"I fix it"

The dreaded Nuk cup. Transitioning P from a bottle to cup could only be done by introduction of the then lifesaver Nuk Learner cup. Don't get me wrong it's a great cup, but now we have to figure out how to get him off of it. He will not drink milk out of anything else. Water, juice, etc it doesn't matter what cup it's in, but you better not hand him milk in anything but his cup. We used to have 4 then 2. Those things are $7 each at Walmart! To get a new spout costs half that and the spout has to be latex. The silicone splits fast. Now this is not a review of the totally awesome lifesaver of a cup.

P was settled in for a movie last night and I was on the couch finishing a book when I hear him call out, "Cup broke mama; cup broke."

Me: "Your cup is broken? Bring it here, let's see" (I'm thinking that the handles popped off the bottom.

Insert pause....I assume he was getting up but it took him a bit longer than expected.

He hands me his cup, empty of milk, and a tiny piece of green. He bit a chunk off the spout. Now thankfully my son isn't a kid that puts stuff in his mouth and is quick to spit out anything foreign. So here I sit on the couch holding a tiny chunk of latex and a cup with a hole in the spout. This is the perfect opportunity to get rid of the cup. I thought.

Me: "P your cup is broken for good. No more cup. We will have to drink milk out of something else. This one needs to go in the trash."

P (standing quietly and thoughtfully for a moment): "I get tape; I fix it" And he runs to the drawer where we keep the tape.

Logically this makes sense. I mean after all we fix lots of things with tape. Usually the flaps to all those books that managed to become detached. I have to call him off the tape and reason with him.

Me: "Tape won't work this time. How will you drink out of it if there is tape over the spout?"

P: "Oh. No fix it."

Me: "Nope, it's trash"

P: "Ok, I throw 'way" And off he goes with the cup and the chunk to the trash can. I found the cup in the kitchen sink, but I guess he really did throw the chunk away or a dog ate it.

One down, one to go. He's not that clueless. He knew there was another cup and he found it before bed last night. Now the dilemma: do I just toss the cup or do I shell out $3+ w/ shipping for a new spout?

Bigger Now?

A variety of things are tucked under P's bed. Mostly underbed drawers contain extra sheets, blankets, and bags that fulfill my need for a chic diaper tote. In the front corner, tucked against his night stand is a Lite Brite. 

 That's right; that wonderful vintage light up board with holes that make those translucent colored pegs glow in whatever shape you choose. I jumped at the opportunity when a co-worker offered her son's long outgrown version to my son. It is the updated "flat screen" model. In hindsight apparently only the child in me thought this was a good plan. I have almost spilled the tiny little pegs more than once, which is what led to being banished to the darkness under the bed in the first place. As a mother of a little boy what in the world was I thinking! I brought a zillion tiny objects into my house to no doubt plague us with a painful step at all hours of the day and night. It's ok though, because P doesn't go under his bed for anything.

Yesterday afternoon I was attempting to have a bit of quiet time sitting on the couch, when I hear a tiny voice from his room. "Mama, what this?" Now he could have been asking about anything. Usually that question is in reference to a leaf, piece of fuzz, or random dog toy that has been unearthed from who knows where. I enter his room and don't see him. Never a good sign. He's not hanging from the ceiling fan or standing on any shelves/bookcases, then up pops his little head from the otherside of the bed. "Come 'ere" he says complete with his pointed gesture.

Can you guess what I found when I walked to the other side of the bed? You bet! It was the Lite Brite. Only a few pieces had escaped the handy little drawer at the bottom of the new improved version and the button had been pushed so the light was on. "See, what this?" he says with his classic quizzical look.

I'm quick to tell him that it's something he can have when he's bigger, scoop up stray pegs and tuck them away, then start trying to quickly cram the still lit Lite Brite back under the bed. He's worried that it's still lit. I can't make it go off! It's on a darn timer so once it's lit it stays that way for an unspecified amount of time. I get it safely tucked under the bed and the bed skirt pulled back down around it. As I start to find something to distract my unforgetful little boy's mind he looks up at me and back at the bed. "I bigger now?" he asks. "Not quite big enough." I tell him. We go on about our day playing with all sorts of things.

Hours later, I'm leaning towards 4 or 5, I find him sitting again on the otherside of his bed. He knows he's not to touch anything so he looks up at me and assertively tells me "I bigger now." "Not quite big enough," again I tell him. Crisis adverted until another day.

I'm torn between letting him play with it supervised with just a handful of pegs or putting it away somewhere else until he truly is "bigger now." Technically every minute later he is in some way bigger and I wonder if he knows that too.

Potty for a Cookie

I have no idea what I've gotten myself into. I like a few cookies with a glass of milk before bed so I picked up a pack of Double Stuff Oreos on sale. Apparently those are a huge motivator for a 2 year old to go potty more. Don't get me wrong; he's been doing good without much motivation. He doesn't care to be wet so put his little booty in a pair of Buzz Lightyear undies and he is conscious enough to go to the bathroom when he needs to. Since he gets the sitting on the potty and has no issue with it if he doesn't go potty but just sit and stand up he gets no praise.

Along came the cookies. He saw me buy them and he saw me put them in the pantry. He promptly opened the pantry and shoved a chair up to reach the shelf. The cookies now reside on the top of the refrigerator in a colorful bowl and will until the mystery of where the cookies went/come from is discovered by his inquisitive mind.

He asked for a cookie and I asked if he would go potty for a cookie. He said yes and we went to potty. He got a cookie. Yesterday he asks for a cookie. I told him no, he needed to go potty to get a cookie. He said ok and walked off. I walk by the bathroom a few seconds later and there he sits on his froggy potty. I'm impressed because the cookie made him take initiative and go by himself. He had to turn on the light, pull down both pants and undies, and I'm pretty sure he would have emptied his potty and pulled up his pants if I wouldn't have walked by to help. I'm all for independence, but when that independence leads to mommy having to clean up more pee than I would out of a leaky diaper I will be resuming a dictatorship. He got his cookie.

Last night he asked again for a cookie. I told him he had to potty for a cookie and off he went to the bathroom. I followed this time. He finishes, stands up, looks in the potty, looks at me, and says "oops, more". Apparently the amount didn't meet his standards. So he sat again, added a little more, and then was ready for his cookie.

This morning he asks dah-ee for a cookie. Dah-ee tells him he has to go potty and off he goes. I help since I was there anyway. The beauty of having only one bathroom to the 3 of us is knowing that it is going to be occupied by at least 1 of us 90% of the time. As soon as he is done, he jumps up and looks at dah-ee, "Cookie now" he asks in his high pitched excited voice.

We've had cookies since Saturday and he's motivated. Had I known this I would have gotten a less messy cookie or at least Oreo minis because my kid will be potty trained, but hopped up on a sugar high.

Stay and play instead

Monday, Wednesday, and Friday my husband works a 12 hour shift on the ambulance. P knows this and will repeatedly ask him, "amps day" Hey he's trying, heck some adults still say "amblance". Today though he told my husband, "dah-ee, no amps day. Help work with hammer." In his little mind daddy should stay home with him today and apparently work all day with the beloved Handy Manny tools. Pat is of course his favorite.

Either of us would much rather stay home today and help him work on stuff with his hammer, read books, watch movies, build blocks, or play endless games of golf, hockey, or a combination of the two which we will call gockey. It's tons of fun to have a plastic golf club fit for a toddler and whack a plastic golf ball back and forth. Forget a hole when you can have a goal. The boy has one heck of a chip shot.

I wish life could be so simple as just saying ok, P, we will stay home today and do whatever you want. Instead we have to say, no we have to finish getting dressed so you can go to the sitter and mama and daddy have to work today. We will have the whole weekend together though. It's just not the same to spend tomorrow playing as it would have been to spend the day playing and give P what he wanted. Such is life.

And now he's dressing himself....

Today should be a day to wear green. It is after all St. Paddy's Day and we certainly don't want any of the kids at the sitter getting a wild idea to pinch. P decided to dress himself today so we let him. His choices: a red and black t-shirt with a race car on it (no green) and camo shorts (with green, but also brown). I drew the line at his shoe choice: lace up snow boots. He doesn't even want to wear those shoes with jeans on any given day, but all of a sudden that's the shoes he wants. He brought them to me and sat on the floor and that's when I had to break it to my bubbly little man that this just wasn't going to work. I told him that his shoes didn't match (forget the fact that nothing he has on actually matched). Oh I had every intention of putting them on just for the amusement factor and sending him with tennis shoes to the sitter. As I unzipped the first boot he took it from me, "No match, mama, no match." He took his boots and put them back in the closet, dug around for a minute, and picked out.........tennis shoes. Yay! They are black, grey, and orange. Since it was cooler this morning we had to convince him to put on some sweats over his shorts. He left the house wearing: black/red t-shirt, brown/green shorts, navy blue sweats, and black/grey/orange shoes. Ahhh...if this is the start of what's to come I'm going to have to start buying neutral clothes to keep my fashionable mind sane.

I know this post is no good without pictures. If he still has on the same clothes when I pick him up this afternoon I will share his amazing fashion sense.

Get That Fire Out!

My husband is a firefighter. When we met 8 1/2 years ago he had just been promoted to Captain of his station and since that time promoted again to Battalion Chief over half of the Districts 12 stations. At 2, our son knows when the pager goes off that Dah-ee is going on a call. Many times he grabs his own little radio or my husband's actual pager, jumps in his Fisher Price fire truck, and tells me he's going on a call. He also tells me "I home" and gives me kisses when he gets done with his call. The weekend before last we watched a demonstration at the Home Show put on by the city fire department (sprinkled vs. un-sprinkled residence; sprinklers are a good idea BTW) and P has not forgotten that day and watching the fire. Somewhere along the way he has decided that instead of asking daddy to put out the fire he will tell him to.

Imagine the most serious look a 2 year old can get:

And these words: "Dah-ee, GET THAT FIRE OUT"

It is every bit a demand. What fire? Any fire I suppose. The best part is when J tells him that he will, in the sweetest voice you've ever heard he just says "ok".

On a side note: For the longest time fire trucks were just trucks with lights. He did learn to say fire truck (correctly might I add with not once a slip into accidental vulgarity). Now they range from fire truck, to big truck with lights. He told me the other night he wanted to drive a "big truck with lights" in addition it had to be a "big gween truck"

J's fire department is green trucks and we've instilled in him young that fire trucks should be green. So far the effort at saying Rescue 17 is still a lost cause. It's "Re-sue seen"

Stop it Mama; I sleepin'

It never fails on what is supposed to be a relaxing weekend of lounging in bed until at least 7:00 and hoping to make it until 7:30 or 8:00, P will show up wide-eyed at 6:30. Fifteen minutes of distraction is all we can hope for in an early morning cartoon then it's time to get up.

Now I get up between 6:00 and 6:10 on weekdays and my Fire Chief gets up at 6:30. A few days ago, P arrived in our room around 4:45 or so and climbed in to cuddle with me. I got up at my regular time leaving him sleeping in the bed with dada. 7:00 rolls around and it's time for P to wake up and get dressed. I talk to him, rub his belly, turn on the light, etc and nothing happens. Time to bring out the big guns. He gets kisses. I kiss his forehead, his cheeks, and his nose with him squirming, eyes still closed, in the bed. When I got to his nose he pushed me away and said "Stop it Mama; I sleepin."

I wonder if I can use that excuse next time he tries to wake me up before I feel like it's time?

Up next......I need tips on getting this hat off this duck. Apparently it should come off according to a 2 year old.

Gotta start somewhere.....

In that truly amazing fashion my two year old (P or little P from now on) told me something a few days ago that made me realize I should be writing all of this stuff down. Like all moms I think he's an exceptionally bright little boy with an amazing memory.

Almost 2 months ago, P had climbed into my lap in the recliner after work. Being silly he managed to fall off the side and on the way down grabbed at me. All he got was my new necklace which with 32 pounds of toddler yanking on it promptly broke. P cried because the fall scared him and he cried because he broke mama's necklace. I sat the broken chain aside and put the charm in my jewelry box; both to long be forgotten by me.

A few days ago, P found that broken chain still sitting where I had left it. He told us the story of what happened:

P: Mama necklace?

Me: Yes P, that's mama's necklace.

P: P fall; broke mama necklace

Me: Yes you did, but it's ok.

P: No, P fall off chair and broke mama necklace

At that point he got the saddest look on his face; the bottom lip even started to poke out and he said:

Sowee mama; sowee I broke necklace; sowee mama sowee

I thought he was going to cry and at that thought of course I teared up. I gave him a huge hug and again reassured him it was ok. What I realized is that not only does he have an amazing memory, but at 2 he truly is sorry. As adults we reached a point in our life where we say sorry many times not because we are truly sorry but because that is what has been ingrained in us to say.