Viva La Colombia

The Question to end all Questions

"Mom, why do girls have two butts?" 

I'll let you all ponder that and get back to me.  I need an answer by the end of the day, lest my child be stuck in infinite quandry over the state of female anatomy. 

Nicolas: on working

After watching a show on extreme engineering, which features massive mining trucks, B says to Nicolas, "hey, that's what Daddy does, he fixes big trucks like that." 

"Really?  Hey, Mommy, my Daddy fixes big trucks like Caterpillars and John Deeres and Bob-n-cats.  He uses a hammer and a wrench and a driver, like this."  [gesticulates wildly, as if turning a wrench].

"That's great, Nicolas.  Daddy's a diesel mechanic and he fixes big trucks.  Mommy's a lawyer.  Do you know what Mommy does at her office?" 

"You play on the computer." 

The Talk

"Mommy, boys have penises." 

Pause.

"Yes, I guess that's true, Nicolas."

"I have a penis.  Daddy has a penis.  Michael has a penis."

"Umm . . . Okay." 

"You don't have a penis.  You just have a butt.  A really big butt." 

In case you were wondering, it all tastes like chicken

A few nights ago, Nicolas, Michael and I were playing on the floor.  At some point, Nicolas found an old tablecloth and decided he was a ghost bent on guerilla scare-tactics. 

Michael and I pretended to be scared of the ghost, until Nicolas would finally reveal himself and then we would act relieved.  It was big fun. 

At some point, the ghost acquired dragon-abilities and Nicolas pretended to char-broil everything to a crisp and then eat it, because apparently, that's what dragons do.  After charring everything in the living room, Nicolas a/k/a "Draco" started eating my fingers.  After eating for a bit, he proclaimed:

"Yum . . . tastes like chicken." 

Sticks and Stones

There is a line that every adoptive parent fears.  These aren't words of ridiculous advice from well-meaning relatives or ignorant strangers.  I'm talking about the truth that comes from the mouths of babes, and they are:  You aren't my real mother. 

These words, they are like cryptonite to the adoptive parent's ears.

Last night, I got my first glimpse of those words, which I knew were coming, but that I thought I could happily avoid until at least the pre-teen years when I could distract them with gizmos and trips to the arcade.  Nicolas was tired and cranky.  Finally, after wrangling one to bed, I started the ritual with Nicolas.  He was non-compliant and, like any good ambassador, I started threatening sanctions. 

And that's when it happened, without warning.  My precious, hilarious and good-natured little boy shouted, "I'm not going to bed and I don't love you, Mama."

Here's me, pulling the knife out of my heart, while simultaneously pretending to not hear him.

In order to avoid any confusion, Nicolas fortified his position by stating, "I. don't. love. you.  I don't even like you." Hmph. 

Eventually, we all went to bed  -- one of us with a broken heart. 

Riddle me this

Would you, under any circumstance, allow your two-year old child to ride a accident-waiting-to-happen four-wheeler? 

I wouldn't.  And I'm guessing that anyone who knows me could tell you that. What do you think my my in-laws do this weekend when I was working? 

Hint:  it involved a four-wheeler and my two-year old. 

Here's an unsolicited piece of assvice for in-laws everywhere:  2-year old boys aren't the best at keeping secrets.  And if you let them ride an unnecessarily dangerous piece of redneck equipment, chances are good the first thing that two-year old will tell his mother is, "I rode on the four-wheeler really, really fast and it sounded like vroom-vroom.  It was pretty fun." 

Here's another piece of advice:  when above-described two-year old's mother calls to (very!) politely to ask that said two-year old NOT be allowed on 2500-lb moving pieces of Death, the correct response is not, "well, I don't know what you're so worried about, it's not like they were whipping shitties out there with him on it." 

[For all you non-rednecks out there "whipping shitties" is the vernacular for spinning out the tires in a circle, a/k/a "flip a bitch" and "spinning a cookie."]

To the dogs

Last night at dinner, I caught Nicolas feeding a part of his supper to the dog. 

I calmly explained that Molly could not eat people-food because it would make her throw up.  (We know this from years of puke-clean up.)

Nicolas replied, "well, Michael frows up and you still feed him!" 

These Kids, They Practically Raise Themselves

Last night went okay, thank to everyone for their concern.  After the fever went down, I actually slept quite well.  I awoke this morning to only the slightest codeine-induced hangover. 

Since B is working overtime today, I have the kids until my SIL comes over to relieve me. 

Last night in my sedated, feverish state I was like heroin addict looking for a fix.  I desperately needed candy. 

This morning, I awoke determined to have a stash of candy in the house.  And you know what?  We had four packages of leftover almond bark in the pantry.  Jackpot. 

While I was engaging in my merry-homemaking endeavor, Nicolas had pulled off his wet diaper from the night before and was enjoy some early morning naked time.  At one point, he murmured something about having to go potty, but I was distracted with the beauty of my Martha-esque peanut butter cups and ignored him. 

Then, he disappeared upstairs for a few minutes.  When he came back downstairs, he appeared rather sheepish and quietly said, "Mommy, I had a accident." 

Driven by my sugar high, I quipped, "No problem!  Accidents happen, let's go clean it up."  When we arrived upstairs, I asked him where the accident was . . . and he pointed to his potty. 

"In there.  In the potty." 

He went in the potty -- by himself.  And here is Nico on his first solo potty run (the poopy itself has been blurred to protect the innocent):

Ne'er the twixt shall meet

While in Colombia, the sleeping arrangements were somewhat . . . less than satisfactory.  In one room for the last four weeks of our trip there was one twin bed and one queen bed.  My mother slept in the twin and Nicolas and me slept in the queen bed, while the baby comfortably slumbered in his own bed (does that seem unfair to anyone else?)  Although a bit uncomfortable and somewhat noisy during the late feedings, we managed quite well.  Nicolas finally quit falling out of bed every night and I became more used to the nightly brutality that is sleeping with a toddler. 

And so when we returned home, I was having sugar-plum dreams about sleeping under my down-filled duvet in a dark room with no pollution, car-honking or street vendors shouting, "tamales!" at 2 a.m. 

Verily, it did not come to pass.

Nicolas, my independent two-year old now believes that "mommy's bed" is synonymous with "Nicolas' bed" and he refuses to sleep in his own room.  Each night, we start out with such high hopes. 

"Oh, Nicolas!  Look at your beautiful room!  Isn't it wonderful? Wouldn't you like to sleep here?" 

"No, mommy's bed!" 

"Nicolas, who's the big boy?  Who's the big boy who's going to sleep in his own room tonight?"

"No, mommy's bed." 

And so on.

Now, I'm all for co-sleeping and if you are a person who can tolerate the nightly toddler-abuse of boob-kicking, head-butting and face-slapping, then by all means.  I'm not one of those people.  Which is why co-sleeping and me:  Never the two shall meet. 

We've tried moving him to his own bed, and the farthest I got was last night when I managed to get him to fall asleep in his own bed, but I had to sleep there until 12:30 when the baby woke for his late-night snack. 

Tonight is a new night!  Confidence will prevail!  Failure is not an option!  And so on . . .

Question:  When your kid hands you a diaper and tells he's ready to be changed, is he ready for potty training?

To sleep, perchance . . .

Dearest Nicolas:

You are the earth, the sun and the moon to me.  Mommy loves you more than all the flowers and dark chocolate in the universe.  I live to hear you laugh and say those silly things you say, because you have a wicked funny sense of humor at the tender age of 23 months.

But, baby. . .

Mommy desperately needs sleep.  I don't mean the kind of sleep she is currently netting through dozes on the couch while you watch Shrek again, and again, and again.  I don't mean the kind of pathetic fake sleep she is currently getting under a flimsy blanket wedged up between your flaying, sweating baby body and the cold wall. 

Mommy needs some good old-fashioned, preferably drug-induced, slumber.  The kind wherein she will drool shamelessly on the pillows of her comfy queen bed.  No baby kicking and tossing. No Daddy snoring.  Just sweet, sweet sleep under the comfort of a down duvet and a totally black room. 

If you do this just one little thing for Mommy she will slip you Shrek fruit snacks when Daddy isn't watching and let you use the nuk just little bit longer than she really should and pay with a high dental bill later when you are a teenager.  You can blame Mommy, really, she's okay with that. 

Mommy just really. must. sleep. 

Piece of cake

Things said at our house yesterday:

"Mama, I wanna look [at] houses."

"Okay, we'll go look at houses, but you have to take a nap first." 

"Okay." 

Five minutes later, "where's Nicolas?"

"I dunno, sleeping?" 

* * *

Seven hours later:

B says to Nicolas, "it's time to go to bed." 

"Okay."

Nicolas trots passed me, alone, through the kitchen with beloved blanket in tow.

I ask, "where's Nicolas going?"

"To bed . . . I guess."

I went into this parenting-thing thinking that it would be a lot harder. 

How weird are you?

Is it weird that the only foods my toddler son will eat is homemade pickled beets and German pickles? 

We've plied him with fancy baby food and canned delicacies that most toddlers would love.  We've tried kid-friendly macaroni and even offered him bottomless portions of processed cheese.  He's having none of that.  It's grandma's pickled beets or bust. 

I'm not overly concerned, because he apparently eats beautifully at daycare.  But every night for supper, it's pickled beets with the occasional side of spicy pickles. 

I remember being this way as a child.  My tastes were a little more, ahem, mainstream.  My favorite meal was liver and onions (I know, gross) and my favorite snack was a mayo and mustard sandwich (nothing else, just mayo and mustard, ew.)  However, my love for liver and onions was not as intense as Nicolas' nightly demand for pickled beets in mass quantities.

What's is your child's weirdest food?  What was your weirdest favorite as a child? 

Lock-Down

Today, I missed an important telephone conference because my head is up my ass.  Instead of remembering the conference with a FEDERAL JUDGE, I trapsed across the river to get some documents notarized.  [smacks self on forehead while repeating "stupid, stupid, stupid."]  I'm sure I left a wonderful impression, my career should be taking off any day now.

After missing the aforementioned conference, B brought Nicolas to my office so that B could run and pick up some insurance documents.   After playing with my calculator, telephone and breaking my CD drive by shoving a paper clip into it all in the span of about two minutes, Nicolas ran out into the hall into one of the partner's offices.  I thought.

When I chased after him, I discovered Nicolas had locked himself into the room containing the firm's server, which also happens to contain the pop machine, so you can understand his motivation.  Who wants to play with a broken telephone when there's pop to be had?

In a state of utter panic, I called the buiding's maintenance person and explained the situation. 

Calm Me:  "Ah, hi, yes, this is Erin over at SoSueMe Law Offices.  My 1 year old son has locked himself in the back room.  A room that contains many pointy and expensive objects.  Could you please come over with an extra key?" 

Maintenance Guy:  "What room?  Where?"

Not-so-Calm Me:  "The SoSueMe Law Offices on the corner of Main and Broadway? Please, hurry, my son is only 22 months old and he's starting to panic."

[Nicolas in the background saying, "Maaaaama.  I'm stuck.  Maaaah - om.  Stuck, mama, stuck."]

Getting Stupider By the Minute Maintenance Guy: "Oh, well, I'm having lunch right now.  I guess I could try to get there in the next hour or two." 

Panicking Me:  "No, you don't understand, he's only 22 months old, he's starting to get scared."

Really, very, very Stupid Maintenance Guy:  "Well, I'm busy right now, I'll get there when I can."

Me (realizing this guy is not going to help):  "Fine." [slams down phone down while cursing Maintenance guy with various horrible afflications in his old age.]

Eventually, Brian showed up and pryed the door open with a screw driver and hammer.  We found Nicolas playing on the server.  Crisis averted, nothing was broken and nobody had swallowed anything.  All in a day's work. 

Budding Genius or Clear Evidence my Boy Watches Way Too Much Television?

Television is my crack.  Growing up, we only got one channel on our pathetic, out-dated television set.  Let's just say, I suck at television trivia circa 1970-1980.  While in college, I never even owned a TV.  And then, I got out into the real world and discovered the beauty of fettering away my free time engrossed in the imaginary problems of TV people. 

I let Nicolas watch Sesame Street, because PBS is the television equivalent of whole wheat bread, right?  Wholesome, good for you, chock full of fiber.  We don't have cable, so I'm not worried about violence or sex, since he also goes to bed at 7:00 pm.  No worries, right?

Wrong.

Nicolas is addicted to "Who Wants to be a Millionaire?"   

I have no idea how this happened.  Apparently, we let the little guy watch too much TV.  I guess that part's painfully obvious.  DUH!!!

Every night, our local new broadcasts the farm futures (yes, it's that hokey) and plays a little polka tune for about 30 seconds.  At that moment, Nicolas perks his ears, drops whatever he's doing and runs to the TV screaming, "MY SHOW! MY SHOW ON! MY SHOW!" 

How anyone could get that excited over Meredith whats-her-name is beyond me, but Nicolas loves her.  He even claps at the right times (I'm pretty sure this has something to do with the music cue, but hey, it's still pretty smart.) 

A Beautiful [toddler] Mind

Yesterday, I traveled to our fair state's capitol city (in the middle of NOWHERE) to argue an appellate case.  While I'm in court, my mother usually watches the Little Man for me.  After court, I took my mother and Nicolas out to lunch.  Since it's on the company dime, I'm able to treat her at a little more upscale dining establishment than, say, McDonald's germ-infested play room. 

Picture this:  my mother, Nicolas and I are enjoying our upscale dining adventure at said fancy-schmancy restaurant when Nicolas takes it upon himself to be Mr. Manners-Enforcement-Man.  The pleasant-looking waiter brings us our bread and various dipping sauces, then proceeds to leave the immediately dining vacinity.  Ever-vigilant Mr. Manners-Enforcement-Man says, "tank you!"  I'm proud, grandma is proud.  We look at each other and nod in silent approval of Nicolas' clear destiny for the White House. 

The waiter continues walking away from the table.

Undaunted by this obviously rude infraction of polite society, Nicolas shouts after him a little louder, "Tank You!" 

The waiter is still walking away, clearly the rudest on earth.

Determined to school this young man in the ways of the upper class, Nicolas finally yells (while doing what I swear was an eye roll,) "HEY!  TANK YOU!" 

The waiter finally turns and says, "uh, yeah, you're welcome, I guess." 

Satisfied, Nicolas smiles at him, smiles at us and takes a long swig of milk. 

Mission accomplished.

Doing our part for fancy restaurants everywhere in an entirely unobnoxious manner. 

Ode to a Swiffer

Initially, please note I have huge oral argument coming up on Monday.  I'm supposed to be working on that right now, but in the spirit of my genius at avoidance behavior, I offer the following musings on toddler perfection. 

Nicolas is in love with the Swiffer.  It all started on slow Saturday morning.  B and I were making a pathetic attempt to clean our apartment, which is an exercise in futility when you have toddler.  "Resistance is futile, you will be assimilated!"   And since we're both drones, Nicolas usually wins, we give up, the house stays a total disaster, and so on. 

A few Saturdays ago, Nicolas was attentively watching B use the Swiffer.  Soon after, I found Nicolas holding the Swiffer with ye olde toddler death grip.  Nicolas trolloped merrily throughout the apartment looking for things to Swiffer.  First, he did the floors, like any good observant fellow: 

Beholde, even our doors have been Swiffered by the master:

Now, Nicolas has become a veritable Swiffer prodigy.  He really gets into it.  B figured how to make the Swiffer Nico-sized by removing two of the metal tubes.  Nicolas takes the Swiffer and scrubs away at any surface that can take a beating.  Some mornings, if I'm not fast enough in getting ready to leave, Nicolas will casually open the hall closet, gingerly remove the Swiffer and go about his Swiffering duties. 

Now that's dedication. 

Crap-o-matic

Have we ever talked about poop?  No?  Well, then it's about time we did!

Inevitably, whenever I dropped Nicolas off at daycare, the daycare lady talks to me about Nico's poop.  She talks about other things, too, like how much he's had to eat and whether he slept long at nap time yesterday.  Mostly, though, she talks about his poop. 

Nicolas is um, well, a rather prolific pooper.  The little guy can crank out a couple of good ones virtually minutes after a meal.  It's not uncommon for Nicolas to have a poopy at least once before daycare, three or four while he's at daycare, and then one, just for good measure, after his bath and before bedtime. 

I don't mind that Nicolas has strong intestinal fortitude.  In fact, I'm very pleased he appears to have solid evacuation habits.  However, the drawback to this, er, talent is that whenever we leave the house, Nicolas will get the look on his face.  Nicolas was born with a wee bit of a stork bite on his forehead.  The stork bite has faded, but every once in a while, when he's really concentrating, it ever-so-slightly reappears. 

It's like clockwork, I tell ya.  You know how some people say they can set their clocks by their periods?  Not me.  No sir-ee, I have my own little 23-pound cuckoo-clock with intestines like a fine Swiss time piece. 

Now that Nicolas is fast-approaching potty-training age, we will occasionally ask him (when it's PAINFULLY obvious he's mid-business) if he's having a "poopie?"  Invariably, he will bellow, "noooo" and run and hide in a corner of the next room.  Apparently, he's a little shy about the poop. 

Good thing I'm not, otherwise the entire internets wouldn't know what a great little pooper we have on our hands.  No need to thank me, I know your lives are truly enriched by knowing about the poo.  You're welcome. 

Foiled, again!

Time magazine recently came out with the 25 most influential Latinos in America.  Get this:  Nicolas wasn't on the list. 

Well, clearly they don't know greatness when they see it. 

Am home sick.  Took too much Advil for icky cramps.  Icky cramps have turned into gut-rot. 

Emotional Intelligence

Every day with Nicolas, I think to myself, "okay, there's no way he's ever going to be any cuter, he's perfect just the way he is."  Then, Nicolas will do something even more amazing and I'll say to myself, "okay, seriously, there's NO WAY he could be any cutuer."  And so on.

Yesterday, we spent the day together blissfully fettering it away.  No plans, no running.  Just us.  Nicolas must have thrown at least six new words at me.  Most surprisingly, is that he used them all in the appropriate context. 

Throughout the day, we were looking at houses and as we would leave I would say, "thank you!"  Pretty soon, as we were leaving Nicolas would say, "bye-bye! Tank you!"  That was enough for me to think he is a genius.  But it gets better. 

Last night, as we were having our evening cuddle, Nicolas reached up with both his hands and cradled my cheeks.  Right before I laid him down, he says, "tank you, mama." 

I swear, there's no way he can get any cuter.  Really, I mean it this time.   

Behold the Destructor

Nicolas is coming of age.  That is, he is learning the power of his hands and fingers.  And also, that he is a BOY.  B-O-Y.  He likes to takes things apart and not necessarily put them back together.  Just like Dad. 

Exhibit 1:   Nicolas caught in the act of dismantling the neatly stacked and organized (according to size and function) diapers. 

Exhibit 2:  Behold the carnage!

Exhibit 3:  He's not even ashamed.  In fact, he's quite proud of himself. 

My son, the little man, destructor of all things organized by Mommy.  His life's mission:  to dismantle and deconstruct.  (And drive Mommy a wee bit crazy.) 

Video

Does anyone know how to upload short videos to typepad or other file sharing page? 

Worship of The Boy

Have I mentioned how awesome Nicolas is lately?  He is. 

This weekend, we traveled to the Big City to visit some college roommates.  I adore them and I wish I could see them more than once per year.  Whenever I'm around them, we fall luxuriously into a comfortable rhythm.  I forgot how very well they know me and how well I know them.  We joke, we laugh, we smile.  For a brief few years, we did that everyday.  I miss them. 

Nicolas was charming and coy.  He doesn't like to brag or show-off, so I had to do a lot of that for him.  The other moms were OBVIOUSLY jealous of Nicolas, but I had to say, "hey, step off, he's mine.  You breeders can go make one yourself." 

Despite the long ride to the Big City, we didn't really do that much shopping.  B got a new pair of jeans.  He's very picky that way.  He only wears Polo (the expensive kind) carpenter pants.  Procuring a pair of these very specific jeans requires (1) money; and (2) a trip to a very expensive department store.  What ever happened to the little boy that was happy with a new pair of Toughskins? 

The only other major purchase was a new stroller.  I know -- very exciting! Everyone keep their shorts on.  We got [drum roll] . . . a Peg Perego!  Can you tell I'm all in a tizzy about it?  To date, we've gone through (and by "gone through" I mean broken) three strollers. 

The first stroller was a hand-me-down we used in Colombia.  The wheel fell off in the Miami airport, so that was fun.  The second two were both Gracos.  I don't know if I'm doing something wrong or what.  One of the Graco's pulls to the right and I can't really steer it, so I let Grandma have that one.  She can wrestle with the damn thing.  The second one's wheel is all warped and basically totally useless.  It's propped up in the garage.

I suppose if I were really thrifty, I could order new wheels on the Graco website, but I really don't feel like giving them any more money.  And if I did that, I wouldn't be able to go around showing off my Peg Perego.  For now, love it!  I will report any and all product criticisms as they arise.