Never feed your kid tuna salad for lunch, then put him on your shoulders and jump up and down. Especially if you're facing a mirror so he can see how much fun he is having.
He WILL barf in your hair, and you WILL see it happen, as if in slow motion.
And it is hard to rinse out.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Are Your Kids Really Eating?
Deception. It starts early.
Last night I barbecued some chicken thighs, cooked a sweet potato and steamed broccoli. That was the dinner I served to Big Boy, Little Boy and myself (MrDartt was not home).
The hot spot on the barbecue cooked one chicken thigh very quickly, so I lovingly and painstakingly cut up Little-Boy-bite-sized pieces and put three neat piles (the chicken, the sweet potato and the broccoli) on his tray.
The barbecue ran out of propane before the other thighs were done so I put them in the oven on broil. To do so, I had to get out a cookie sheet, cover it with foil, and then put a rack on top of those. Then I transferred the chicken from the barbecue.
During that time I noticed that Little Boy had finished almost all of his food. Even the broccoli, which he usually doesn't love.
So I put three more small piles on his tray.
I glanced over a few minutes later and he was using his left hand to casually drop a piece of chicken over his left shoulder -- a careless observer might think he was just feeling his left ear.
I took this as a signal that he was done so I picked him up. There were dozens of Little-Boy-bite-sized pieces (yes, the very same ones I'd cut up so lovingly and painstakingly) smashed between his back and the high chair seat!
When I went to change him into pajamas a little while later, I discovered dozens more pieces inside the back of his onesie.
I guess he didn't eat as well as I'd thought.
Little stinker.
Last night I barbecued some chicken thighs, cooked a sweet potato and steamed broccoli. That was the dinner I served to Big Boy, Little Boy and myself (MrDartt was not home).
The hot spot on the barbecue cooked one chicken thigh very quickly, so I lovingly and painstakingly cut up Little-Boy-bite-sized pieces and put three neat piles (the chicken, the sweet potato and the broccoli) on his tray.
The barbecue ran out of propane before the other thighs were done so I put them in the oven on broil. To do so, I had to get out a cookie sheet, cover it with foil, and then put a rack on top of those. Then I transferred the chicken from the barbecue.
During that time I noticed that Little Boy had finished almost all of his food. Even the broccoli, which he usually doesn't love.
So I put three more small piles on his tray.
I glanced over a few minutes later and he was using his left hand to casually drop a piece of chicken over his left shoulder -- a careless observer might think he was just feeling his left ear.
I took this as a signal that he was done so I picked him up. There were dozens of Little-Boy-bite-sized pieces (yes, the very same ones I'd cut up so lovingly and painstakingly) smashed between his back and the high chair seat!
When I went to change him into pajamas a little while later, I discovered dozens more pieces inside the back of his onesie.
I guess he didn't eat as well as I'd thought.
Little stinker.
Monday, October 19, 2009
The po po car
Don't tell this story to MrDartt.
The other day, my mom and I took the boys to Wal-Mart. We had to get a few follow-up birthday presents for Big Boy, who celebrated his third birthday.
During the trip, Big Boy saw one of those little cars kids can drive. It was a Dodge Charger with a Hemi engine. It was a police car. It was awesome. It had police emblems. It had lights.
If I haven't mentioned it, he's going to be a SWAT team member for Halloween. Ever since he got his costume (it is SO cute -- handcuffs, sunglasses, a flashlight, a walkie-talkie, a baton and a baseball cap), he's been talking about how he's a po po and he's chasing and catching bad guys. So of course the car was the answer to his dreams.
He really wanted to get that car. He made my mom take him back over to look at it again after we'd walked away. He talked about it all the way home -- "I drove my po po car and I got a bad guy and put him in the back and then he escaped and then I followed him and then I chased him up a hill and some other po pos helped me get him and we put him in the car and then I drove him to the jail and then he got out and then I chased him and then I drove my po po car home," and so on.
We got home and he talked about it all night. How he wants it for his next birthday (tomorrow, when I turn 4, he said).
I told him we'll have to save up for it. It costs a lot of money (the damn thing costs $300).
"Well, you save money when you buy groceries," he said. "You and daddy just need to buy a lot of groceries and then you'll save a lot of money and then you can buy the po po car."
He called me down to his bedroom four times after I put him to bed, so he could tell me how much he wants that po po car and how he likes it.
This has NEVER happened. There's been stuff at the store, like toys, where he'll say, "Can I get that ball?" and I'll say, "not today," and he'll say, "okay," and we'll never talk about it again.
But all night, he talked about that car.
"I REALLY want that car."
"I need that car."
"We can go back to the store tomorrow and buy groceries and pick up that car."
"Are there more of those cars? What if somebody buys that car?"
Finally he fell asleep. The next morning, he called me down (his customary morning greeting) and I went down to get him.
Here's what he said: "Mommy, I don't want that po po car any more. I want the Barbie car."
The other day, my mom and I took the boys to Wal-Mart. We had to get a few follow-up birthday presents for Big Boy, who celebrated his third birthday.
During the trip, Big Boy saw one of those little cars kids can drive. It was a Dodge Charger with a Hemi engine. It was a police car. It was awesome. It had police emblems. It had lights.
If I haven't mentioned it, he's going to be a SWAT team member for Halloween. Ever since he got his costume (it is SO cute -- handcuffs, sunglasses, a flashlight, a walkie-talkie, a baton and a baseball cap), he's been talking about how he's a po po and he's chasing and catching bad guys. So of course the car was the answer to his dreams.
He really wanted to get that car. He made my mom take him back over to look at it again after we'd walked away. He talked about it all the way home -- "I drove my po po car and I got a bad guy and put him in the back and then he escaped and then I followed him and then I chased him up a hill and some other po pos helped me get him and we put him in the car and then I drove him to the jail and then he got out and then I chased him and then I drove my po po car home," and so on.
We got home and he talked about it all night. How he wants it for his next birthday (tomorrow, when I turn 4, he said).
I told him we'll have to save up for it. It costs a lot of money (the damn thing costs $300).
"Well, you save money when you buy groceries," he said. "You and daddy just need to buy a lot of groceries and then you'll save a lot of money and then you can buy the po po car."
He called me down to his bedroom four times after I put him to bed, so he could tell me how much he wants that po po car and how he likes it.
This has NEVER happened. There's been stuff at the store, like toys, where he'll say, "Can I get that ball?" and I'll say, "not today," and he'll say, "okay," and we'll never talk about it again.
But all night, he talked about that car.
"I REALLY want that car."
"I need that car."
"We can go back to the store tomorrow and buy groceries and pick up that car."
"Are there more of those cars? What if somebody buys that car?"
Finally he fell asleep. The next morning, he called me down (his customary morning greeting) and I went down to get him.
Here's what he said: "Mommy, I don't want that po po car any more. I want the Barbie car."
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Just Another Word?
Warning: this post contains profanity. If you're sensitive to that, you should probably stop reading.
Last night, Big Boy was using his kid-sized Spiderman couch as a tee for the indoor baseball game he was playing. It fell over, and he said, "Fuck!"
"What did you say?" I asked.
"Fuck!" he said.
My mom (who was there for our weekly Wednesday night dinner) and I looked at each other, trying not to laugh.
"That's a grown-up word," I said. "It's not a very nice grown-up word, so let's not say it."
Guilty. The other morning, I was trying to put away the carton of eggs, and I was balancing a few other things on top of it, holding the whole pile with one hand. As I opened the refrigerator door, the whole pile toppled over, sending the egg carton crashing to the floor. Sure enough, about 18 eggs came out of the 12-egg carton, and ALL of them broke on the kitchen floor.
"Fuck!" I said.
"Why'd you say fuck?" Big Boy asked.
Because I'm an idiot and I should not say fuck in front of you, I thought, immediately realizing my mistake.
"Because I dropped this whole carton of eggs on the floor," I answered.
I just knew it would come back to haunt me. I can't wait until he says it in line at the grocery store, at playgroup, or at church (actually, we don't go to church, but you get the picture).
Last night, Big Boy was using his kid-sized Spiderman couch as a tee for the indoor baseball game he was playing. It fell over, and he said, "Fuck!"
"What did you say?" I asked.
"Fuck!" he said.
My mom (who was there for our weekly Wednesday night dinner) and I looked at each other, trying not to laugh.
"That's a grown-up word," I said. "It's not a very nice grown-up word, so let's not say it."
Guilty. The other morning, I was trying to put away the carton of eggs, and I was balancing a few other things on top of it, holding the whole pile with one hand. As I opened the refrigerator door, the whole pile toppled over, sending the egg carton crashing to the floor. Sure enough, about 18 eggs came out of the 12-egg carton, and ALL of them broke on the kitchen floor.
"Fuck!" I said.
"Why'd you say fuck?" Big Boy asked.
Because I'm an idiot and I should not say fuck in front of you, I thought, immediately realizing my mistake.
"Because I dropped this whole carton of eggs on the floor," I answered.
I just knew it would come back to haunt me. I can't wait until he says it in line at the grocery store, at playgroup, or at church (actually, we don't go to church, but you get the picture).
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