Sunday, January 30, 2011
She's been calling her brother Sweetie. "Come here Sweetie." "I'll help you Sweetie." "Come to the bathroom with me Sweetie."
Wait, WHAT? Why on Earth would she want Sweetie to come to the bathroom with her? The kid is hardly potty trained. A week of dry Pull-ups is not a resume highlight of a good Commode Assistant.
So I listen intently from the next room as I hear her sing-songing several sentences in her best saccharine voice.
Then I hear it: "Justin Sweetie, can you get me some toilet paper?"
What to do...Should I get him out of there or savor the 60 seconds that he isn't whining about something?
Then I hear it (yes, the second thing I hear from the other room): clink, clank, clink, clink - that was a sound effect.
"Oh no, Justin. I just dropped my bracelet in the potty!!!"
Surely she won't ask him to fetch it for her, but then again what's to stop her?
"Hahaha! It's touching the poopie!"
So there I go, bolting from my comfy office seat into the bathroom next door to see her with her pants around her ankles and Justin holding all of her belongings.
Quick action must be taken. I've got two choices here: Just put my own hand in the toilet to get the bracelet out RIGHT NOW or leave to get some kind of bracelet-retrieving-apparatus and risk her doing a Jedi mind trick on her brother to get him to salvage it for her Titanic style before I can get back. That can't go well.
So I just finished washing my hands and they're back to their playing. For the record, it wasn't touching the poopie.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Thanks to the bladder-that-isn't-what-it-used-to-be I find myself awake on yet another Saturday morning contemplating the 462 items on my family room floor.
How my kids can make this house look like there was a G-rated fraternity party here where all beverages were drank (or is it drunk?) out of very old sippy cups is still beyond me.
And yes, each and every toy, sock, used baby wipe and sticker must be picked up in the next hour or our pal Brucie the Wonder Dog will make them his chew toy the minute the house alarm is set as we make our weekly jaunt to Zsa Zsa's dance class.
From the middle of the stairs comes a declaration:
"MOM! I'm not down here to eat breakfast. I'M HERE TO DO AN ACTIVITY."
Awesome!... Now admittedly, the word "activity" usually chills me to the bone because it inevitably has to do with something gooey, staining or smelly (or on several cases the trifecta), but this time I'm just gonna go with it and see where it gets me.
"OK Ryan, I've got an 'activity' for you. Clean up all your sister's tea set pieces, and all Justin's stuff so Bruce doesn't eat them."
In his best pre-8 a.m. whine: "Mommmmm...I didn't make the messsssss."
Insert canned response here... "Well you're gonna do it anyway."
"All I really want to DO is paint my bobble heads."
"Well you can paint your bobble heads...as soon as these toys are picked up...after dance...after lunch...and when Justin is taking his nap."
At this point, I sincerely do feel bad for the kid. Always being the screwed-oldest-of-three-kids, Ryan and I do have a kinship.
But the show must go on!!! I'm in deal-making mode now.
"I'll tell you what. If you clean up this playroom, I'll give you three dollars and THREE BOBBLE HEADS."
"But Mom, I already have three bobble heads."
"Um, no Ryan - I have three bobble heads... and I might let you paint them...after you pick up your sister's tea set..."
And so it goes...and so it goes.