The best kind of weirdo

When Graffin was two, he developed an obsession with painting. We’re not talking about your run of the mill “toddler who appreciates the joy of making a mess with finger paints” type of interest, I’m referring to an all-out passion for paint. And to be clear, his interest should not be confused with a devotion to art — Graffin would be better described as a paint-enthusiast than a budding artist. The love was for the paint itself. Lining up the bottles, delicately opening each one, testing each color and proudly announcing its name (“bwue! Yewwow! Umm…..anunner kind of bwue!”), reorganizing them back into the box when done…that’s where the magic was. The “art” he “created” was absolutely secondary to the ceremony. 

The dedication he showed to his chosen vocation was impressive. For months (and think about how long that is in toddler terms, really) he painted every single day, often for HOURS at a time. He’d paint inside, he’d paint outside, on paper, on himself, on the ground, literally anywhere and anytime I could accommodate it. He’d paint until it was time for bed, then wake up in the morning and hightail it straight to the backyard, where the ritual would begin anew. Bottles out, brushes ready, etc etc etc, ad infinitum. 

My patio has still not recovered.

Does that sound strange? Cuz it totally was. My perception may have been skewed by my experience with my firstborn, to whom such a peaceful activity would not have been the least bit attractive at any age for longer than about 57 seconds, but I was sincerely perplexed by the very idea of a small child liking something that much for that long, and the fact that the activity in question involved the repeated setup/test/cleanup process of a $5 box of paints as opposed to something like, say, PLAYING WITH A TOY, ratcheted my confusion up a few further notches. On the other hand, it was obviously harmless (except for paint being goddamn EVERYWHERE), and something about the methodical aspect of it struck me as a potential sign of burgeoning intelligence (or at the very least, extraordinary patience), so I was torn on how to interpret my little compulsive Picasso’s behavior. A friend of mine who witnessed Graffin’s painting predilection in action commented on the, shall we say, uniqueness of the hobby, and I agreed, saying, “maybe there’s something wrong with him. Or maybe he’s a genius!”

To which she replied, “Yeah, or maybe he’s just a weirdo.”

Dead. Fucking. On. 

Time has proven that there is definitely nothing wrong with this kid (not like…diagnosably wrong, anyway), and while he may indeed be a genius, my friend’s assessment of him as just a straight-up weirdo was far and away the most accurate judgment. He is a weirdo — the very best kind. His all-out obsession with painting eventually waned (although to this day, the pleasure this kid gets from cracking open a new box of crayons, markers, paints, or any other color-ific artistic implements and just lining them up and trying them all out is unrivaled), but his determined individualism persists. This is a kid who knows what he likes and how he likes it, and he don’t give a hot damn if that doesn’t align with what the rest of the world might consider “normal.” He is the most punk rock person I know and I want to be like him when I grow up.

Case in point: his daily visions for himself. Since he was about three years old, Graffin has approached getting dressed not as a mundane but necessary task like the rest of us losers, but as a crucial tone-setter for the day ahead. He does not ask himself, “what shall I wear today?” He asks, “who do I want to be today?” He literally says those exact words and it’s approximately the best thing ever. And when he settles on a concept, he sets forth to gear up with gusto, virtually always without any assistance. Much to Ryan’s horror, for the past two years we’ve been confusing and/or terrifying the public by going about our daily business with Graffin proudly showing off such varied identities as:

Mickey Mouse Hulk (one of his earliest creations):

Guy With a Crown who Loves Easter Eggs:

Marshmallow (inspired by some YouTube DJ who may or may not be appropriate for children; I suppose I should have looked into that at some point?):

Cool Pirate:

Video Game Character (no further specifics were provided, just…Video Game Character):

Random Man (some iteration of this gentleman makes an appearance several times a week; any combination of backwards clothes, mismatched socks, face paint, and headwear of any kind are all hallmarks of Random Man’s signature style):

And this dude commits. Do you have any idea how uncomfortable it is to wear inside-out jeans all day?! Also that’s a swimming shirt in the last pic…and only one sandal…on the wrong foot. Commitment.

He thinks ahead, too. He just informed me that I need to put “pants that are all green” on my Target list, because he needs to be a Ninja Turtle and he simply does not have the necessary accoutrements in his arsenal, and you better believe I’m gonna deliver. Because he may be a little weirdo, and perhaps we attract an odd stare or fifty as he strolls through the grocery store in some objectively absurd ensemble, but much like the bizarre delight he once garnered from incessantly organizing bottles of paint, he fucking loves making his fashion visions come to life and I pray to whatever gods or universal forces are out there that he never, ever changes.

PS: he does still enjoy painting. Naked Painting Man confirms: 

I NEED SYRUP (and other crack-of-dawn ramblings)

Rain or shine, sick or healthy, weekend or weekday, you can bet that Bubba will be wide awake by 6:30am. Every morning starts the same, with him hollering “MAMA!” and me hopping out of bed to rush into his room. I know my hurry is not really necessary; he’d almost certainly be just fine in there for a few minutes. But I continue with my daily mad dash because he’s still my baby and I don’t want him to feel scared or alone even for one moment, especially first thing in the morning.

see how sweet he is, even when he passes out naked on the floor?

Also, he says hilarious shit that I don’t want to miss. Bubba does not bother with small talk or salutations — he launches right into conversation the moment I walk through his door. I don’t know if it’s because he’s half asleep or if he’s riffing on a dream from which he just awoke, or if perhaps he’s been thinking deep thoughts all night and I’m just not privy to the context behind his musings, but each morning I am greeted with a unique observation or proclamation far more amusing than your typical “good morning.” I’ve started jotting down my favorites so they don’t get lost in the deep recesses of my overworked brain:

I NEED SYRUP!

He’s a man who knows what he likes, folks.

Connie [our dog] is barking SO MUCH!

She wasn’t barking. At all.

Do you have a bagel for Ryan?

Sure, but why is Ryan talking in third person?

It’s not raining! The sun is shining! Yay!

It was still dark outside and he hadn’t so much as glanced out the window to confirm that weather report.

I am NOT closing my eyes.

OK then.

You have a computer?

Yes?

Remember crying?

Yes?

The poop…is far away.

I…don’t know what this means.

No pillow! Only the stripey sheet!

The offending pillow was then cheerfully tossed into my face.

R is for ROBOT!

That’s true.

NO DADDY. Only Mama come here. DADDY STAY SLEEPING.

YES MASTER. Just kidding, I love this.

 

I can only hope that Bubba continues delivering these daily nuggets of wisdom at least until he starts sleeping a little later, because getting up at the crack of dawn would not be nearly as enjoyable without them. Now bring me some SYRUP!!!

This Post is Not Sponsored by Dream Lite

Dream Lite, sleep tight, starry night with Dreeeeeam Lite
Dream Lite, all night, keep dreaming on with DREAM LITE!!!¹

If you’re a parent whose child watches even ten seconds of television per year, you know exactly what I’m talking about and I sincerely apologize for reminding you of that godawful commercial and dooming you to hum it to yourself all day or until you smash your head into the wall, whichever comes first. For those of you fortunate to have somehow escaped the reaches of Dream Lite’s impressively pervasive marketing, allow me to fill you in: a Dream Lite is a nightlight/stuffed animal amalgamation that combines busted-looking plush toys with LED lights to beam multicolored moons and stars onto the ceiling, and it is apparently compulsory for all children under six years of age to own one. They bear little resemblance to the animals they purport to represent and the lights are so bright they are more likely to keep your child awake all night than soothe them to sleep. Best of all, the dizzying light show they project is liable to nauseate anyone with a propensity for motion sickness if stared at for more than ten consecutive seconds.

Bubba, of course, loves his Dream Lite, a sad-looking turtle who looks none too pleased to be responsible for his obnoxious behavior. Mr. Dream Lite has been a nightly staple in Bubba’s room since he arrived from Amazon a few months ago; Bubba has even hollered for me to turn the damn thing on at 2am more than once. While I do find the stupid thing annoying (I wasn’t kidding about the nausea), I can see the appeal it holds and I continue to indulge Bubba’s fascination with it night in and night out.

A couple weeks ago, the usually dependable Mr. Dream Lite started showing signs of malfunction or perhaps drug use — his typically uber-bright lights were so dim we could barely see them, and sometimes it took several clicks of the power button along with a good shake to get him going at all. After a few days of this troubling behavior, he refused be roused for his duties altogether and I finally accepted that I’d have to get off my ass and change the damn batteries, a process that involves removing the world’s tiniest and most tightly-secured screw to access the battery compartment. With Bubba watching intently, I swapped out the batteries and re-secured the Fort Knox battery door, then clicked the power button to enjoy a performance from our freshly rejuvenated Dream Lite friend.

To our collective dismay, nothing happened. The batteries had failed to revive poor Mr. Dream Lite! Bubba politely asked me to “fix it pwease,” and when I told him that I wasn’t sure how, he asked me again, less politely this time. He eventually gave up and we forgot all about it until the next night when we had the exact same conversation, a pattern that repeated itself for about 10 days until I finally accepted that I’d have to get off my ass and change the damn LEDs (because what else could it be, now that we know fresh batteries weren’t the cure?). I promised Bubba we could buy some new lightbulbs at Target the very next day, then consulted Google to locate instructions for swapping out the lights.

It was at this point that I discovered that the good folks over at Dream Lite either hate their customers or assume we are all mechanical engineers with a fully-stocked toolshed at our disposal, because the instructions for changing the LEDs require, I kid you not, a SOLDERING IRON. Based on my reaction to having to remove one screw to access the battery compartment, it should not surprise you to learn that I have never even seen a soldering iron, much less own one or know how to operate one. Supremely irritated at this latest development in The Great Dream Lite Saga of 2014, I tossed the stupid turtle aside and resigned myself to buying a new one, all the while cursing the nightlight gods that had so cruelly chosen to smite me.

Luckily, I happened to mention my dismay on Facebook and my wonderful sister kindly offered to give me her daughters’ Dream Lite. I believe the exact words of her generous offer were “please, take this stupid thing out of my house.” Unfortunately for Bubba, this replacement Dream Lite was a pink unicorn instead of a manly green turtle, but Dream Lite beggars can’t be Dream Lite choosers, so we trekked out to my sister’s house to pick up the newest addition to our overflowing collection of ridiculous toys. She warned me that it would need fresh batteries and off we went, eager to put him to work keeping Bubba awake all night with flashing stars and moons.

Obviously, the story doesn’t stop here — that would be way too easy. If you think we got home and fired up that godforsaken pink unicorn with no further issues, you’re adorably naive and optimistic and clearly unfamiliar with the law of children’s toys, which dictates that whichever toy your child most loves will inevitably cause the most trouble for the parent.

No, the unicorn did NOT work, even with brand new batteries. Of course not. WHAT THE HELL, DREAM LITE?! WHY DO YOU HATE ME AND WANT ME TO SUFFER SO TERRIBLY?! WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME????

I was about two seconds from throwing both of these hideous creatures across the room when I remembered that I had another pack of batteries in the house² and decided to think like a scientist for a moment³ before giving up all hope. Is it possible, I pondered, that the batteries are to blame, even though they are brand new? Perhaps I should try these other batteries just in case I got unlucky with that other batch? Could it be that simple?

Yes, yes it could.

Thanks to my brilliant critical thinking skills, I am now the proud owner of two fully functional Dream Lites (and a bunch of dead Energizer batteries). I was pretty pleased with myself and couldn’t wait to show off the double light show to Bubba…

So of course he chose last night to fall asleep on the floor before I could so much as get a diaper onto his naked booty, much less demonstrate the fruits of my labor.

Keep dreaming on with DREEEAM LIIIITE!

…………………………………

Footnotes:

¹I’m actually not 100% confident in my recollection of that second line, but I was not willing to look up the commercial on YouTube to verify.

²Do you ever forget that you already bought something at Target the week prior and re-buy it and then wind up with a giant stash of something weird like AAA batteries? Oh, just me?

³Or even just a smart person in general.

The Time I Cried Because My 2-Year-Old Son is a Jerkface

I have always been a highly sensitive individual: I’m easily embarrassed, feel emotions very deeply, and am prone to crying in times of sadness, frustration, and stress. In my thirty years as a Certified Sensitive Sally, I’ve been moved to tears by everything from a loose thread on my precious baby blanket (and no, I wasn’t an actual baby at the time) to a less than perfect employee evaluation, and virtually everything in between. I’ve cried tears of shame over forgotten homework assignments, sobbed while reading Chicken Soup for the Soul, and teared up at the very thought of the Holocaust. I’ve cried after inadvertently hurting someone’s feelings, then cried again years later at the memory of my past transgression. In second grade, I had a meltdown when a classmate described me as a “crybaby” (how smug she must have felt when I immediately proved her right!), and a few years ago I choked up when my new boyfriend tried to convince me to eat a Vietnamese delicacy that struck me as incontrovertibly unpalatable.

Over the years, I’ve learned that while I can’t do much to stop myself from crying at these myriad provocations (it’s truly a curse), I at least have a good grasp on the triggers. I can generally anticipate the types of situations that have the potential to set me off — I knew there was a non-refundable one-way ticket to Cry Town with my name on it within minutes of arriving at that godforsaken Vietnamese restaurant — and I’m rarely surprised by my tears at this point. Every once in a while, though, my tender heart will be blindsided by some fresh variety of emotional terrorism and I find myself in tears over something so ridiculous I never would have thought to file it in my mental Rolodex of potential aggressors. Something, like, say, some sassy backtalk from a cranky toddler.

Yes, I admit it: my two-year-old child brought me to tears last night, and I’m not talking about the “I’m so happy and fulfilled by this wonderful creature that sprung from my loins!” type of crying. Nor am I referring to any other reasonable classification of mommy-tears, like the tears of exhaustion you might find yourself experiencing after spending all night awake with a sick child, or worry-tears you might shed while thinking about their future or something — no, this is far stupider. I literally cried because my son was mean to me and it hurt my feelings.

It was a new low for me, knocking the Vietnamese restaurant debacle out of the top spot for the first time in over nine years.

In my defense (if being moved to tears by a toddler’s bad attitude is at all defensible), I was on day four of what had been a really rough week. I don’t know if Bubba is coming down with something, or if the weather is getting him down (it’s a blistering 62 degrees over here), or if he’s not sleeping well, or if he just woke up on Monday and decided to try something new and act like a little shit, but something has been different this week. He’s cranky, sour, and I can’t seem to do anything right. He whines. He kicks me. He tells me to STOOOOPPPPP when I try to sing. Anything I suggest, be it a snack or a TV show or an activity, is bound to be wrong.

And it hurts.

It feels like a rejection, and it’s leaps and bounds more painful than one of the romantic sort since the chances of me tempering my love for him and not caring what he thinks are precisely zero. I love him with all of my ridiculously delicate heart, and to feel that go unreciprocated after more than two years of mommy-and-me bliss is devastating.

I know logically that this is almost certainly just a phase, one that will probably be in the rear view by the next time I sit down to blog (let us pray), and crying because a toddler didn’t want to play racecars with you is patently absurd. But in the meantime, I am tearfully longing for this:

I can only hope there’s a good tearjerker on Lifetime tonight to redirect my sobs. Cross your fingers.

MY HANDS ARE STICKY!!!

I am not a particularly clean-obsessed individual. I certainly don’t live in filth (as evidence, please note that I just mopped my floors yesterday¹) and I shower regularly, but I’m not adverse to letting my hair go shampoo-free for a few days or re-wearing jeans a million times before finally giving in and washing them². Germs just don’t bother me much — I rarely give them a second thought.

That said, I did go through a strange period when I was about three years old during which I was very fixated on my hands being “sticky.” It was more a matter of texture than an issue of cleanliness, but my god, did I abhor the feeling of sticky hands. I washed my hands dozens of times per day, rushing to the sink at the first inkling of contamination, and if hand-washing was not an option due to logistics or sink proximity, I was prone to throwing fits of epic proportions. I distinctly remember sobbing, “my haaaaa-aands are stiiiiiiiiiicky!” repeatedly while stuck in a traffic jam on the freeway for what seemed like a solid hour on one memorable occasion³; how none of my sisters smacked my in the face remains a mystery.

DON’T PUT THAT DISGUSTING SWEATY HAND NEAR YOUR MOUTH, TODDLER MO!

Like most childhood phases, I eventually stopped caring about the stickiness of my hands⁴ and largely forgot all about my one-time obsession (save for when one of my delightful family members would cruelly remind me by hollering “MY HANDS ARE STICKY!” whenever I offhandedly mentioned needing to wash my hands). These days, sticky hands don’t bother me any more than I presume they bother an average individual, and I can assure you that I haven’t shed any tears over hand-washing in at least 25 years.

My point is, I’m totally normal with regards to cleanliness. I’m not obsessed, and I am positive that I have not passed along any neurotic tendencies to my dear child. POSITIVE. I haven’t uttered the words “my hands are sticky” in DECADES!

So you can see why I am at a total loss to understand why Bubba freaked out the other day and told me that HIS HANDS WERE STICKY.

Seriously.

How could this happen? Is this normal? Do all toddlers go through a sticky-hands phase and I was wrong to think I had been the weirdo all those years ago? Or did my neuroses somehow get translated to my poor child via osmosis or ESP or telepathy or something? Is god punishing me for being an annoying toddler by making me deal with the exact same ridiculous behavior from my own child?!

And lest you think Bubba is just a finicky child in general, remember that this is the same kid who has no problem smearing ketchup all over his face and hair and who prefers digging in (and throwing) dirt to any other available activity at the park:

And he definitely doesn’t let a fear of dirt get in the way of dangerous explorations:

So what gives? WHY DOES HE SUDDENLY CARE ABOUT THE STICKINESS OF HIS HANDS?!

I can only hope that he will follow in my footsteps and just snap out of it at some point, hopefully without replacing it with some other weirdo nonsense⁵. Until then…bring on the wet wipes and hand sanitizer.

…………………………………

Footnotes:

¹Just don’t ask me to divulge when they were previously cleaned. Because I honestly can’t remember.

²Is there anything more annoying than washing jeans that fit perfectly? You know they ain’t gonna fit the same when you get them out of the drier.

³I hate to call out my wonderful mother so publicly, but now that I am a mother myself I must inquire: why did you not have baby wipes with you on a long car ride with young children in tow?! Or perhaps a bottle of water that could have been poured upon my pathetic, slimy paws?

⁴I did, however, later develop an extreme distaste for the feeling of towels, something that persists to this day. I’ll address that in a future post.

⁵The towel thing is no joke, you guys.

Things Bubba NEEDS (According to Him)

Like most small children, when Bubba likes something, he’s typically not content to admire it from afar. No, he’d much prefer to just have whatever it is he’s set his sights on, and the sooner the better; he doesn’t “want” things, he “needs” them. In the past few days alone, Bubba has informed me — with urgency! — that he needs the following items:

A fast motorcycle

A treasure chest (?!)

A skateboard (a real one, not a toy — he clarified)

Some peanut butter crackers (at 2am)

A trash truck (presumably full-size and functional; perhaps he can get a job and bring in some money?)

A tow truck (see above; we already have a toy tow truck, but apparently that is not sufficient)

An orange bus (i.e. an actual giant Los Angeles public transit vehicle)

A school bus (perhaps he plans to drive this during the day and then pick up some night shifts with the orange bus)

More lollipops

A zebra

A blue Lightning McQueen car (I don’t think that exists; isn’t his red color essential to LM’s very essence?)

And a dinosaur.

 

Fortunately, obtaining all of these exciting items shouldn’t be any trouble at all — Bubba knows what to do. After each request, he follows up with one more demand: “I need to go to Target.”

The Conman

Despite the fact that Bubba has a tendency to forget about the existence of the number six (along with any number greater than ten¹), I have no doubts that my son is smart as a whip. As the illustrious and industrious George Costanza once said, oh, maybe not academically², but he is perceptive! This is a child who knows what he wants, understands the obstacles that stand in the way of achieving his dastardly goals, then does whatever it takes to destroy said obstacles and get what he wants anyway.

He’s an evil, evil genius.

Case in point: our morning routine. Since moving out of his crib and into his Certified Big Boy Bed last month, he has woken up at 6am on the dot every morning — virtually without exception! — wide awake and ready for action. Now, obviously, that is simply too early to get out of bed and commence playing; the sun hasn’t even risen yet, for god’s sake! In an attempt to secure a few precious minutes of extra sleep (and in hopes of magically training him to sleep later³), as soon as I hear that 30 pound human alarm clock I scurry into his room and snuggle up with him before he can hop out of bed on his own and get into trouble. For the past six weeks, I’ve told him the same thing each morning: “it’s still nighttime, Bud. It’s not time to play yet. We have to stay in bed a little bit longer.”

And he accepted it, for a while. Or so I thought. Now I see that he was simply biding his time, formulating a plan to defeat me.

The other day, instead of cuddling up with me upon my arrival at 6:01am per our usual routine, he sat up and told me, “I’m gonna be right back.”

Um, what? You’re two, and it’s 6am. What pressing non-sleep matters do you have to attend to, exactly? But it was funny, and I was curious to see what he had in mind, so I didn’t protest when he climbed over me and out of bed. I heard him trot into the living room, at which point he hollered once more, “I’m gonna be right back!” in a blatantly transparent attempt to assuage any concerns I might be developing. I waited a moment or two, during which he again claimed to be coming “right back” no fewer than four times, and then finally decided that I had better see what he was doing since he obviously was not planning to return any time soon.

When I reached the living room, I was greeted with the sight of Bubba playing happily with his six thousand Hot Wheels. When he saw me, he smiled and said, “I playing!”

That’s right, he conned me. He never had any intention of returning; he just knew I wouldn’t have let him out of bed had he informed me that his real intention was to enjoy a pre-dawn free-for-all with the Hot Wheels. Evil. Genius.

Of course, I wasn’t going to fall for that again, so when he tried to pull the same stunt again the next morning, I put the kibosh on his antics and forced him to remain in bed with me until a reasonable hour like a normal human. By the following day, when he didn’t make any effort to trick me into getting out of bed, I assumed he had learned his lesson and that I had won this particular battle.

In reality, he was just working on his next ruse.

Yesterday morning, after our usual “it’s too early to get up” / “but I wanna play!” / “nope, sorry” dialog, he fell silent for a moment, then spoke up again: “I need a new diaper. There’s poop in there.” Tired as I was, I certainly wasn’t going to make my son stew in his own filth⁴, so we got out of bed and I stripped him down for a diaper change.

AND GUESS WHAT?! THERE WAS NO POOP.

He conned me again. Because of course by the time I put an (unnecessary) fresh diaper on him and re-dressed him, he hopped right off the changing table and ran off to play.

Goddammit. I need to step up my game. You win this round, Spider-Man…

…………………………………

Footnotes:

¹…three, four, five, seven, eight, nine, ten, seven, eight, nine, ten! Ten cars! (Could be 7 cars, could be 30…it’s always ten.)

²Seriously, his counting is abysmal. Should I be worried? Nah, who needs to count higher than five.

³Isn’t it adorable that I think this might actually work?

⁴I do have some standards. Very few…but there are some.

Your Son Won’t Wear SpiderMan Pajamas Forever (and other reassurances)

As a parent, I’ve found myself saying some pretty weird things, stuff no sane human could ever envision themselves saying outside of an LSD trip or psychotic break. I certainly never could have anticipated having reason to say the words “stop straddling the arm of the couch like a horse or I’ll have to take your ketchup away” in that order, that’s for sure, but I said just that the other night and I didn’t even find it all that strange.

Now, while I couldn’t have predicted having to address couch-riding and ketchup-gorging specifically, I’ve spent enough time with small children over the course my life (courtesy of my four million relatives and my one-woman teenaged babysitting empire) to know that children are, in a word, bonkers, and that they have a unique penchant for developing bizarre but ultimately harmless habits and obsessions. So as Bubba grew out of babyhood and started doing crazy toddler things (like eating gallons of ketchup on a regular basis), I knew well enough not to be concerned — I just roll with it. My husband, on the other hand, came into parenthood completely inexperienced and, as a result, finds himself frequently baffled by the behavior of the little weirdo living in our house. Virtually every day, the poor man observes something our child has done or said and then asks me, “is that normal?” or “should we be putting a stop to this?!”

above: bonkers. below: also bonkers (those are lemons he’s gnawing on, straight up)

Of course, dear TFW need not worry. As I continue to reassure him, nothing Bubba does is outside the realm of normal toddler insanity, and it’s unlikely that any of his obsessions will be permanent (of course, I am saying this as a 30-year-old woman who still sleeps with her baby blanket, so, ya know…grain of salt on that one). Here are just a few things I’ve had to promise my husband recently:

• He’ll get over the SpiderMan pajamas eventually; letting him wear them to Target and Grandma’s house for now won’t hurt. (Plus, he’s super cute.)
• Someday he will eat something other than ketchup-drenched hot dogs.
• He won’t need me to fall asleep with him forever. (I hope.)
• Taking fifty toys and a plastic baseball bat to bed is no big deal.
• If he wants to watch the same stupid movie 600 times in a row, just go with it.
• If he’s not in imminent danger and is having fun, most things are not worth arguing over. (See: lemon eating.)
• He won’t insist on taking toys with him everywhere he goes forever. (Probably.)

If you’re in a similar position as my husband and finding yourself alarmed at your child’s antics, don’t panic! Nothing lasts forever, and before you know it, the behavior will cease (and be replaced by something weirder). Go with the flow and enjoy the show, and try not to vomit when your child wants to feed you a fistful of warm ketchup!

Five Fun Ways to Make Bedtime Last Forever (as Told by a Toddler)

I’ve been super busy lately with work, marathon training¹, and compulsively watching The Wire², so I enlisted Bubba to fill in for me today. As usual, he was thrilled to use this public forum to contribute another dose of his patented life advice. Take it away, Bubba:

As my mom shared a couple weeks ago, I am officially a Certified Big Boy. That’s right, folks: no more bottles, no more crib, and no more waking up in the middle of the night demanding to join Mom in her luxurious sleeping quarters³. I have my very own bed, complete with awesome construction bedding (THERE’S A DUMP TRUCK ON MY PILLOW!!! This is very, very exciting and I never miss an opportunity to point this out), and I have to say that I don’t miss that baby stuff one bit. My bed is quite cozy, and even I knew that those bottles were just a crutch upon which I could not rely forever. Best of all, though, is something I really don’t think my mom anticipated when she initiated this whole Big Boy Bed thing:

I can’t be trusted to be alone in there while awake (just think of the trouble I could stir up!), so my mom has to lay down in bed with me until I’m almost 100% asleep⁴. EVERY NIGHT! No matter how long it takes!!!

It’s almost unbelievable, you guys! The first few nights, I just asked for a couple songs and poked her in the eye a few times (SO fun), but when I realized that there really didn’t appear to be any limits to how long she’d stick around, I started upping the ante. Can you blame me? Why bother going to sleep when you don’t really have to?

Of course, being an active toddler, sometimes I am pretty tired at night, and trying to stay awake can be a challenge — god forbid I fall asleep quickly and quietly! Luckily, I have developed a few tricks to keep up my sleeve that are guaranteed to keep both my mom AND me awake for as long as humanly possible:

1) Insist on bringing a bunch of stupid shit to bed with you. I’m not talking about a couple of teddy bears — think outside the box! I like to have a variety of accoutrements at my disposal, from Hot Wheels to baseball bats to footballs. Not only will this devious little plan necessitate about sixteen trips out to the living room to gather all your goodies, but you can also play with them once you’re finally forced to lay down! I like to zoom my cars around on Mom’s head and back, for instance. Just don’t get too cocky: if you try to start a game of catch by throwing a football at your half-asleep mother’s face, she will take said football away and you will not get it back till morning. Trust me.

I have not yet concocted a scheme to get that wagon into bed with me, but I’m working on it. Check back in a few weeks and I’ll let you know if I’ve made any progress.

2) Create a sleepy-time ritual that has no foreseeable end. While trying (desperately, I might add) to convince me to close my eyes a few weeks ago, my mom made the adorable mistake of telling me that “everyone else was sleeping.” Everyone, you say? Do you mean…Grandma? And Auntie Jamie? And Ethan from school? And the mailman? And the dog? And my teddy bear? You guys, the possibilities are literally endless. I can easily spend a solid ten minutes confirming that every person, place, and thing in my vocabulary is indeed fast asleep. TV sleeping? Check. Basketball hoop sleeping? You better believe it.

3) Reminisce about old (or not-so-old) times. One of my absolute favorite tactics is to ask my mom if she remembers something. “Remember puke?” I’ll ask, referring to the time I had pneumonia and vomited Motrin all over her. When she confirms that she does indeed remember the incident in question, I proceed to recollect the whole story, sparing no detail. I’ve gotten a lot of mileage out of that pneumonia story: Two shots! Puke got on Gokey! Doctors! Ah, good times. And again, this one has limitless potential! There’s no law dictating that a memory must be old before it can be a topic for reminiscence — ask her if she remembers eating hot dogs for dinner two hours ago! Or if she remembers the Spider-Man pajamas you are wearing right now!

4) Be sweet and adorable. After thirty minutes or so, when I can sense my mom growing a little impatient, I drop the obnoxiousness and dial up the charm. “Mama,” I’ll whisper quietly, gently stroking her face with an angelic smile upon my own, “I love you.” Like she’s gonna leave me alone in there after that, right?!

5) If all else fails, be pathetic. If the other tactics lose their effectiveness and she decides to leave before you’re ready to go to sleep, it’s time to swallow your pride and dig deep: puppy-dog eyes and a teary plea of “Mama lay down too??” or “Mama stay with Bubba pwease!!!” almost always does the trick. Guilt-tripping is an underrated tool, really.

See? With the right techniques, staying up until all hours of the night is easy, and it’s great fun for all involved⁵. And as evidenced by the above screen-capture from the baby cam, I do, eventually, fall asleep. When I’m good and ready.

…………………………………

Footnotes:

¹Yes, I’m torturing myself with this nonsense again. Maybe this time I’ll eat enough to stave off the debilitating hunger that had me fantasizing about flashing my boobs in exchange for a single unsalted pretzel by mile 18.

²I’m only 10 years behind on my TV watching now! Someday I’ll get around to checking out that Friends show everyone talks about.

³If you don’t have a thick, fluffy mattress topper, I implore you to stop everything that you’re doing and go to Target to procure one IMMEDIATELY. Your life will never be the same.

⁴Before you chastise me, let me clarify that I do know that I could leave him in there to fall asleep on his own; I have both a monitor and a camera to keep tabs on him and could no doubt run in there at the first sign of danger and/or naughtiness. But alas, I am more than just a little insane, and the thought of him roaming about in his room alone — in the dark, no less! — is too much to bear.

⁵This is a lie. Except for #4, that one is pretty fun.

Christmas 2013: The Year of 2-Hour Glazed Carrots, a Football Meltdown, and an Awesome Video

Technically, this year was Bubba’s third Christmas, but considering that he was three weeks old for his first and was more excited about wrapping paper than presents last year, I feel like yesterday was his first real Christmas. It really felt like Christmas this time around, with Bubba singing carols and gorging on red and green M&Ms and trying to claim everyone’s presents as his own. There’s nothing better than enjoying the magic of Christmas with an enchanted child!

Of course, I’m more exhausted today than I’ve been in months and am praising god that this nonsense only happens once a year.

Here are the high (and low) lights:

• On both the 23rd and 24th, Bubba woke up no fewer than 950 times throughout the night. This isn’t really related to Christmas other than the fact that each time he woke up he insisted that I sing either Jingle Bells or Mele Kalikimaka (or both), and if I never hear either of those songs again it will be too soon.
• On Christmas Eve, my sister let Bubba open a present. It was Spiderman pajamas:

• Those jammies did not leave his body until 3pm on Christmas Day when I forced him to change into real-life human clothes. Tears were shed.

• I made my husband the best gift EVER (if I do say so myself, and I do). Please take three minutes out of your day to enjoy this masterpiece of adorableness:

• Despite several pre-Christmas conversations on the subject, Bubba remained reluctant to accept that each and every present beneath the tree was not, in fact, for him. We had some variation of this conversation approximately every twelve minutes:

Bubba, hopefully: More presents?

Mama: No, Bud. This one is for Grandma. You already got lots of presents, remember?

Bubba: …Mine?

• I think I would pay double for toys if they just came pre-assembled. Poor TFW spent his whole day doing this:

• I volunteered to make a side dish for Christmas dinner, and my mom helpfully selected a recipe for me, which I didn’t bother looking at until it was time for me to start cooking. Were you aware that it’s possible to spend two hours making glazed carrots? Well, it is.
• Since I spent the entire afternoon sweating over fifty pounds of carrots on the stove, I was only able to capture a grand total of about three photos of my son enjoying his Christmas. Here’s one of him refusing to share a wiffle ball with his poor cousin:

• Lest you think my family is negligent for allowing our children to prance around in short sleeves and no shoes in December, please note that it was 82 degrees here in LA yesterday.
• Despite the weather, I wore tights and a scarf because I got them from my family secret santa and was determined to wear something new. I looked fantastic, and you’ll just have to take my word for it because I was too busy making glazed carrots to pose for photos.
• At about 6pm, Bubba officially entered Christmas Overload Meltdown Mode and completely lost his shit when I told him he had to put his cousin’s Nerf football away so we could eat dinner. When I finally convinced him to sit down and eat, I didn’t even care that all he wanted for dinner was a green apple and a pile of barbeque potato chips.
• No, he didn’t eat any carrots.
• He was so tired by the end of the night, I only had to sing Mele Kalikimaka six or seven times and then he slept for ten straight hours. CHRISTMAS VICTORY!

I hope you all had a delightful holiday and didn’t shed any tears over Spiderman pajamas nor footballs. Merry Christmas to all!