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.
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®.
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.
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.