Baby Girl is the most precious little girl that walks the earth. Sometimes. Other times, I could swear that she is a Regina George in the making, just without as much pink.
For a three-year-old, the comments she makes can be straight up savage sometimes.
Remember this from the Yo Mama post?
Brutal. She was making a joke, of course, but still…damn.
This is from when I picked her up at preschool recently:
Baby Girl has also been trying to trim down the family lately. She got mad at Little Man one night while we were in the car — over what, I can’t remember, but it was minor — and she went off on him.
Goodwill? We about died laughing. But at least she didn’t tell him, “I not like your face” or “I’m going to die you” this time. (We really, really hope what she meant with that one was that she was going to take out his batteries, since that’s what we always tell her when the remote or something isn’t working, that the batteries died.)
My husband was also kicked out.
At the time, she wasn’t angry at all. She just mentioned that her dad needed to leave one day. She was quite insistent with that, too, and it was all said with the sweetest voice. I later found out that she didn’t want him around anymore because he used Google Home. So far I haven’t been kicked out of the family, but I’m sure my time is coming.
I didn’t doodle it, but BG also recently told me that she was leaving and not coming back. She planned to go live with new parents because she didn’t like any of us anymore. This was after she was fussed at for not cleaning her room. She later changed her mind.
And then there is this…
Little Man was pretty ticked over this, poor kid.
So now you see what we’ve been dealing with. Future mean girl? I hope not, but right now, she has as much of a filter as Sophia Petrillo.
I got my cochlear implant two weeks ago. The surgery went well and the ear is healing up nicely. The implant will be activated in a couple of weeks, so hopefully that will go well.
Also, I hate that I haven’t been able to keep up with reading blogs much or posting on this blog, but I started a new job in December and haven’t had a lot of free time. Sorry! Maybe one of these days I’ll be able to juggle everything as well as I’d like, but not today. 😉
Have you ever gotten nostalgic and watched or read something that you enjoyed as a kid, only to wonder why the hell you enjoyed that thing? I have, and no, it’s not Hanson (and a big “Screw you” to my husband for saying that).
I loved Boy Meets World when I was young — and I can still appreciate the wholesome messages on some level — but I’m baffled at how I could have enjoyed something with so many plot holes. And, on a similar note, there were the songs Pink by Aerosmith, Butterfly by Crazy Town, and Barbie Girl by Aqua. It was quite some time before I realized what they were really about (sex, FYI), which shows how naive I was as a teenager.
Recently Baby Girl and I were reading through a book of nursery rhymes, some of which I remembered reading as a kid. It was a cute little pop-up book, but after a few pages of rhymes, the cuteness factor went out the window. Much like the fairy tales we were read as kids, many nursery rhymes have varying degrees of fucked-upness. Either my memory sucks or my mind protecting itself by shutting out the memories, as I didn’t realize how messed up they were.
Read on to see if you remember any of these warped rhymes
Three Blind Mice
Three blind mice, three blind mice,
See how they run, see how they run,
They all ran after the farmer’s wife,
Who cut off their tails with a carving knife,
Did you ever see such a thing in your life,
As three blind mice?
Damn, farmer’s wife. It’s not bad enough that these little bastards are blind, but you’ve gotta go cutting off their tails to get your jollies?
Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe
There was an old woman who lived in a shoe.
She had so many children, she didn’t know what to do.
She gave them some broth without any bread
Then whipped them all soundly and put them to bed.
I definitely remember the first half of this rhyme, but the second half? Nope.
Those poor kids. So not only did they live in the nursery rhyme version of a meth house and have to go hungry, they also had to get a beating for their lack of food.
Ding Dong Bell
Ding, dong, bell,
Pussy’s in the well.
Who put her in?
Little Johnny Thin.
Who pulled her out?
Little Tommy Stout.
What a naughty boy was that,
To try to drown poor pussy cat,
Who never did him any harm,
But killed all the mice in the farmer’s barn.
This one made me close the book of nursery rhymes for good.
Were there any songs, rhymes, etc. that you enjoyed when you were younger that left you going “WTF?!” as an adult?
The next blogger in the Calling All Dorks series is one of my favorite mom bloggers — Katherine of Welcome to the Nursery.
Katherine is the mom who runs the nursery where Puff (1.5y) and Squish (4) live. She hung up her engineering hat four years ago to start the mom gig; it turns out her skills of tank driving and bullet design don’t transfer well to child care, but at least with parenthood you can learn on the job (right?!). Katherine shares her amusements and frustrations with readers along that journey by trying to find the humor in everyday child rearing happenings. When the kids are asleep, she nurses a fledgling writing career, obsessively reads English historical fiction, and dabbles in painting and sewing.
Kids have funny memories. You can tell them something like, “Brush your teeth before going to bed” every single night for almost a decade, and they still act like it’s such a new thing to the point that you’re a bad parent for expecting them to remember. However, say something like “Shit” once, and suddenly their minds become a steel trap — no forgetting that.
Katherine can definitely relate to the concept of kids not forgetting such moments. Read her story below.
It’s amazing that we parents manage to do a lot of amazing tasks all day long, and most (all?) of them go unnoticed and unappreciated by our kids. Catch the toddler as she’s falling off a chair? Ho-hum, says the child (and never a “gee thanks, ma”). Got everyone dressed, fed, and out the door in time for school? No kid realizes the superparent powers required (and no act of God needed, either). However, when we do something wrong or amusing their elephantine memories will never forget it.
And they don’t let us forget it, either.
Now, let me preface this story by saying that my four-year-old (we call her Squish) has inherited many good genes from her parents, but klutziness isn’t one of them. She’s screwed from both sides: I’m klutzy, my mom’s klutzy, and my mother-in-law is, too. You’d think Squish would therefore commiserate when the rest of us have slips, trips, and falls … but no, she laughs like they’re part of a Three Stooges routine.
Last summer her grandparents took Squish across the street to the pond. The pond and grass area are bordered on the street by a few logs to prevent cars from driving onto the grass. Grandma was stepping over such a log when … she tripped and fell!
Squish saw this, and after everyone made sure Grandma was okay (and she was) Squish asked over and over and over again why her grandma tripped and fell. She just wouldn’t let it go!
Every day for about a week after that, she asked us, “Why did grandma fall over the log?” And she’s asked that probably every month since!
That log is famous, too. Every time we pass it – which is frequently – she says, “That’s where grandma tripped!” (Her grandma will never live that moment down, will she?)
You guess that her grandma has developed a reputation for klutziness. In fact, recently Squish saw a photo of a camel, and my husband told her that her grandma once rode a camel in Israel.
Squish’s response was, of course, “Did she fall off?”
Have you ever done something you wish you could forget – but your kids will never let you?
I’m afraid of spiders. Like, deathly afraid. Ever since I watched the movie Arachnophobia as a kid, I’ve been terrified. I spent a year constantly searching for spider bites on my body after watching that movie. Usually the “bites” ended up being some of my smaller freckles. Unfortunately for me, I’m covered with freckles, so the whole “oh-my-god-I’m-dying” terror thing happened a lot. Not fun.
As far as I’m concerned, all spiders are either brown recluses or black widows (or something else that is equally deadly). Doesn’t matter what color or size they are; as long as they have eight legs, they should die. Sometimes my son brings up how great Charlotte from Charlotte’s Web is when I’m hating on spiders — he thinks he can bring me to the other side because of a fictional character. Newsflash, son — she doesn’t get a pass just because she saved Wilbur. And by “saving Wilbur,” what we really mean is she deprived the people of their bacon, and that’s much worse than lurking in a corner.
My husband is usually the one who handles spider business around the house. The first few times I screamed for him to come help me because I found a brown recluse, he dashed in, ready to save me and slay the beast. He was my knight in shining armor, just of the “wears boxer shorts and a wife beater” variety. And his sword was a flip flop. Otherwise, he was exactly like a knight in shining armor. Once my husband began realizing that my brown recluses were usually something less lethal, he stopped being so quick to run to my side. Now he comes when he pleases and grabs my shoes to kill with. Clearly we aren’t in the honeymoon phase any longer.
Now that you know I generally don’t care for spiders, let’s get into what this post is really about.
Thursday didn’t start out great for me. I went to bed the night before with heart palpitations and an on edge feeling, presumably from anxiety. Anxious about what, I don’t know — sometimes anxiety disorders like to keep you guessing. And then I woke up that morning with a sharp pain in my upper abdomen that went through to my back. That combined with the still present heart palpitations concerned me a bit since I had recently read an article about how women’s heart attack symptoms can be different from men’s. I took some Tums, ibuprofen, and aspirin to cover my bases and decided to wait and see if it got better or worse.
The pain eased up after a few hours, and I was able to go about my day. My husband, who works from home most of the time, had to drive in to Charlotte, so I was home alone with the toddler. We colored, we played house, and we made stuff with Play-Doh. After making 524 Play-Doh pizzas, I decided it was time to move on. I put on a Daniel Tiger in the living room for Baby Girl to watch while I started tidying up. The first thing on my list was sweeping up all of the Play-Doh bits from the floor. Well, Play-Doh bits and the Lucky Charms bits and Cheerios bits that didn’t get swept up earlier, because of laziness.
I reached under the table with the broom to slide out some of the cereal and PlayDoh bits, and as I looked down at what I was sweeping out, a big fucking spider dashed out and began running at me.
Considering the heart concerns from earlier that morning, this was very clever timing on behalf of the spider, who was clearly hellbent on killing me.
I’m not going to doodle what happened next, because we have surveillance cams in our homes. The camera in the kitchen caught pretty much everything, including my blood curdling screams. Typically I wouldn’t post a video of myself in a public space in a million years, for many, many reasons, but I think the funny in this video is worth it being put up for a day or so. (Bonus: this video will verify that I look just as much like a bum in real life as I do in my doodles.)
Now that you’ve made it through the video, let’s continue, since there’s a little left to this post.
Immediately after the eight-legged creature was murdered, I started texting my husband about the ordeal.
It was definitely a wolf spider. Since my husband likes to act like wolf spiders aren’t anything to worry about, I’m gonna leave this right here —
Like wolves, they chase and leap on their prey.
Chase. Leap. That’s the stuff nightmares are made of. Maybe their bites won’t kill you or cause your skin to rot, but the next time you feel something brush against your face in the dark, just know it could be a wolf spider leaping on you.
My children are both having fun with this ordeal. Baby Girl has teased me about being afraid of the spider, showed Little Man how I screamed, and even told me that the dead spider was alive and moving towards me. What kind of three-year-old am I raising? Little Man watched the video a dozen times before bedtime last night. He went back and forth between saying I’m the [unintentionally] funniest mom ever and that I’m too dramatic. Hmph.
For further funny spider fear stories, check out Becca Barracuda’s Bug Juice post.
I know I’m not the only person to freak the hell out over a spider, so what’s your story?
Kids can be frustrating. Mostly they’re amazeballs, but they can also be frustrating. They have little quirks that can make getting through the day a little tougher than it has to be. Take Little Man for example. He’s a selective germaphobe. I say “selective,” because he chews on his fingernails and will occasionally eat off the floor. Otherwise, he’ll wig out if he thinks someone has taken a drink from his bottle, has touched his food, or so much as sniffles in his direction. I completely get that, but still — be consistent and keep your hands out of your mouth! He also lines the toilet seat everywhere he goes, even in his own house (and I do clean), which is frustrating mostly because he goes through so much toilet paper and makes a mess.
Now for Baby Girl. Mealtime with the toddler is a struggle because of how picky she is. Even though I know many kids are like this to a degree, especially during the toddler stage, it’s still a source of constant frustration. I understand when someone doesn’t like something, since I’m rather picky myself, but she usually won’t even try whatever it is.
At the behest of our doctor, we’ve tried everything — pleading, bribing, guilting. (“Daniel Tiger will be sad if you don’t try those green beans!”) The promise of a sweet treat doesn’t remotely faze the girl. And don’t bother suggesting the not-so-wise advice of “She’ll eat it when she’s hungry enough” — that’s a big nope. (And the same is true with me — I’d be more likely to cut off my foot and roast it than eat zucchini.)
This is truly difficult for my husband and me, because not only do we worry about nutrition, it has us questioning ourselves as parents, What did we do wrong? Thankfully, though, it has provided a few humorous moments. Always, always look for the humor. It makes everything a little bit better, or more tolerable, at least. One thing that amuses us is when Baby Girl doesn’t want something, she’ll cover her eyes. Yes, her eyes. I’m not sure if she can’t stand the sight of the food or if she genuinely thinks that covering her eyes is the equivalent of covering her mouth, but it’s still pretty funny.
We also recently learned that she has developed some allergies.
She has no allergies that I’m aware of. But I’ve gotta give the kid credit — allergies is a damn good excuse for not eating something.
As I’ve written about before, my kids aren’t too big on the healthy, which came up again a couple days ago.
Girl, that was a fried chicken tender — whatever health is in it is canceled out by the breading and oil!
And just when we thought we had heard everything, this came up:
We pointed out that she actually is a big girl. We told her that if she really isn’t a big girl, then she definitely couldn’t watch Daniel Tiger or go to gymnastics. Naturally she had a comeback for this.
Your vagina prohibits you from eating peas? Nope, it doesn’t work that way. But obviously I’m gonna use that the next time someone tries to get me to eat zucchini.
See? Humor. It’s not enough to weigh out the frustration, worry, and parental self-doubt, but thank god for a little bit of it mixed in with this phase. (I hope it’s a phase, anyway.)
What’s the best excuse you’ve heard for someone not eating something?
I’m going to try the whole “make a little money from the blog” thing now via the Amazon Affiliates program. If you’re an Amazon addict like I am, then use this link to do your shopping. I may earn a small commission that will go towards my kids’ college education new Converses. *Full disclosure.
If you’ve ever spent any amount of time with a toddler, then you know that they’re prone to having…I would call them “outbursts,” but “shitfits” has a much nicer ring to it, so let’s go with that. Toddlers have shitfits over just about everything. Food too cold? Shitfit. Shoes not the right color? Shitfit. You gave them exactly what they wanted the first time they asked? Shitfit.
Sometimes these little outbursts are understandable — not getting fed on time would make just about anyone cranky — and other times they leave us scratching our heads. Today’s Calling All Dorks story comes from Darlene, who writes at Baby Costs Money, and her toddler’s outburst definitely left her a bit bewildered.
Last night at bedtime, I was sitting on the bed with the ToddlerMonster and I mindlessly scratched my knee. I had cut myself shaving earlier that day, so when I scratched my knee, it started to bleed again. Not ideal.
The ToddlerMonster didn’t even realize I was (barely) bleeding, but she did brush her hand against my knee while climbing all over me trying to get comfortable with her books. She then brushed her hand against the white sheet and that’s when she noticed the BLOOD.
And she freaked out. She could not handle, I guess, that I was bleeding. She started screaming ‘NEED BANDAID NEED BANDAID!’ My teenage daughter ran into the room with a bandaid.
There wasn’t that much blood, by the way. But you could not tell that at all from the way the ToddlerMonster was screaming. You might have thought that I cut off my entire leg.
As soon as her sister came into the room with the bandaid, things got better for ToddlerMonster. She took the bandaid and very carefully pulled off the sticky bits.
And then she placed the bandaid very carefully on the sheet. The sheet, that had a bit of blood on it. The SHEET. WHAT.
Poor Mom! Leave it to a toddler to be more concerned about a sheet than her mom.
Be sure to check out Darlene’s blog here. You can also find her on social media by clicking the following links: Twitter and Instagram.
If you have a funny/dorky story that you’d like to see poorly illustrated, then send me an email at email@example.com. (Old posts are fair game.)
As discussed in another post, Baby Girl goes by a lot of names — Ona, Kate Kate, Batman. It’s now time to add another name to that list: Banksy.
Technically I can’t count the number of times on one hand that Little Man drew on something he wasn’t supposed to, because that never happened. He was the most responsible toddler ever — he would never touch an outlet, climb on things that he shouldn’t climb on, put things in his mouth, or draw on things not intended to be drawn on. (I can’t say all of those things are true now, though.) He was basically Benjamin Button without the wrinkles.
Baby Girl is a different story. She is Little Man’s opposite in every way, which — aside from making for an interesting parenting experience — has given me a few gray hairs. I always expected for the second child to be different and have her own personality, of course, but not to be that different. Like most toddlers, she needs every single child proofing gadget, all markers stashed way out of reach, and a leashharness screw it, leash. She’s shoved things in her nose, tasted things she had no business tasting, and can throw a temper tantrum that rivals those of the current president’s.
Back to the art. Baby Girl’s drawings have appeared all over the house. No matter how many times we tell her that crayons should only be used on scrap paper/coloring pages, she continues to pursue her dream of instilling a little culture in us with her art. The door to her room, walls, and the floor have all been decorated. Books — including the parenting book on discipline — now have extra illustrations. While taking a break from writing this post, I noticed that she had personalized the ice cream cart she got for her birthday. (“It say ‘Ice cream cart!'” she told me.)
I’m sure you’re thinking, “Put the crayons out of her reach!” but she hides the damn things around the house. For the longest time, we kept finding blue scribbles on things, but couldn’t find the blue crayon. Whenever we were busy with cooking, laundry, or phone calls and couldn’t have 100 percent of our focus on Baby Girl, she’d take the blue crayon from its hiding place and get to work. The only difference between her and Banksy was her lack of political statement.
Baby Girl had been doing a little bit better about drawing on things lately. Had been. Last week before I started cooking supper, I printed off a few coloring sheets to keep her occupied. It worked, or so I thought — she was very quiet and didn’t go terrorist mode by interrupting me with her list of demands while I was cooking. Shouldn’t I have learned by now that quiet is never, ever a good thing when it comes to kids?
Later I found out why she had been so quiet, and it had nothing to do with her coloring sheets.
Yep, that is her pink Little Tikes car colored in blue.
“Oh my god, what did you do to your car?!” And how did your short little self color on the top?!
Was she rebelling against my skipping past the “screw gender stereotypes” thing and getting her a pink car? Because the only reason I did that is that it was on sale for $20 less than the standard version. I can be “Screw princesses and pink and flowers for girls” all day long until money comes into play. And then my principles are out the window faster than Donald Trump clicks the Tweet button. Maybe she truly had a little Banksy in her after all?
Maybe not. Her explanation —
I didn’t find the scribbled over car funny at all, but I was amused by the fact that she had attempted to make a joke. Hopefully next time she can do it without defacing private property.
Was/is your kid a budding artist, too? Any funny stories to share?
Everyone knows that kids have an aversion to doing chores. Say the C-word, and you’ll hear the groaning and complaining start. Asking them to help with things around the house instantly brands you an Asshole Parent, one who clearly doesn’t love them. I don’t much like doing chores either, but spending more time dragging one’s feet than the chore actually requires to be completed — and having to do it anyway — baffles me.
Baby Girl likes to help me with my chores sometimes — the more likely it is that something will break, the more she wants to help. (And I’m sure that when she is more capable of doing these chores in a few years, she’ll develop an aversion to them, too.) However, when it comes to picking up her toys, she acts like doing so is torture and often refuses to do it. The threat of taking away a toy does little. When she’s in Stubborn Mode, she’d prefer losing every toy she owns to giving in and doing what she’s told.
Rather than whine, last week Baby Girl got a little creative with her attempt to get out of picking up stuff.
While straightening up the living room, I told Baby Girl to pick up the stuffed animals she had been playing with. She had been doctoring them and had left them strewn across the couch.
“Mommy, I’m just too young to pick up toys,” she told me.
Too young. That’s quite a mouthful for someone who’s too young to pick up her mess. After suppressing a giggle, I informed Baby Girl that if she was too young to pick up her toys, then she was too young to have them and that they’d go in storage. She put them away, and with minimal complaints for a change.
What’s the best excuse you or your kid has given to get out of doing chores?
Raise your hand if you’ve purchased a parenting book. Keep your hand raised if you discovered the secret to successful parenting in the book’s 150 (or so) pages of print.
Don’t worry if your hand isn’t still up — mine isn’t, either. I imagine most of us are in the same boat. We’ve all purchased book after book, hoping to find parenting advice that will make everything click and help us rock the parenting gig. Ultimately, our hopes of finding the book that will make everything clear are dashed, and we’re back to facing the reality that our kids will end up in therapy in 20 years, complaining about where we went wrong.
There is a parenting book for just about every subject — potty training, dealing with temper tantrums, raising happy children. Most of these books — like the one where you successfully potty train a toddler in 72 hours or less — sound too good to be true, but it’s hard not to give it a try, right? Just like the multi-level marketing schemes where you’re promised to secure your financial future and drive a BMW by the end of the calendar year, the allure is there. It’s tough to pass up the opportunity to become a parenting rock star.
So we buy the books. We pour through the pages, read largely regurgitated content that we’ve paid $12 for time and time before, and yet again come to terms with the fact that we’ll never become parenting rock stars. Our kids will be in diapers until they start first grade, we’ll never get our kids to listen without raising our voices, and getting them to sleep through the night in their own beds won’t happen until college.
It’s not all for nothing, though. The good thing about all of these parenting books is that they make fabulous paper weights. As evidenced by my toddler’s scribbles in a book about raising defiant children, they make for great coloring sheets. I imagine that they’d be useful as fire starters. And, if all else fails, you can toss them in your donate pile and get a twenty-five cent tax write-off. Someone else will get the opportunity to have their hopes raised — and ultimately dashed — for the price of a candy bar.
Recently the topic of parenting books came up in a discussion my husband and I were having with another relative. I pulled out a few of the books I’ve purchased over the years. I had books on positive parenting, parenting the whole-brain child, raising a strong-willed child, raising a gifted child, and parenting a defiant child. We had a laugh over the titles, as my toddler had done at least a dozen things during the past hour to show that the book on raising strong-willed children hadn’t helped.
And then my husband made the comment, “If they really wanted to help parents, they’d make a book called How Not To Kill Your Kids.”
My husband’s comment made me think a little bit about parenting books I wish I would’ve read. Maybe none of them would make me feel like I’m winning at parenting, but they would be a lot more helpful — and realistic — than something like Potty Training Your Toddler In 3 Easy Steps. Here are a few titles that might have made for better reading:
Maybe these titles wouldn’t help me win any parenting awards, but at least I would’ve been prepared for the horror that was my toddler picking up a piece of poop and tasting it.
(I’m totally gonna use Shut The Fudge Up when I write my bad mom parenting book.)
I forgot to put the parenting books back on the shelf last week. Baby Girl ripped the page out of the book about positive discipline. Minutes after I corrected her, she used a crayon to scribble in the book about the defiant child.
There are lots of ways that you can piss off your kids. Tell them that screen time is over for the day. Mention that bath time or bedtime is just around the corner. Announce that no more fun will be had until the toys are picked up and the house doesn’t look like a tornado came through.
All of these things will certainly make little tempers flare and have them shooting daggers at you, but wanna know the worst thing you can do? Offer them something healthy when they ask for a snack — they’ll treat this as the ultimate act of betrayal, one that is worthy of a spot in the ninth circle of hell.
Now I much prefer snacks of the non-healthy variety, too. My “never saw a gap” thighs can attest to that. However, most of my non-healthy snacks are consumed after the kids go to bed, in an effort to minimize the bad example I set for the kids. Unfortunately, Little Man is catching on to that. He once mentioned how unfair it is that the parents get to stay up and watch TV and eat junk food after he goes to bed. Dude, I just listened to 10 hours of nonstop chatter about Pokemon, Minecraft, Peppa Pig, and farts — you really wanna talk about unfair?
For the record, I’m not a total junk food Nazi; as evidenced by Baby Girl’s love of popsicles, they get sweets. Maybe too many sometimes, especially if we’re going to Chick-Fil-A with their amazing ice cream and follow that up with a trip to Walmart, land of the free cookies. But I do try to make sure that most of their food doesn’t have a lot of added sugar and actually has some nutrients, which makes me a bit of an asshole mom in their eyes.
Despite being pretty reasonable, both kids still try to find a way around the rules (pretty sure they’re hard-wired to do so). Sometimes they think whining will do the trick, which is annoying, but other times their attempts are rather humorous.
This one is from when Little Man was around age 4.
No beating around the bush with him!
Last week, Baby Girl went at it from a different angle.