7/28/2007 - Peanut butter and poop

What funny things they say and think, these little ones. Sometimes I have to stop and remind myself that the frame of reference they have is so, so small, but their minds are so, so big. For instance, Joshua has had the funniest saying lately. He'll cough a little, then say "Chicken pog." What, you ask, is chicken pog? I have no idea. I'd wager that he heard something somewhere . . . you know, something that actually made sense in its original language and context, but that's what it sounded like to him. Chicken pog. With the little cough first.

Also, we've been playing the "peanut butter and . . . " game. The one that I inadvertently started by trying to be funny. Usually I'll ask whether Joshua wants peanut butter and honey or peanut butter and jelly . . . only this time I spiced it up a little.

"Joshua, do you want peanut butter and honey . . . or . . . peanut butter and worms?"

(Hysterical laughter ensues. Tim chimes in.)

"How about peanut butter and ketchup?"

We ventured into realms we'd never imagined (peanut butter and boogers? poop?) and now that it's all said and done, well, I guess I only wish that it was all said and done. I can see the little wheels turning in his head as he looks around the room for various items with which to pair the peanut butter? A fan? Pictures? The door? At which I have to laugh obligingly each time. Until I can't laugh anymore, and Joshua says, "Please laugh, mama." I try to explain how sometimes people actually need a little break from laughing, but it doesn't matter. He's off in his own world of peanut butter and pencils.

Jonah, on the other hand, is more than willing to laugh . . . rather, guffaw, at anything that catches his eye. I use the word guffaw since it seems to so accurately describe what he does. The deep, unabashed belly laugh of youth. One of Joshua's favorite things is to make his brother laugh. Sometimes it's by playing peek-a-boo, and sometimes it's by nuzzling Jonah's neck or belly with his face. In any case, it's very precious to watch. Until, that is, a teensy bit of saliva touches Joshua. He wrenches back and wrinkles up his nose in disgust, claiming that Jonah must have spit up on him. (Not a bad assumption, I must admit, since Jonah seems to be constantly soggy and smelly from the quarts of spit-up. But mostly it's just spit.)

And on an "it's midnight and my brain isn't following a normal train of thought" sidenote . . . have you ever noticed that you can tell almost instantly when a mom doesn't have kids who spit up? The look of both disgust and fear, not quite hidden behind the offers for napkins . . . The other day at Gymboree, I was holding Jonah. I started to put him down on a mat, and another mom looked at us and gasped, "Oh, no, he just vomited all over himself!" Oh, the horror!

Joshua, it seems, has also reverted to a little spitting-up. At least that's how he would tell it. If he's running around drools a little, it's spit up. If the water dribbles down his chin, it's spit up. Once, he actually bent over and burped up a little water and partially digested string cheese (gross, I know). That was definitely spit up. In fact (for those of you who aren't familiar with the little OCD traits Joshua clings to - at least, until he moves to the next thing), he has to sleep with a towel spread across the head of his bed. Tonight I asked him why he needs it. He looked at me and said simply, "In case I spit up."

--

7/1/07 - Mama, I have to go potty

Are there actually other people going through this crazy parenthood ride out there somewhere? I mean, besides the put-together people who don't have trouble getting to the grocery store to buy fruit, or the library to return books on time. Is there someone out there who shares my anxiety in thinking about going out - alone - with the kids in tow?

I hope so.

It's inevitably harder than you think it's going to be, right? Say Tim has to work, and I decide like the lunatic that I am that we should go out for lunch. At McDonald's of course. Artery-clogging menu choices aside, it's a little rough to get Joshua to stay with me in line while I'm holding Jonah. All he wants to do is go look at the lovely display of fine happy meal toys; after all, he's just a kid. But I have this storyline unfolding in my head where I turn my back to order and the stealer of children races through to take my beautiful boy. So I can try to place my order with my back actually turned to the cashier, or I can make Joshua stay with me. Which involves much cajoling and pulling of the arms, as well as repeated admonishments not to push the credit card buttons. I mean really, we came to play and have fun, right? When does the fun start?

There's the waiting for the food, which Joshua really doesn't understand at all. Honestly, if there was call-ahead ordering, I'd do it every time. But there's not. So we stand there, and Joshua asks "Is that my food?" only a million times or so. We've told them what we want, why can it not magically appear before us? he thinks. And the carrying of the food is another problem in itself. How, I ask, should I corral an exuberant 3 year old as well as carry a baby and an entire tray of food, not to mention pouring and carrying drinks? I juggle and balance and just as I'm getting it figured out . . . "Mama, I have to go potty."

And that means now.

(On a side note, it's so musical how he says it . . . if it were notes the "have" would be way up high on the scale, and "potty" would be way down low, with a sort of seriousness to it. Mama, I have to go potty. Can you hear it? Anyway.)

Or how about when we've successfully gone to Gymboree, but are headed home already past dinner time, when Joshua announces that he needs to visit a bathroom. In the land of less than a year potty-trained, there's just not much time to wait. He sing-songs over and over again from the back seat, so we pull in to the nearest 7-11 and pile out, and as we're walking past moon pies and week old doughnuts, snickers bars and ranch flavored sunflower seeds, Joshua has forgotten why we stopped in the first place. More arm pulling ensues so that we can finally get to the bathroom, only to find that we don't all fit. Jonah in his car seat, plus me and Joshua, and the door won't close. I've lost all sense of decency at this point, and am doing what I can to keep my sanity and to keep Joshua's pants dry. I prop the door open with the car seat and hoist Joshua up onto the toilet while the world watches. And then he doesn't understand why I won't let him wash his hands in the sink . . . which I can't even reach past Jonah's car seat anyway . . . but which is the grossest sink I think I've ever seen in my life. So I drag him yelling out of the store and douse him with hand sanitizer once we're in the car again, and *sigh* will we ever eat dinner?

At least he didn't sit his bottom on the toilet seat. I don't know if it makes it better or worse, or just odd, but since Joshua's not tall enough to stand on the floor to use the bathroom, we lift him up and have him stand on the toilet seat and sort of lean. It's fairly comical, especially when he decides to draw shapes with the stream of pee . . . "Look mama, I did draw an oval with my potty!"

Whew. Tell me it's not just us.

--