Outnumbered Two to One

My two year old…ah. He’s at a special stage in his life. A delicious phase that involves a roller coaster of emotions that I, his father, and his siblings are constantly weathering.

Alright, granted most of those emotions are varied and not-so-subtly nuanced states of misery, but there’s a difference nonetheless.

Observe…

This one I call “mild indignation” brought on by a frosting mustache as captured by Mommy on a digital medium. Note the refusal to make eye contact with the camera lens.

This would be “moderate agitation” incited by a playmate attempting to muscle in on his snapshot at the park. There can only be one star after all.

This is most likely “harried aggravation”, prompted by Mommy’s repeated requests that he stand still for yet another photo op, this one in a dinosaur costume that he promptly shed before angrily stomping away.

And this last in the series is aptly labeled “extreme frustration” or possibly even “cocktail of vexation with a twist of outrage” inspired by none other than a despicable choral version of the birthday song sung for some one else.

Occasionally, he’ll spare a smile or two, just don’t make any sudden movements, that could change at the drop of a hat.

The following is a little photo story my ten-year-old daughter recorded last week with my digital camera (while she was being punished for calling her sister an a–hole.) She was banned from the computer, television, DVD player and three different video game systems. After much crying and groaning, this is what occurred when her bored mind ignited with its own twisted creativity. The doll was a birthday gift from a good friend and the narration comes from my own warped mind…

This is my friend Zack. He came to visit for my birthday.Hi, Zack.

He doesn’t say much but he’s very friendly.

Why are you following me into the bathroom, Zack? A girl needs a little privacy.

I like you too, Zack. But why are your eyes glowing that way? Is it because you’re happy to see me?

Alright, dude. I can see we need to establish some boundaries here. I’m sure it’s very different wherever you’re from, but you need to respect my personal space.

Hey, man. Back the flock up. You’re making me uncomfortable and ew, your gums smell weird.

Not cool, Zack. Why are you getting all grabby? No means no. Stop trying to put your mouth on me. I’m married, argh, you’re the worst house guest ever. Are you trying to eat my face? What the?

No zombies (or mothers) were harmed during the making of this film.

I know I’m not the only one who obsesses about their children eating enough. If I could have liquefied his pizza and fed it to him intravenously I would have.

And why is it that food that’s all the rave to my two year old one day, is completely unacceptable sustenance the next day. He won’t even let it pass his lips. He won’t even lick a single crumb off the plate. Instead he shrieks, gags, and pushes said delicacy away with all the played out melodrama of a soap opera actress.

Seriously, he can’t live off soy milk and Hershey’s kisses forever.

I’ve borrowed this idea from Helene over at I’m Living Proof that God has a Sense of Humor, she’s a list girl and consistently cracks me up with her twin tales, so I figured I’d use her as inspiration this Friday. Also check out Elizabeth at Three Channels who also did a great version of this list.

1. By all means, the toilet and the sink are completely interchangeable, feel free to wash your hands in the commode since it is already at your level. If I was shorter, I might opt to freshen up in there as well.
2. Of course Hershey’s kisses are an acceptable meal substitute. Calories are calories right? Who needs fiber? Nutrients are way overrated.
3. Please, tell your friends they can call at any time of day or night to gossip about what some long haired boy did or didn’t say to them. I don’t mind waking up at 3 am to answer the phone in an agitated haze, expecting to hear that someone in the family had died a horrible fiery death. Finding out it’s just a bored teenager on the other end is like a fabulous punch line to a hilarious joke.
4. Absolutely I’ll buy you that $75 Godzilla plush toy imported directly from Tokyo, but only if you ask me 35 times in rapid succession.
5. No, really, I love it when you ask me a series of questions in the middle of a climactic scene of a movie I’ve never watched. I love being jarred out of the moment.
6. Whenever you have to pee in the early predawn hours of a school day, please be sure to wake me from my peaceful slumber just to let me know. Knowledge is power.
7. Don’t ever, ever, do things the first time I ask. That would just take the fun out of me repeating myself thirty times before finally bellowing so loudly I burst a blood vessel in my eye. I don’t get enough opportunities to yell at you.
8. Aw, it’s so cute when you rip off your diaper and run around naked before accidentally peeing on the tile and slipping in it. It’s like living my own AFV clip, except I get to wash pee out of your hair which makes it that much better.
9. Yay, splash more of your dirty bathwater at me, especially when I’m nice and dry and ready for bed myself. If you can, wait until my mouth is open.
10. More whining, please, I can’t get enough of it. If all four of you can do it at the same time in varying pitches, it’s almost musical, like you’re all performing a beautiful new age opera just for me. Ah, what a tribute.

Now, for the record, I generally do not delight in torturing my children and broadcasting their misery on the internet. Mostly.

But yesterday, after an exceptionally long day of two-dler tantrums, my darling son took it upon himself to flip out because his big brother was eating a left over Valentine’s day party cupcake, while he was stuck with a measly sugar cookie. He tried for a good long while to snatch the cupcake out of his older brother’s hands, to no avail.

When that didn’t work he proceeded to demonstrate his frustration the following way. Being the diligent blogger that I am, I decided to capture the moment on video. Ignore my nasal tone as I try to provoke my son in to continuing his outburst, ignore also my five year old’s out of control giggling because he thought this was absolutely the funniest thing on the planet and was very proud to be a part of it.

I swear I’m not a bad mother.

7:30 am - Woke Mom up by shouting her name repeatedly until she stumbled in with her eyes half closed and picked me up.

7:31 am - Continued saying Mom’s name until she filled my bottle full of soy milk, then pitched a screaming fit because she tightened the lid without letting me help.

7:33 am - Pitched a screaming fit because Mom put me down on the sofa when I really wanted to be in her bed.

7:34 am - Pitched a screaming fit because Mom attempted to change my diaper while I was still pitching a screaming fit over the bed.

7:35 am - Drank my soy milk with a dry diaper. It was nice.

7:55 am - Pitched a fit when I realized Mom was in the bathroom without me.

8:00 am - Pitched a fit when Mom didn’t put my shoes on before my brother’s.

8:05 am - Pitched a fit because my sister turned off the television even though she knows that’s my thing in the morning.

8:10 am - Pitched a fit because Mom didn’t let me climb up in to my car seat by myself.

8:13 am - Rode in the car while we dropped the other kids off at school, Mom played the Muppets. It was nice.

8:30 am - Pitched a fit because Mom wouldn’t let me unlock the front door with her keys.

8:35 - Pitched a fit because Mom wouldn’t let me fill up the dogs’ water bowls. What is her problem anyway?

8:40 - Pitched a fit because Mom made me come inside from the backyard, only to make me walk out the front door, just to get in the car again to take another sister to school. Then she wouldn’t let me climb up in to my car seat like before…what did she think was going to happen?

9:00 am - Watched Backyardigans. Told Mom yes, I wanted pancakes, except I really didn’t and I had no intention of eating them.

9:20 am - Backyardigans was over so I pulled seven DVD cases off the shelves and tried to pry the discs out before Mom could wrestle them out of my hands.

9:30 am - Pitched a fit because the dogs ate the pancakes I had not intention of eating myself.

9:35 am - Went to my room and pulled as many of my brother’s toys as I could get out of the box, even though I have no intention of playing with them.

9:55 am - Got hungry, wished for pancakes, then pitched a fit for a Hershey’s kiss. Mom gave me cereal instead. That woman never listens.

10:00 am -  Went outside and tried to play with a plastic baseball bat. I think it was broken because it didn’t do anything so I threw it in to the grass and pitched a fit, except this time I tripped and fell on the concrete, which made me really angry, so I pitched another fit on top of the first one. I don’t think anyone could tell the difference.

10:10 am - Mom filled a watering can for me and let me water the plants, only I watered the concrete instead. Also I pitched a fit when it was empty.

10:30 am - Mom said she would make me a hard boiled egg except she wouldn’t let me hold the egg, so I said “aw, man” and pitched a fit.

10:45 am - Mom brought me a perfectly cooked hard boiled egg which I ate with a sprinkle of salt. When I was finished I asked her for more but she said “all done”. What the hell? Does she want me to eat or not? I pitched a fit.

11:00 am - Hid in my bedroom behind the door so I could poop in privacy. It was nice.

11:10 am - Mom came looking for me, she sensed something was amiss. When she asked me if I had poop, I said no and ran away. She caught me and tried to change my diaper, except she wouldn’t let me reach down and wipe for myself, so I tried to pitch a fit but she pitched a louder one which made me quiet down and be still.

11:20 am - Started feeling tired so I spun circles in the living room until I got dizzy and fell down, then pitched a fit

11:30 am - Hid beneath some furniture because it seemed like a good place to lie down.

11:45 am - Mom took me to my bed for some night-night even though it was still day time which didn’t even make sense. I thought about pitching a fit but my eyes. felt. so. heavy. And I meant to get really angry, but. then. I. just. fell. asleep.

To Be Continued…

• I believe the post office is one of the outer circles of hell. The one near us is always jam packed and still they have only two unhappy employees working the counter. These people only have one speed and it’s not snappy. Also they tend to speak in a monotone even when they’re being friendly, which makes it a little difficult to know when they’re telling a joke.
• I also believe one of hell’s circles is a never ending carousel ride.
• I have a cold again, which makes me a little angry. I just want to lie down and close my eyes, which with four kids in the house is not exactly possible. Even when Mr. Bear is at the helm they sneak in here to pull at my eyelids and shriek unintelligibly in my face…I’m going to take that as a sign of love.
• Also being sick makes it harder to shout when certain children are gratuitously flushing the toilet or pitching a tantrum because Yo Gabba Gabba is not coming on fast enough.
• My two year old is obsessed with his right nipple. Whenever he is shirtless, he picks at it unconsciously with one finger while he goes about his business. I’m scared he’s going to scrape it off. I can’t get him to quit so I tried suggesting he scratch at the other one. No dice. He’s got a favorite nipple apparently.
• A two year old without a diaper will always find the one square of rug in the house to take a pee on.
• My neighbor is getting her baby delivered via c-section this afternoon. It’s always exciting to me when someone else is having a baby because I get to soak in that new baby smell without the midnight feedings and postpartum depression.
• Don’t worry, I’m not taking my head-cold plague and spreading it on someone else’s new baby. I’ve got plenty of my own kids I can make sick, but then I’d just have to listen to them whine and clean up there puke, which I should be exempt from since I am sick myself.
• I am so not cleaning up my own puke.

You know you want in on the randomness. See Keely The Un Mom , she’ll hook you up.

My two year old isn’t afraid of anything.

Scratch that.

My two year old wasn’t afraid of anything.

Recently we discovered his fear of the dark during one of our routine bed time rituals.

A couple of weeks ago we unmasked yet another fear during an evening bath.

Okay, I might be partially to blame for this phobia he’s developed.

This guy shoulders the rest of the responsibility…

It was a quiet night in the Bear house. The boys were getting washed up before bed. There were soap suds and lathering and scrubbing of the several layers of dirt and stink they’d accumulated, when all of a sudden my five year old said, “Mom, there’s a bug in the tub.”

The bug in question was a teeny tiny black speck of a cockroach floating leg up in the bath water.

“Get a grip,” I mentally prepared myself.

I decided to scoop up the obviously dead insect in my cupped palms and flush it down the nearby toilet. Great idea in theory.

Great idea until the creepy little mutant demon spawn faker cockroach miraculously resurrected and started CRAWLING up my arm.

So I did what any grown adult woman would do.

I screamed like a girl and flung the cockroach on to my two year old son, who just happened to be within flinging range.

Wait, it gets better.

I flung the no longer dead cockroach on to my two year old son’s PRIVATES and by privates I mean his genitals.

I threw a cockroach at my son’s genitals. Which made him scream like a girl. Which made me hop up and down for a good five seconds while I regrouped before finally snatching the bug and brushing it off my hand in to the toilet at last.

Talk about terror. Not mine, the boy’s.

He screeched, he cried, he climbed sopping wet on to my lap and buried his damp face in to my shirt and I felt like a heel.

Maybe some day, after years of therapy, he’ll learn to forgive me. Or at least channel his fear in to something productive, like a blockbuster screenplay or a really cool blog.

My two year old and I spend a lot of time together due to my not being gainfully employed. It works out for us. Being that I’m with him 24/7 with few exceptions, I’d like to think I know him pretty well. That I’m attuned to the subtle nuances of his little boy moods. I know exactly how to field his frequent tantrums, how to coax him into eating that last bite of mac n’ cheese, how best to get him down for a nap when he’s feeling restless, how to distract him when he wants to overdose on chocolate cookies, or watch Ice Age for the 37th time.

Wednesday while I was chaufeurring my mother to her various appointments, my son was spending the day at home with his father.

I fully expected my son to be inconsolable. Separation anxiety is rough when you’re two, and my little guy is no exception. I slipped away that morning while my husband ran interference, keeping him busy with toys and talk as I tip-toed out the front door.

Now on an average morning, my son will have at least a couple of good scream fests, a couple of minor cries, with a liberal amount of whining sprinkled throughout. When I called later, everything sounded peachy, my two year old even got on the telephone to tell me about pancakes and the dogs and some other unintelligible mumbo jumbo. It was noonish and he should’ve been down for his nap, but wasn’t.

Twenty minutes later when I got home, I was embraced at the knees by an eager, happy two year old who promptly abandoned my jean clad legs for bigger and better things. Three minutes later he was begging me to be picked up, screeching when I wouldn’t, telling me to make him more pancakes, then not eating them, then having an arm flailing fit because I refused to sit him on the counter and let him get at the sugar bowl.

“You know he didn’t do that once while you were gone,” my husband announced from across the room, more than a little smug.

“Do what?”

“Cry, pitch a fit, all that. We watched one movie, he ate a plate of pancakes by himself, we played outside, we colored. He didn’t fight me at all.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m serious.”

All this while my rapidly regressing two year old rode on my hip, whining directly in my left ear and tugging at the collar of my shirt, occasionally reaching down in to my cleavage for no apparent reason.

Really? Really?

I suppose all this is further proof of my two-dler’s impressive manipulative techniques.

This kid, is totally playing me.

What he knows is that Daddy doesn’t mess around. In his world, no means no, yes means yes. And shrieking will get him nowhere.

Daddy is tough. Mommy is another story. Think of it as bad cop/invertebrate cop and you get the idea.

Now if only I could find a spine cheap on Ebay.

At some point this evening I hear this from across the house:

“Ow you bit me you little jerk! You broke the skin!”

I’m in the kitchen making dinner and shaking my head, waiting for the next installment. The voice in question is my tween’s, it rises steadily as her indignation increases tenfold. Eventually the skirmish will travel from my bedroom where they’re watching television to the kitchen where I, judge and jury, stand with wet hands and a jar of salsa.

“What?!” I inquire as my five-year-old son and ten-year-old daughter bustle in through the entryway, both talking at the same time.

“He bit me on the leg and he broke the skin and it really really hurts.”

“She bit me too but I don’t remember where and she’s being really mean to me.”

“Nuh-uh I only bit you after you bit me…”

“Because you grabbed me…”

“But I was playing…”

In unison now… “Mooooooooooooom.”

Ugh. Down comes the gavel.

“You’re both punished, keep your hands and mouths off each other, and go cry somewhere else. No video games till Thursday.”

Obviously neither of my children was paying close enough attention to the Yo Gabba Gabba episode where Muno bites Foofa for craps and giggles, then gets chided in song until he learns this valuable lesson.

“Don’t bite your friends.”

Or your siblings for that matter, it’s just not sanitary.