head out like those embarrassing awkward years photos you thought were all burned. I’m scared and unsure again.

It started off fine. I knew what was coming. I knew Braxton Hicks shouldn't induce a panicked phone call to my OB or terrified husband. I knew the baby wouldn’t rip itself out of my stomach a la Aliens or kick my bladder into my legs despite her Mia Hamm impressions.  And I knew no matter what, my hubby and I could handle it.

Now, I’m not so sure. I read my friend’s blog about their third baby and she came out like a human canon ball. Evan was a week early and he took his sweet time despite repeated eviction notices throughout the 24-hour plus labor. (Of course, he made up for it with 9 minutes of pushing.)

Plus, I didn’t know what the contractions were at first and stayed at work finishing up projects. In fact, I would have stayed there longer if my boss and other female co-workers hadn’t realized from my pained face that it was getting bad and forcibly ejected me.

But what if Baby Mojo makes an appearance while I’m Krogering or at the park with Evan? Do I cross my legs, fingers, eyes and hope for the best? Do I rush home or take my time? And this time I seriously want my epidural earlier. There is no blue ribbon for heroics when it comes to labor. Some women choose to do it naturally—and God bless them—but I was just stubborn and stupid. I wanted to prove I could walk the walk while grimacing through contractions. When I did want one, the good juice guy was in high demand and I loudly cursed my way through the waiting. I’m pretty sure I scared and scarred my brother-in-law for life, but at least now he teases me less and recognizes the full power of my Italian-Irish ire.

Part of me wants to just forget about all the chaos and focus on the happy pre-baby moments. But I’ve never been that good with extended self-delusion. Plus, I still haven’t done anything in terms of decorating, a baby book, or figuring out what we still need to buy.

All I know is that I better snap to soon or else she’ll be wearing onesies with stains and uber-boy proclamations, and sitting on the floor because I still don’t have a bouncy seat for her. I may be a delusional mom, but I can’t ignore that I have less than three months to get ready for life-changing child 2.0.

Little Things Make Me Happy

I'm easily amused, which comes in handy for long car trips and dealing with persnickety people. But sometimes I find the most amazing, surprising things that completely jazz me. Like random blogs that feature cool people.

A friend recommended Awesome People Hanging Out Together. This site features the likes of Freddy Mercury and Boy George kicking it 80s style and the meeting of true geniuses like Henry Ford, Thomas Edison, Warren G. Harding, and Harvey Firestone. 

Or, Epbot from Jen the blogger who brought us Cake Wrecks. She makes geeks chic and I totally heart that. Plus, it’s good to know that an average gal can make this whole crazy blogging thing work.

My other favorites are unintentionally funny billboards/signs, made-up inner monologues for strangers, and just about any song my lil man concocts.

It’s this quality that’s kept me sane through some pretty hairy situations in both my personal and professional lives. It’s also the reason I think people classify me as perky and assume I was a cheerleader. (BTW: The only cheer I ever made up was during my single digit childhood years for the Buffalo Bills. And “Red and blue make Buffalo, too” is not the most original, especially when you’re singing it for Browns fans.)

But I think perky lacks definition for the intricacies of my humor and unique state of mind. I prefer to delve much deeper and note the black humor that ekes out randomly, or my ever-present sarcasm, or even my rapier wit and modesty.

I love quirks and how they define a person. I’m seeing them form first-hand being a mom, but I discovered them long ago in my people watching. I can’t wait to see how recent generations will add their own twists to my amusements. I will also do my part to create a world that jazzes others.

Paybacks are a B*tch—Stop Laughing, Mom

What goes around truly does come around.  From temper tantrums in stores to Evan’s fondness of hiding in clothes racks*, child rearing seems to be payback for every Karmic evil I’ve ever unleashed on my parents.

And worst of all is that my parents have a sadistic fondness for laughing at my tales of woe. Yes, they’ll be sympathetic to my plights, but that’s after they finish laughing their butts off.  And then my mom gently reminds me the worst is yet to come. Super! Why isn't this stuff covered in the parent handbook?

Can’t I keep my children loving, cuddly, and obedient forever? I want to skip through the I hate you stages and get right to the being cool again. And how much do I tell them? I was a pretty good kid overall, but I did my share of dumb things. Heck, in Wooster there wasn’t much to do. So riding a slippery, gag-inducing smelly oil rig in someone’s field sounded like a perfectly reasonable idea.

My parents did a pretty darn good job sharing their “real” selves with us and even sometimes managed to horrify my siblings and I with their college tales of Sloop and Fang. But I still thought they were the worst when I was grounded and they NEVER understood the teenage me.

Plus, at some point even my music will be uncool. It baffles me that bands like Nirvana would be considered an oldie.

So, while my oldest is not even 2½ and Baby Mojo has still yet to make her grand entrance or even be officially named, I’m coming to the harsh realization that I will be the nag, the nerd, the downer, the meanie, and the enforcer at some point. As much as that stinks, I look forward to the day when I can laugh my derriere off and sympathetically smile at their toddler toils while still laughing on the inside.

* BTW, baby boy--If you ever read this in the future, telling me where you are slows my pounding heart in Target, but does give me a slight advantage in hide and seek despite your good job of using a pillow as camouflage.

Laugh at Yourself and Stick it to The Man

I’m like every other person. I hit rough patches where I wish life was all champagne wishes and caviar dreams. I pray for less credit card debt and more mad money. The recession has impacted my family like many others, and I stubbornly pass the gas pumps riding on fumes as I curse their soul-sucking, money grubbing powers. (Patooie!)

And yes, I get very jealous of others who don’t even realize how good they have it. I get angry when the privileged, pompous elite flaunt their wealth and flitter away their good fortune. But it gets me nowhere and I could cry a river of tears if I dwell on my woulda, coulda, shoulda moments. And in the end, I always realize that I am very fortunate in my life thanks to such an amazing family and group of friends.

So with these mushy, happy thoughts you would think I would never need another pick me up. But I am human, so I count my blessing again and find ways to laugh.

• Step 1: Realize Evan’s major meltdown in the grocery store was a way to stick it to the man. You want to raise the milk prices? Oh yeah, well my child can scream so loud that your patrons will flee the store in haste rather than purchase your over-priced impulse buys.
• Step 2: Play a one-hit wonder per day and remember all the bad style trends and hair don’ts that went with it. For example, we sang Push It on the soccer fields when I was a kid, as I rocked some major mall bangs. Probably helped me in defense when people passed out from close contact to all the aerosol.
• Step 3: Start a journal of Evan sayings. This will either be a mommy-mushy gift to him when he’s old enough or some really great blackmail material. Let’s see how his teen years go and then I’ll decide on how to wield this power.
• Step 4: Get all hopped up on sugar and junk food, then blame it on the baby’s cravings. Sorry, honey, you’ll never know when it’s real, but don’t you dare question me when I make you stop for a gyro at 8:30 at night.
• Step 5: Imagine my Baby Mojo (our nickname) as Pasta Tasty Oeters-Ferguson (Evan’s suggested name). You should have heard the ones we vetoed.
• Step 6: Plan my world domination where everyone must quote lines from the Princess Bride and my kingdom is the ultimate maze of Swiss Family Robinson-style tree houses. As you wish. I’ll ride the emu this time as I battle the Dread Pirate Roberts. (20 geek points if you could follow that one.)
• Step 7: Remember it could be worse. Look at The People of Wal-Mart and marvel at the horror.

The “You-Can’t-See-Me” Effect

People seem to forget you can still see them in their cars. You get the good, bad and interesting, as clear windows become iron-clad barriers. Cars create this protective bubble giving us the false impression of security, and the chance for some to let out their inner demons and divas.

Like the lady shaving her face this morning while in traffic. First, this poses very serious cutting hazards if she slams on the brakes or gets hit. Plus, ladies, if your face is that grizzly, take care of it at home. Hate to say it, but there are some mysteries a woman should keep. I’ve also seen countless people mining for gold (or whatever cute euphemism you want to use) and then disposing of it in even more countless disgusting ways. 

But my favorite is the people who car dance. As previously stated, I will at any point jump, jive and wail. I don’t care if you see me, approve, or would kick me off any of the umpteenth reality talent shows. That’s why I always virtually hi-five the brave souls who jam out in their cars. Much like singing in the shower, I think cars have the magic ability to even turn The Robot into an encore-worthy performance.

The question becomes if you can safely drive and still rock the awesomeness. A few days ago a young girl gestured wildly in her car as if possessed by exorcism-inciting demons. But once I figured out she was dancing, I gave her a smile and wave. She turned redder than this pasty Irish-skinned girl at the beach with only an SPF 15. (Yeah, Dad, thanks for that super trait. I always loved looking like I was adopted in the summer when everyone else tanned and I still burned despite hours hiding under umbrellas.)

She then narrowly avoided hitting the stopped car in front of her and gave me a timid grin. Hopefully, she will learn the proper dancing to stopping ratio as she gets older. I’m really beginning to think car etiquette should be taught in driver’s ed. Or, maybe I’ll just create a warning sticker for windshields and teach the Safety Dance to all drivers.

The Machine Has Broken Down

Women were born to be machines. Lovely, talented, and life-giving machines, but in essence, machines no less. Or so it seems sometimes when you are pregnant. Your body, no matter how much you try to deny it, is not always your own.

And woe to the mommy machine that breaks down at any point from illness, exhaustion, or being just plain overwhelmed. And woe to those who don’t have a good pit crew for quick turnaround.

I recently had a cataclysmic mechanic failure in the form of severe bronchitis and two ear infections. Thankfully, I am recovering with the aid of antibiotics and heavy-duty cough syrup. But for days I felt separated, had countless asthma attacks, only 80% oxygen levels, and could barely function let alone leave my bed. The doctor cheerily told me my immune system wasn’t really working, as my body strove to protect and grow the baby. And while I am eternally grateful for the miracle of life, I always thought the baby would want mommy to breath.

I am also eternally grateful for my amazing husband who picked up the slack in all things. He even managed to mostly match Evan’s clothes and ensure Evan ate more than just fruit snacks, chicken legs, and French fries (his ultimate dinner choice).

But poor Evan did not understand. Two is a terrible age when everything revolves around you. He simply couldn’t understand where I was, why I couldn’t read to him, or even talk without going into hysterical coughing fits. My only job is to give kisses, play, and always lavish love. He cried, pouted, and told me I was not nice.

And that hurt worse than any illness or a blow to the kidneys. He’ll rebound and forget, but I’ll always remember the look on his face. Now, I’ll just have to make it up to my two men while thanking the little diva sister for staying strong during it all. I’ll also have to remember to check my fluids and get routine maintenance to avoid any other mechanical failures.

Oh Dear, Mr. Dinosaur. We’re Next.

As the wise Christian Slater said in Heathers, “Chaos is what killed the dinosaurs, darling.” So it goes with bathroom beauty dreams in a house that’s built in 1947. It’s been a frenzied situation where everything that could go wrong has. I’m trying to smile despite the dust, muck and frustrated tears. But sometimes I just want to run away until it’s done and have some hunky guy massage away the chaos.

First, I must say thank goodness for my in-laws and husband. They’re saving us major moolah by tackling the work themselves and took the bathroom down to the studs. But the home repair gods have a cruel sense of humor. Cement over chicken wire for the walls instead of drywall. The 3-inch thick, soundproof paper over the cement. Oddly shaped and out-of-date plumbing supplies are necessary.  Oh, and the list does go on.

And for our part, Evan and the dogs are trying to stay out of trouble. I try to not let my cranky pants pregnancy hormones rage too much—and, really, that’s the biggest contribution of all. There’s tools threatening to trip me, drywall and various toxic dusts all over for the dogs to lick and Evan to get into, and the only working toilet is on the second floor.

We lived at my in-laws’ pad for the first few days thanks to the lack of crucial running water and power in some parts of the house. Crazy me, I wasn’t willing to go bare butt in the backyard for all the neighbors to see when I peed the 50 times a day.

Now, it’s still trying to finish up (when not at day jobs) the project that feels like the song that never ends. Sing it with me, “It’s the bathroom that never ends. It just goes on and on, my friends. Some people started the plumbing not knowing the terror it truly was…”

Until then I will try to find my calm, remember how beautiful it will be, and thank my in-laws and husband for all their hard work. I just hope I don’t go the way of the dinosaurs until I can at least take my first shower.

P.S. Photos to come when I can unbury the computer room.

Oh, Crap! I’m the Mom.

Like all women, I had a life before becoming a mom. And truthfully, I still don’t really consider “mom” to be my defining title. I’m simply Bethe; I’m lots of things. Even my first two names spell out Be The All Is (Bethe Allis). That’s why sometimes I forget I’m The Momma.

It often comes when big, life-altering decisions need to be made. Then, it’s the “Oh-crap-I’m-supposed-to-have-all-the-answers” moment of terror. Like when Evan was about 10 months and had Croup. Who knows all the answers right away when your child is gasping for air and coughing nonstop in the middle of the night?

Sometimes the realization also hits with small things like not being able to go drinking with the girls because I promised to watch Thomas the Train for the umpteenth time. Spoiler alert: Something upsets the trains, they learn a lesson, and everyone is super happy with a best friend whistle. Toot, toot! Please kill me now.

I remember those days when the biggest drag was my parents making me clean my room or realizing the guy I crushed over all semester really was gay. Yes, that happened. Just ask my two ex-boyfriends who have been partners for 12 years. (Let’s just say I wasn’t looking for love in all the right places.)

When did I become the one who has to cook, clean and do laundry? The one whose shirts are covered in snot and late nights are now 10 p.m. Even before I got pregnant, my tolerance was diminished from inactivity and about two or three drinks made me hugy and lovey.

Now, what am I going to do when the second one comes? That’s even more answers I’m supposed to have. It’s a frightening and amazing concept at the same time. I love being a mom. My son is the best thing I ever did and I know the second child will be just as wonderful. But I still have those moments when I want to curl up with my mommy and be that naïve little kid again.

Yay! Hit Me, Momma!

I’m the Dancing Queen. I love music, constantly sing and (obviously) love to dance. Evan, thank God, has picked up my rhythm and often joins in on the fun. I didn’t realize how much I danced until we were in the grocery store, and people were staring and laughing. I assume it was because they were so impressed with my joie de vivre.

Evan had joined me and I laughed back because we did look funny. My Pat Benatar impression was kicking and he was rocking the box of cous cous like a maraca. He doesn’t know all the words yet to Hit Me with Your Best Shot, but screamed “Yay! Hit me, Momma!” Okay maybe that didn’t win me mother of the year award.

We often break out into interpretative dances for anything from Enya to house music. It’s about flowing with the music and often ends with us beet red and howling in laughter. I also will often jam in the car after I drop him off. Music blaring, I tend to shake the whole car in my animation.

The Evan and Momma Dance Team take a break to play in the sun.

Evan tells me I’m funny, to do “turn around” and will often direct my musical choices. If he doesn’t like a song he often says, “No, Mamma. Not right; sing dis one (insert song name). That soooooo much better.”   

One of his favorites is You Are (the Sun) by the fabulous Lionel Ritchie. (That’s right, I am a huge Lionel Richie fan and darn proud of it.)

The others are Monkey by Counting Crows and Oom Pah Pah from Oliver. But he still can sing the ABCs and knows all the words to Itsy Bitsy Spider. 

Call me a freak or call me a show off. At least I will never be boring and neither will be my son if I have my way about it.

The Pillow Did Me In

I’m 19 weeks pregnant. I can live with the whole your body is not really your own, but that damn pillow! It’s got some awkward bulk on me. I’m not huge by any means or even some wilting flower. I’m 5’ 4” and the pillow goes from my chin to the middle of my shin.

It started when I couldn’t get comfortable. I upgraded my king size support pillow to a mamma-jamma body pillow. And while this pillow is comfy when you’re lying down, I can’t turn over in bed without feeling like the turtle on its back. I grunt, struggle, and curse my way through the process. It weighs me down and taunts me as it gets caught in the sheets. My wise husband knows not to laugh as I swear up and down it’s the pillow's fault. I wake him up and myself in the process.

I dig in deep and fight the epic pillow battle. But in the end the damn pillow does me in. Sure, I could downsize, but then all the pillows in the house would know I surrendered. They’d mock me with their cushy goodness and I’m so much stronger than that. Plus, my 11-year old couch has been eyeing me sideways, and it already threatens to engulf me every time I sit down.

So until then, I’ll wage the pillow wars every night until I finally get stuck in a tangled mass of sheets, pillow and my own ire. I just wonder if David will stop pretending not to laugh and fetch the Jaws of Life.

Finding the funny in life isn’t hard when you are raising a little comedian. Bias aside, my 2-year old says the most outlandish, insightful things. While they may be inadvertently at my expense sometimes, I’ve learned to laugh first and cry later.

For example, he tells me I’m a penguin. It’s pretty perceptive when you think about the fact that my preggy belly is now making me waddle to compensate when my feet are the size of sausages at the end of the day.

But then I feel much better when he tells my husband just how BIG he is and I am very small in the tiniest mouse voice. Again this makes sense, though. David swings him through the air with the greatest of ease as peals of laughter erupt. Lately, I’m much more cautious with Evan, and to him, that makes me less of a force of nature. I’ll take the tiny comments where I can since I feel ever-expanding in my second pregnancy.

Then there is how his voices for Tub Time Friends Percy, Thomas, and Salty all have a way of sounding similar, but slyly reinforce that the best thing in life are Foo Naks (or fruit snacks, if you will). Granted, I haven’t figured out how molded plastic will ingest the requested fruit snacks, but my sly boy assures me they must have them to take baths so Evan can be super clean.

Whatever the case may be, Evan reminds me daily that life is only as serious as you take it. And for that, it’s my quest to focus on the funny from here on out.