Boondock Ramblings

The story behind the spit. . .

I uploaded this photo on my photo blog for my Weekly Winners post this week.

There is a story behind the spit. To some, the spit may be "gross" or elicit an "eeew!"

To me it makes me think of my kid and how crazy he is becoming.

This is Jonathan spitting bathwater, first just in the bath, then he tried doing it at me. I stopped the spitting when I remembered the water had bubble bath in it and also when I found myself soaked in bath water and baby spit.

Once I couldn't get Jonathan to take a bath. Now I can't get him out of the tub once he is in it. He swims, he splashes, he plays with all his super heroes that have now become bath toys. He then turns into a prune.

And yes, he spits.

 

Mommy and Me Day. . . Worth the wait.

Last year I used up all my vacation days as sick days. By the end of the year if I wanted a vacation day I had to sacrifice a day of pay for it.

This year I wasn't about to wait for sickness to claim all my vacation days and instead I requested a vacation day after seeing that one of our local theaters was offering a black light puppet show based on the stories of Eric Carle.

It was supposed to pour the whole day, but when I woke up, it was sunny out and by the time we got on the road it was near 70 degrees and it stayed that way the rest of the day.

Jonathan wasn't very excited at the prospect of going to see a play -- he thought we were going to "ampa's" and almost had a break down when we stopped in the "big city" about a half an hour away from "ampa's"

His tune changed when we entered the theater and found out that 400 children from local day cares and Kindergarten classes would soon be joining us for the show.

He was excited. Me?

Not so much.

By 10 minutes in I knew what the arts council director had meant when he told me "I guess it's a good show. If you like 400 five year olds screaming and waving their arms around in the dark for an hour."

At first I thought that was a bit. . . well, rude. . . of him to say such a thing about such darling children.

Then I was in the midst of it all and I suddenly knew what he meant. They weren't demon-children, but they weren't angels either. OK. They were fairly good. but they were LOUD.

The show was entertaining -- enough -- but when it was all over I was never happier to walk out onto the streets of Middle of Nowhere City and try to merge into Middle of Nowhere Traffic. As we walked into the bright sun, the screams and squeals of 400 children still echoed in my mind.

This "city" has maybe a few hundred people living in it, OK, maybe 1,000, but during the day the traffic spikes to 20,000 cars and scowling women with cigarettes hanging off their bottom lip. And getting any of those scowling women to stop scowling long enough to wave you into traffic is pretty much impossible.

Finally, there was a five second break between cars and I shoved the long nose of my maroon Chevy Lumina (very luxurious vehicle) into the fray and headed toward a healthy lunch.

A healthy lunch of homemade chocolate, soft serve ice cream.

What? It has milk in it...dairy...the good stuff.

Once upon a time my kid would only eat part of a baby cone. Now? He eats it all.

You wouldn't believe how long I sat there, waiting for him to say he was full and asking me to eat it for him. He finally did -- when only the bottom of the cone remained. The very bottom. The very, very bottom.

Next time I'm getting myself a large instead of waiting to see if he finishes his! 

The best times are the quiet times . . .

The best times with you are the quiet times.

The times your head is in my lap and you're watching cartoons.

I stroke your hair and feel you warm against me.

We had been laughing hard, only a few moments earlier while you huffed your “bad breath” toward me, thinking it was so funny.

Luckily you didn’t have real bad breath and hopefully neither did I, or we wouldn’t have been laughing as hard as we were.

Then your head was on my lap and you were watching Sid the Science Kid, learning about science and math and growing and how things work.

 

Your hair was so soft against my fingers and I reveled in the moment.

“Someday,” I thought. “He won’t want to do this. He’ll say ‘Mom...stop touching me.’ And I’ll cry. I’ll miss these moments and long for them all over again.”

My Project 3.6.5 project post is up at Views Beyond the Lens. Jen, from Rants and Raves, there is a message for you there! :-)

 

Hosted by Cecily and Lolli

My son is all boy . . . and kind of gross at times

My son is a boy. I know I've mentioned this before.

And I know I've mentioned that --- hello, duh -- my son is a boy and this should be obvious to me and everyone -- but some days it's like the realization just hits me square in the face how different boys are from girls.

Take for instance how lately, if he passes gas, or if anyone else does, Jonathan  makes a huge announcement about it, something along the lines of "That was my butt!" or "That was your butt!" and then he wrinkles his nose all up and giggles. He also likes to "claim it" when someone passes gas and is glad to say, "That me!" when anyone asks: "Whoa? Who has gas?"

Then there was a couple Sundays ago when we were at Sister-in-laws and he was upstairs playing in his cousins' room. I heard him crying and ran upstairs, thinking he had fallen. No. He'd gone to the bathroom in his training pants and was demanding to be changed.

Then he said something that made me stop in my tracks, "Can I pay (play) wit my poop?"

I promptly informed him that he may.not.ever.ever.ever.play.wit.his.poop. EVER. And EVER.

Later that night his bowel "issues" continued and he developed diarrhea, the kind of diarrhea that has noise accompanying it.

Hubby heard the . . . er. . . sound, the odor moved toward him and he went straight into "drama queen" mode, covering his nose and crying "Ah man! That is so gross! Ah, man!"

Jonathan enjoyed this reaction quite immensely and bent over so Hubby could get the full effect of the odor and then asked, while wiggling his butt, "Can you smell it?"

He did the same to me and was lucky that the tail he presented to me wasn't slapped.

He also enjoys picking his nose, pulling out the boogers and running toward everyone with his booger-tainted finger pointed at them, giggling while they scream: "eeew! Gross!"

And earlier today I was told by his sitter that he informed her, while sitting on the potty, "Whoa! That poop big! That a awesome big poop!"

Ah, yes, he's very obsessed with bodily functions. He's a boy. All boy.

And isn't that I don't want him to like "boobs" but I do want him to stop telling his dad and I, "I like boobs. . ." because I'm really not sure where he heard that from.

Any ideas, Hubby?

Visit Seven Clown Circus for more WordFUL Wednesday posts.

Bad parenting moment Number 1,527

Hi. I'm Lisa and I'm a bad parent.

The first step to recovery is admitting your addiction and I'm here to admit it. It appears I am addicted to bad parenting moments.

It all seemed so innocent — bidding on a Transformer for my toddler on eBay.

It was spur of the moment. We'd found an old Transformer in some toys sent by my aunt earlier in the day, but it was broke. Jonathan was heartbroken, so I thought I could find one in better shape on eBay. I checked it out and there was an Optimus Prime from 2006 -- 11 inches tall, talking, blaster sounds, the whole deal. And bidding was almost over on it.

The problem? I let Jonathan see the photo while I was trying to bid.

"I want that!" he cried. I told him we would see if that would be possible.

I was so excited when I won the bid I cried: "We got it!"

My 3-year old thought that meant it was coming to the house. Now.

That very moment.

Oh crap.

"No, honey, it's coming in the mail," I said.

"My mail?" he asked. "It coming in my mail?"

"Yes, in a couple of days. We'll have to wait."

"No. No. No wait." he said and the tears started.

Oh crap.

"No, honey, it has to come through the mail. It will have to be mailed to us and . . ."

"I want megatron now!" pitiful little tears rolling down his face.

"We have to wait. . ." (I didn't think it was important at the moment to inform him that it was Optimus Prime, not Megatron.)

"Waiting hard, mama. Waiting too hard. . ." Huge, big tears dripping down off his nose and chin.

Oh crap. This is bad.

Is he spoiled? Um...yeah...a bit. (Hush, Brother and Hubby.) At the same time, he's three and trying to explain to him that he has to wait for something? Really, really, really HARD.

And mommy telling him something was coming for him in the mail? Really, really, really DUMB.

Hubby came running up the stairs to find out what the screaming and crying was about. I told him.

He shook his head at me and laughed in my face.

I had to listen to Hubby for the rest of the night: "I can't believe you told him that. I can't believe you bought it, but I also can't believe you TOLD him you bought it."

Every time I walked past him that's what he said, while shaking his head. Not, "Hello, honey, how's he doing?" Just, "I can't believe YOU DID THAT." As if I didn't feel bad and stupid enough.

It took me a good ten minutes to calm the child down, distracting him with Muppet Babies on YouTube, a book and eventually bedtime.

And I am never, ever, ever telling him again that he's getting anything in the mail, or that he has to wait for anything. Ever. Yikes!

(Leaving the house this afternoon he looked at the mailbox and said, "My anformer in there?"

Ugh. This is going to be a long couple of weeks.)

_______

My Weekly Winners post is up at Views Beyond the Lens.