Yeah. I know. The kid needs friends. You should have seen the look on his face when I suggested we make cookies after reading “the mouse eating a cookie book”.
It was similar to this, only less cheeky.
It was nothing like this. This is his, “Put away the camera” face.
So is this.
The pouring of sugar is a very serious job. Clearly, by the look on his face, he took it as such.
I know. Sharp inhale. He’s attempting to pick that up with one hand. That heavy, full of hard to clean-up, sticky, powdery brown sugar. WITH ONE HAND! Every mom of a toddler is every so slightly terrified and wondering why I didn’t put down the camera.
I did. That’s why there’s no picture of him pouring in the brown sugar. Although, he did end up using both hands by himself. He hates messes much more than I do. I find myself regularly telling him, “It’s okay to get messy. Really, it’s fine!”
To which he regularly responds, “No. No, it’s not, mommy. I need to wash my hands.”
And that’s how I’m regularly chided by a 2 year old.
Back to the one-handed cookies.
Which he handled exceptionally well.
There was a minor hiccup, however, when he (using two hands) spilled a little flour on the kitchen island.
Feel free to sharply inhale again. He certainly did.
I said, “It’s okay.”
He said, “THE TABLE IS DIRTY OF FLOUR! MY SHIRT IS DIRTY OF FLOUR! MY HANDS ARE DIRTY OF FLOUR! OH NOOOO, MOMMYYYYYYYYYY!”
We had to take a hand wash, table wipe and shirt cleaning break.
I spent the time between the 2 year old OCD break cleaning up break and this picture trying to stave off the boy eating the dough straight out of the bowl. We had to have a talk about raw eggs and salmonella.
He didn’t want to touch dough. Ever. Again. But he did want to “wook at dee cookies in dee oven!”
And he did. A lot.
Can I ask a favor? Could we all pretend like that cookie isn’t clearly burnt? Could we pretend like I didn’t get sidetracked trying to convince that sleepy faced child up there to take a nap while he screamed no because he wanted to see the cookies again and again and again?
Thanks.
While it’s clear the rousing “BOOM! BOOM!” is what is the cause of his love for “Chicka Chicka Boom Boom“, I’m convinced that Sonlight’s suggestion to make cookies after reading “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie” is the main reason he fell in love with this book. We are positively loving Sonlight right now.
I did. I gave up on Letter of the Week. While it’s clearly a wonderful curriculum, the amount of prep work involved was just too much for me. I ended up skipping weeks because we couldn’t make it to the library or because I didn’t have time to get the printed stuff together. Then, once the hubs got his new job (WOOHOO!), I just couldn’t bring myself to spend the only day we had alone together, as a family, doing prep work. With a mind better suited for pre-planning, it likely wouldn’t have been much of a problem. Unfortunately, I am a lazy ass with untreated ADD my mind just doesn’t work that way. So, I gave up and went on a search for something a little less prep intensive.
I needed something “The Boy” friendly, something that wouldn’t be 10 miles above his head but also wouldn’t bore the heck out of him (harder than you’d think with a 2 year old beginning reader), and secular. Now, I have nothing against religious curriculum in general. I just want to be the one to walk that path with my son. I don’t feel comfortable having anyone or anything else take that role, in any way, shape or form. And, after a whole lot of searching, I came across Sonlight Curriculum. While it’s clearly evangelical Christian in nature, it’s also easily adapted to be secular and it’s extremely well put together. In addition, we were able to find a good combination of cores to fit The Boy’s needs. It was wonderful. So we ordered it.
Since they’re located in Littleton, the package came in exactly one day. That didn’t stop me from refreshing the FedEx tracking page over and over and over and over again while having horrible, threatening thoughts towards the driver every time I saw him drive by without stopping. I was moments away from chasing him down the street, barefoot with a 2 year old in arms, screaming like a banshee. The only thing that kept me from doing it was that I might not be able to get the package to the county jail.
I do not deal well with waiting.
The box managed to come about 2 minutes after I found the boy napping like this…by himself:
Did I mention he was napping by himself? Without me? No, “MOMMY!!! COME HOOOOOLD MEEEEE!” No, “MOOOOMMY!! COME READ ME A STOOOORY!” Instead what I got was, “MOMMY! GO GO GO! GET OUT OF HERE! I’m going to nap with my baaaaaaaabies!” While unsure whether to be offended or proud, I saw the FedEx man leaving the gate in the front yard. The quandary was quickly forgotten and replaced with, “Should I open this before he wakes up?”
Which I did. Because I’m horrible and evil and enjoy stealing the joy from my son’s life.
Give me a little credit. I only pulled out the Instruction Guide and blinded myself to everything else. Replacing the papers exactly where they were and closing the box back up.
And, thank goodness I did, otherwise I might have missed the, “A BOX FOR ME?!” moment and this:
“WOOK AH AAH DEEZ BOOKS, MOMMY!! DER MY! OOOH! WET’S WEED DIS ONE! OOH! DIS ONE! WET’S PWAY WIT DIS ONE! DIS BOOK HAVES CAPS FOR SALE! AND GOODNIGHT MOON!” We read at least one story from every book (except the 101 Bible Stories) that moment. We played with every single thing there was to play with. It was so many kinds of awesome, I can’t even begin to describe…I guess I did. Verbosely. Sorry about that.
We’re officially beginning on Monday, and if he’s even half excited as that up there? We’re going to have a really, really good week.
The Boy’s done pretty well with weaning. The few times he called for caca (what he inexplicably calls nursing), he would quickly forget if I asked if he wanted to draw or talk about sharks. He only wanted to nurse when he was sleepy and, shortly before turning 2, he’d turned into an, “I can sleep anywhere, during anything, in any position” toddler. Nursing was becomeing less and less necessary.
A couple of days ago, he was having a particularly hard time going to sleep and wouldn’t stop screaming about caca despite my attempts to redirect. So, I told him that we could try it, and made sure he knew I wasn’t sure it was working anymore.
He tried the first side (latching okay after having a particularly hard time trying to remember how to), said, “Nope, let me try the other side caca.”
He tried the second side, “No…Too bad. Now you can hold me.”
And I swear to God I nearly cried. I tried to spend the next few days thinking it was okay. He pretty much stopped asking for caca or caught himself when he started, asking to be held instead. He had figured out that caca wasn’t working, and so had I. While he seemed okay with it, I am really not.
I’ve tried to ignore feeling crappy about it for the past couple of days but I came very close to being a sobby mess while making breakfast this morning. After all the work I put into being able to breastfeed, I feel like it was suddenly taken from me. Unfairly taken away from me.
I shouldn’t feel that way. I spent the previous 2 weeks being proud that he wasn’t trying to nurse constantly. I watched my breasts become less and less swollen as the days went on. I had to expect they’d be dry eventually.
I didn’t, though. I didn’t expect there to be a time where he’d try it and there’d be absolutely nothing. I didn’t expect such a clear and concise end of such an important and tumultuous time together. It would’ve been easier if it had faded. I don’t do well with abrupt endings.
As I sit here rambling and trying not to cry, The Boy’s laying with his head on my shoulder, proclaiming, “I love you, mommy. Let’s read a book in bed before nap time.” While my immediate internal response is to stifle the gigantic blubber that’s building in my chest because that sentence recently had “caca” in place of “book”, I also have to try to remember that this is just a new chapter. We cuddle instead of caca. We talk instead of nurse. He snuggles into my shoulder instead of my chest. It’s different, but it’s not the end.
And then I think of that smile he’d give when he was nursing. That great, big, loving grin and…well, I’ve got to go track down some tissues. This is not going to be easy on me.
Two years ago, my sweet little man was born. Two years. He’s growing so quickly, it’s a little shocking. I look at pictures like that and can’t imagine how someone so little and fragile could’ve become the wonderful, smart, holy freaking terror he is just two years later.
We asked The Boy what he wanted to do on his birthday and, despite my many attempts to put Chuck E. Cheese into his head for God knows what masochistic reason, he clearly stated that, “I want to go to Sweet Tomatoes and then Grandma’s house.” So that is what we did. He also stated, very clearly, “I do not like Happy Birthday.” I always hated being sung to, too, so I was more than willing to oblige.
My mom, the husband and I stayed up most of the night making the most horrific looking (and heavenly tasting)Word World cake ever known to man. I will not share the images of “Pig” looking as if he’s attempting to hump “Sheep”, or “Ant” looking like a victim of some God awful crime. Suffice to say, the boy could not figure out who any of the characters were and they all ended up in the trash at the end of the day.
Ignoring my stern warning to avoid it, my slightly sadistic mom family decided to sing happy birthday to him. I have a feeling each year we will get a picture like this one because there will be at least that one reveler that believes the Boy really does enjoy the singing and that I’m just making it up. And each year said reveler will quickly realize that he is wrong. Very wrong.
Somehow, despite the fact that I was the only person not singing. That I was the only person not involved with the whole conspiracy to horrify him, he remained angry with me through the entire meal.
And afterwards.
Apparently, it was my job to control these people and I was doing a horrible, horrible job.
He resorted to yelling at them himself. I think this was something along the lines of, “HEY! BACK OFF!” or maybe it was just, “That’s miiiiiine!”
Grandma, clearly, did not take him seriously.
He enjoyed all of his presents, immensely. He got to ride his new tricycle around grandma and grandpa’s neighborhood with nana, popo and the rest of us in tow. He got to watch the water at the pool. He had enough cake that he darn near passed out the moment we got him into the car seat.
We came home and he laid on my arm, as he usually does before bed, and we talked about the day he was born. We talked about the hospital. We talked about the nurses. He fell asleep after telling me, “I’m two, mommy. I was born and now I’m two.”
Happy birthday, sweet boy. You were born and now you’re two. We love you.
