Not Awesome

I'm sitting here waiting to see if Chicken Nugget is actually going to nap or not.   I gently laid him in his crib, drowsy but awake as per all the expert's suggestions.  Now we wait.  And I'm certainly not going to start anything productive until I know he's actually asleep.

So I thought I'd make you a list.  A list of things that are Not Awesome.  So here it is:

Things That Are Not Awesome:

Finding one of those hairy little spiders that look like teeny tarantulas in the car.

Losing him before you can squish him.

When your 4 year old walks in just as you've put the baby in the crib and loudly asks, "Whatcha doin', Mama?"

The face I make as I shoo him from the room.

Buying pj's for your 4 year-old's pajama day at school, because said 4 year-old only sleeps in his underwear.

Finding Scooby Doo jammies, only to find that the smallest size at Target is two sizes too big.

Buying them anyway.

Paying $17 for jammies that will, in all likelihood, get worn once.

Baby spit up.

Socks. 

Baby socks that never fit, but are darn cute anyway.

The fact that as soon as I finish this list and start doing something, Chicken Nugget will wake up. 

Kisses,

Little Comedian

Let me tell you--Wiggle Man has been on fire this week.  Just now, I picked him up to give him a kiss, and he informed me, "You smell like oven."  (Awesome.)

I asked him what he learned in Sunday School this week.  He told me his teacher taught him about clouds and storms, and that Jesus would protect him from "storms, and ghost-es and haunted houses."  (You should know at this point his favourite book right now is Scooby Doo and the Haunted House.)

So I said, "That's why we don't need to be afraid of those things, right?"
Wiggles:  "Nope.  But I don't think Shaggy and Scooby know that."

Me:  "Well, someone should tell them."

Wiggles:  "Maybe Fred."

Earlier this week, he asked me about breastfeeding.  Pointing to my chest, he asked, "Mama, did I sip out of those when I was a baby?"

Me:  "Yes, for a couple of weeks, and then you drank bottles."

Wiggles:  "Did Chicken Nugget sip out of those?"

Me:  "For a couple of days, and then he got bottles, too.

Wiggles:  "Oh.  Do you make chocolate milk?"

No, Wiggle Man.  Mama has enough trouble making regular milk with these things, let alone specialty varieties. 


Kisses,

Life With 2 Boys

I'm slowly adjusting to my new life as mommy to 2 boys.  Granted, one of them does a lot of sleeping, and the other has learned to, you know, poop in the potty and stuff, but still.  Mama to 2 of the little stinkers. 

Most of the time, they manage to make me laugh.  So what if that laughter occasionally verges on the maniacal, and I'm telling Wiggle Man that he may have to come visit me in the Asylum. 

Wiggles is at that lovely point in life where he knows enough about certain of life's, um, more delicate procedures, but not enough to understand when and where to talk about them.  For instance, a hushed furniture store is not the place to happily prance out of the restroom and loudly annouce, "Mama, I just made a GIANT poop!"  (Complete with hand gestures approximating size of said poop.)

Wiggle Man is convinced that the Rev's sinus issues have to do with rogue beard hair that has traveled up his Daddy's nose.  I'm not sure if he thinks the hair has grown upwards, or if it traveled there post-shave. 

Then there are his Wiggle-isms. 

"Mama, I want to eat with chomp-sticks, so I can be like Kai-lan."  (Thanks, Nick Jr. for your foray into multi-culturalism.)

"Don't leave fer-out me!"  (Oh, Wiggles.  We'd never leave home ferout you.)

"My day is RUINED!"  (He's a bit of a diva, what can I say.)

"Police la-di-da."  (Feliz Navidad, judging by the tune.) 

His baby brother, whose nickname we are still debating, has his share of humour, as well.  Cranky Man, as the Rev seems to think he should be called, causes fits of laughter every time he sticks out his sad, sad little lower lip to cry. 

Chicken Nugget, as I like to call him, still has a slightly odd shaped head.  I can't remember if that's normal still at 3 months, or due to the torticollis.  Regardless, it makes him look a little like a cartoonish evil genius.  So when he gets really angry (like, say, his bottle is 2.56 seconds later than he'd prefer) his face gets all red and he shakes with tiny, tiny rage, I keep waiting for him to shout, "Curse you, Perry the Platypus" or something like that.

Anyway, that's my life these days. Diapers, preschool, bottles, stories, and occasionally, to curl up on a chair with Wiggles and a Cranky Chicken Nugget, and have a bit of a nap. 

Police La-di-da, and Happy New Year, y'all. 

Kisses,