We’ve created a (cookie) monster.

Saturday night Sakya decided to bake cookies for our family. Normally this means she eats 1 or 2 and I get the rest, which I’m totally cool with. Now that the tiny human is around, whenever we eat anything, much less a delicious cookie, B whines and wants a bite, so naturally I had to share my chocolate chip cookie with him. He’s quite selfish in that regard.

We try to limit the unhealthy snacks that B gets, which I believe was our first mistake. Despite his lack of fine motor skills and limited cognitive thinking, I see a devious little evil mastermind behind those baby blues. Think Stewie from the Family Guy without the strong desire to murder is mother.

The lone cookie sat on his high chair tray. He sat and stared at it for a moment, not blinking, but pondering his next move. He sits back and takes a sip of milk, checks his surroundings and takes a deep breath. And that’s when the attack comes. Not from the front, but from the side using a coordinated attack pattern that General George S. Patton would be proud of. Now that B has had his first taste of cookie, it seems as though he longs for its taste. And I’m not talking the sissy Twilight vampirery way. I’m talking zombie’s want to eat your brain type stuff.

***Side Note*** Quick thank you to Mr. Henson for creating “Cookie Monster”. It might be easier to feed kids fruits if he would have created “Apple Monster”. Just sayin…

The next day, there are still 3 or 4  cookies left. Sakya and I like to enjoy a snack before bed and we took the cookies back to the bedroom and leave them on the nightstand. While having some down time with B, he falls asleep in our bed so we decide to leave him there for his nap and go to the living room. After about 30 minutes we hear some rustling back in the bedroom, but figure it’s just B getting more comfortable. When he wakes up he yells until we pick him up for his next activity. Not hearing anything we assume he is still asleep.Another 5 minutes goes by and we hear another peep so we go and check on him. We find this:

That is an empty plate of cookies and a very happy toddler picking chocolate chip cookies off our bed. I have never seen a child eat so quickly. This was payback for all the bananas and pears we’ve made him eat. He was striking while the iron was hot. Like a shark (or vampire) he smelled blood in the water and attacked.

 

Watch your back Edward Cullen.

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Bath Toy Destruction

Don’t worry… I promise you this isn’t another post about B pooping in the tub. But it seems bath time got the best of me again.

Before B was born, Sakya and I had separate bathrooms. She used the master bath and I was sent packing to the guest bath. This was fine with me. I was able to accomplish all the manly things that needed to be done. Manscaping, washing of masculine areas and most importantly deep thinking was done in my own private realm of  peace and tranquility. Baby comes along and the serenity and harmony of my man-room was invaded like the beaches of Normandy.

Toys. A lot of toys. Toys in drawers, toys on floors, toys in closets and most importantly toys in the bathtub. If you were to glance into my tub it looks like that cast from Fantasia and Mr. Hooper’s Store had a mass suicide attempt. Mickey, Donald, Elmo and Cookie Monster are face down in a shallow pool of baby body wash and tearless shampoo.

B’s favorite toy, however, is a Weeble Wobble duck that floats and stays upright at all times. B unleashes Poseidon’s fury on this thing. Plenty of splashing, buckets of water, and an extra loofah have all been incorporated into sinking this toy without luck. It will just not sink or tip over, much to the delight of B. How ironic.

Skip to an hour after B gets out of the bath. Its finally my turn to take a shower. I tiptoe into the shower like I’m avoiding a minefield at Guantanamo Bay, I kick Goofy to the side, hang the Big Bird wash cloth on the bar and get down to business. There’s veritable who’s who of Nickelodeon characters surrounding my feet.  I wash essential body parts, shave my face, possibly sing a song on two and start to wash my hair. Obviously any grown man shampoo has been removed from my shower so I am left scrubbing away with Kermit Foaming body gel and Johnson’ s and Johnson’s Sensitive Scalp Shampoo. I normally leave the shower smelling like a mixture of Hello Kitty and Teddy Rumpskin.

Eyes closed tight and washing away, the unsinkable duck makes in appearance. I step forward to wash the soap from my hair, bump into the bubble making machine, step on the Weeble Wobble duck and:

I have opened up negotiations with Sakya for master bath time. Main bargaining chips include the Caillou Bath Crayons and the Sponge-Bob Submarine®.

I DO NOT have the X Factor

Quick back-story:

1.) I am a horrible singer

2.) I like to sing

3.) I do not sing in public…. Ever

4.) I like Disney movies

5.) Consequently I like Disney Movie soundtracks

Now that the formalities are out of the way, here’s a quick insight into the life of gridlock with a toddler.

Occasionally I will pick B up from the babysitter. Usually Sakya picks him up, but every now and then dad and tiny human get to roll together.  For the most part B occupies himself in the backseat. Checks out the surroundings, kicks his feet or babbles on our 15 minute drive home. In case you didn’t know, toddlers have the attention span of a pre-schooler with fun-dip and a Barney episode. So of course a traffic jam is the worst possible senario.

Gridlock. I’m talking like 10 car pile up, bio-hazardous material spilled on the highway, OJ Simpson car chase gridlock. Not moving. After 10 minutes of not moving B is getting antsy. At first there are little whimpers, followed by whining, followed by screams that sound like a 12 year old who hugged Justin Bieber and is never bathing again. This is not good.

Two things calm B down pretty quickly, The freaking Wiggles (see earlier post) and singing. Since I’m all out of Jeff, Murray and the rest of the merry gang, I throw on some Disney tunes on Pandora and begin to rock out. This worked for about 2 1/2 minutes.

I try the singing without really moving my mouth; not working. I try singing every 10 or so words; not working. I check my surroundings and start belting out Bear Necessities ; of course, this works.

At this point I’m getting into it. I mean The Circle of Life comes on and you have to do the opening African chant, right? B is laughing hysterically, I completely forget that we are stuck in traffic and my favorite Disney song Never Had a Friend Like Me comes on.

I am dancing, singing, doing my best Robin Williams impersonation and I look out my window. 5 teenage boys are filming me with iPhones and getting more enjoyment out of me signing than B. I look at them. Flip them off and continue signing. Wait till you have kids you little shits. You’ll be signing Hakuna Matata and it won’t be nearly as good.

Also I believe me singing is somewhere on youtube, but I have yet to find it. If you do, let me know.

The things we do for our kids

Every parent has been there before. Your kid is throwing a tantrum that rivals Bobby Knight circa 1975 and you feel like your head may explode. I know, personally,  I faced this many of times when trying to change a diaper when all B wants to do is chase the dog around the house. Between him arching his back, kicking his legs and screaming at the top of his lungs, I’ve ended up with a busted lip and poop on my chin more than once. Not exactly what I would call a fun time.

There are other little crazy things that parents do without even blinking an eye. Picking your kid up in the middle of Target, holding his butt up to your nose and taking a big waft of poo air to check if there is a surprise left for you. Licking your hand to get off the little bit of leftover food you missed with the baby wipe after dinner and jamming out to the Beauty and the Beast soundtrack to keep B satisfied while we sit in gridlock traffic.

Yes, I have done some stuff I am not proud of… Even after B has fallen asleep, I’ve continued to sing “Be Our Guest” in my best French accent during rush hour traffic. I might have put and left a onesie on backwards once or twice after a late night changing, and occasionally I’ll eat some of his puff snacks when I’m a little bit hungry. Look, I’m not saying I’m a perfect parent, but then again I’m not the worst either. Realistically I probably fall somewhere between the guy that cut off his own leg to save his kid after an avalanche and Michael Jackson. An before you ask, B’s name is not Blanket… or Apple, or Seven or anything else dumb.

Oh if my college buddies could see me now. Struggling with a 25 pound maniac trying to get him dressed in the morning isn’t my brightest moment. How in the world can i keep him calm? Its simple really. The Wiggles. For some reason the kid loves those guys. I hate them. I swore that I would never let him watch the Wiggles as their stupid Australian accents and songs about cars and clouds and cold spaghetti really drove me crazy. But what’s a tired guy supposed to do, if the kid likes the Wiggles and keeps him happy for the 5 minutes I’m getting him dressed, have at it.

So, of course parents will all do anything to make our kids happy. Seeing him smile is one of the most amazing things I have ever experienced in my life. So if this makes him smile *** and shuts him up for 5 minutes*** Wiggle on the F on.

Foul Mouthed Little Bastard

So I will be the first to admit that I have a foul mouth when it comes to things not going my way. Sakya has tried to break me of this ugly habit since she met me, and up until recently she’s been out of damn luck. Occasionally when my favorite sports team is losing, or when the X-Box is clearly cheating, or when I stub my toe or when I get excited telling a story, a few “F” bombs and other choice novelties will come sailing out of my mouth. I have tried and tried to hold back since the tiny human has been born, but to no avail. There’s really only a few words that can properly get your point across when it comes to explaining how you really feel. Amirite?

To the stats! According to the Linguistics Society of America, men say roughly 6000 or so words a day (women are significantly higher; imagine that). The average 1 year old has the vocabulary capabilities to say about 10 words. So out of these 6000 words I say a day, no more than 5 to 10 can be significant curse words, right? So how do I explain to my wife that my one year old, who mutters  masterpieces such as dog, mama, dada and bye bye, has a new favorite word.

Of course I try to defend myself to her. There is no way that he is cussing and knows the meaning, right? He is simply mixing up the words milk or truck or book or he’s trying to say his name and his miniature tongue is getting all twisted. I think I had her convinced. Everyone was happy… Flash forward a few days.

B was in his playroom pushing a train along, Sakya was twittering away on the couch and I was watching ESPN. B stands up still holding onto his train and gets as much steam as his pudgy little legs will take him. He tumbles forward  into the wall smashing his face. Sakya and I pop up to his rescue as the fall looked kinda bad. I’m thinking a bloody nose, missing baby tooth or black eye, but no tears came. B sits back, looks at us, squeezes his eyes tight and of course.

“Fuck”.

Trying to hold back the laughter was the toughest part. I couldn’t have constructed a better phrase myself. The timing, the tone, the clarity of the words perfectly encapsulated the situation. I was kind of impressed that his mind was able to grasp the right word so quickly. I was sort of proud. Sakya… not so much.

Needless to say the F word has been put to rest on my end. B has other thoughts, he thinks not being able to say one of the ten words he can actually pronounce effectively is ridiculous.