3!

My little man turns three this weekend. THREE! In the whole scheme of things, three is still a baby, but when he's losing the baby fat, letting us know when he has to "GO POTTTTTTTEEEEEEEEEEEEE", and he can say, "I sorry, My sister Bella!" each and every time he's transgressed against her, I feel like he's a big kid.

And a big kid is so awesome for him to be... he is so stubborn and determined to do what he wants, when he wants, and with as little helps as he wants... he's ready for some more room to grow.

But MOMMA IS NOT.

He still wakes up sweaty and damp, holding his "Lob-ee" (Lovey) in one hand with both arms outstretched for his momma to get him from his crib. He's borderline stunting his growth sleeping in his crib (he looks like a Great Dane in a Bishon's crate), but he has never once climbed out, fought us about a crib, or looked interested in "a big boy bed" so why bother? He's comfy, safe, and sleeping.

He still loves to pick out a diaper - always Mickey Mouse - but the decision of Mickey holding balloons, Mickey hugging Pluto, or Mickey with jazz hands is quite a dilemma each diaper change. Sometimes I throw "Mickey briefs" in the mix, but those are usually tossed a half-second before the Mickey with balloons. My boy is a boy's boy, but he loves those jazz hands.

He still wants milk before bed. His preferred method to sip is to curl into your lap with one hand on yours and just as your leg falls asleep he gives a milky kiss that makes you pray time stops. Right. Now.

He needs help with his shoes and shirts, but yesterday he got a pair of pants on by himself. He jolted off the floor with a "I DID IT!" (break out the jazz hands, thanks, Mickey Mouse) and smiled a killer set of baby teeth. And I teared up as we high-fived. If he doesn't need help with his pants, no one else will. It's over. Until Mr. and I are both 80 and I'm helping him with his, but that is so not the same. At all.

He needs to constantly be reminded of the boundaries, rules, and standards in our house, but he also knows when he breaks them and a set of shiny blue eyes and a single tear tell me he has remorse as deep in his soul as I do. I hate to disappoint and he does, too.

Xander has stolen my heart in three short years. It's exhilarating to think what lies ahead in our relationship and lives, but in the middle of the night when he needed his momma (last week), it hit me.

I already hate his wife.

Never Have I Ever...

1. Said, "Get your penis off the kitchen table. NOW." (Drink!)

2. Locked myself in the garage so I could finish scheduling an appointment after hearing, "I'm sorry, I cannot hear you" turn into "Ma'am? I need to hang up if you cannot find somewhere quiet to speak".(Drink!)

3. Chopped up mushrooms, in front of my four-year-old, added them to the dinner mixture, and then swore up and down that there were no mushrooms in dinner, she could eat it in safety of dying from the miserable fungus. (Drink!)

4. Went to a mall A) with no intention of shopping and B) never walked into a store. (Drink!)

5. In the heat of an argument screamed at my husband to stop complaining about a two hour traffic jam because "I would give ANYTHING - and I mean ANYTHING - to be stuck in a car ALONE and in complete control of the radio, noise level, and nothing thrown at the back of my head followed by howls of laughter!", sir. (Drink!)

6. Watched Dance Moms, Little Miss Perfect, Toddlers & Tiara's, and most shows on A&E, to solely feel better after a bad parenting day. (Works every time... DRINK!)

7. Confirmed to a telemarketer that yes, those are in fact monkeys in the background. (Drink!)

8. Wished their little life's away "How many more days until school starts again?" only to feel awful and not want to miss a single minute. (Drink!)

9. Said, "You may not try to see how long your little brother can stand in the snow without shoes. Let him back in. NOW." (Drink!)

10. Knew I'd "never have those kids" until I had them. And I wouldn't trade them for the world! (Drink!)

Poopy Day

"I NO WEAR UNDER WEAR. I big boy BUT NO. UNDER. WEARS!"

Switching tactics, I threw the Mickey Mouse boxer briefs (yes, they make them... and filled out with a tiny tush they top my "cutest things I ever saw" list) to the side and pulled out a Mickey Mouse diaper (see a theme here?). Xander saw the diaper and wiggled away with a "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO Nothing. Nothing. NAKEY PEANUT!!"

So, against every bit of good judgement I put legs back in his (Mickey Mouse) jammie bottoms, tucked a baby peanut in, and pulled them into place. Kissing his forehead, cause really it's cute to hear "NAKEY PEANUT" even at 6am and at 100 decibels, and pulled him into the upright and locked position. He smiled and climbed onto the couch to watch "CAILLOU NOW!".

He's almost three and feeling it, people. There is no longer a battle of wills, a battle of manners, a battle of "my kids will never act like that" realization that "my kids ALWAYS act like that", it's momma for herself and I needed to find the Keurig. And quick.

Zoe came downstairs and her sleepy eyes went from glossy to bright. No good morning from this kid, just a screetch worthy of a B grade horror movie, at least.

"What, baby? Zo, have you seen my Tazo tea for the Keurig? Did you drink it all?" (Yes, my four year old is a closet hot tea drinker. She likes it black, bold, and before preschool. She is also able to make a K cup in the time it takes me to change over a load of laundry.)

"He POOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOPED!"

"Ok, we all do. But really, where is the tea?" with my hind end hiked to the sky as I searched the bottom of the pantry (where no one should attempt to search without gloves, a mask, and tongs) for one misplaced cup.

"No. MOM. He pooped. On. The. COUCHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH."

Then I remembered our "Nakey Peanut" incident an hour earlier. And then I heard Xander say, "Momma I did poo poo! Change me NOW!"

Before I could get out "DON'T MOVE!" I saw him squirm off my light green microfiber couch. Sure, I told the sales guy I wanted the cheapest cute set he had because I wanted the furniture to be disposable after two kids in five years, but not because my kid shit on it... at 7 am.

I saw it just in time to start gagging and dry upchucking. Xander started to cry and ran to me, but as the poop balls fell out of his jammies, hit his knees and ankles, plopped on our once-ivory builder-grade carpet it startled him. So he turned around with enough gusto to smush the turd balls into the carpet, get even more frightened, and flop his body into a two-year-old flop only a tantrum-throwing tot can do with perfection.

Meanwhile, my sidekick, my best friend is doing a perfect "My brother has defiled our home" performance (and soon reenactment) complete with gags, dry heaves, and "Oh no he didn't" thrown in for good measure.

The first thing that came to mind was RUN. Run in the opposite direction and never turn back around, but I pulled up my big girl panties, grabbed Xander (by his armpits) and ran to the toilet. Turds bombed the carpet, then ceramic tile, and I felt like my feet were Pearl Harbor under attack. I was hit, hit hard, but I kept moving. I wasn't leaving this little soldier in my arms behind.

We found the powder room (and for a nice home, we have a horrid powder room. It's cramped, cold, and you can barely get around the door to close it, so you can imagine the Cirque de Sol maneuvers to get us into the toilet). I yanked down those Mickey Mouse jams, plopped a sobbing babe on the potty (which on a good day makes him cry), and heard threw the sniffles (mine or his, not sure) "I all done, Momma. My poo poo all done."

This is the first time I realized just how much poo poo we were talking about. And, for the record, this collasol amount cannot be called poo poo, even if it came out of the cutest Mickey Mouse boxer briefs ever. Nope. This was SHIT, people. It was down his legs, smudged on his forehead, in his ear, and all over the front of the toilet. The stuck turds were freed when I pulled down his pants, so those were now let loose all over the powder room.

I stripped X down and told him not to move.

I did what any respectable momma would do with her child's most prized Mickey Mouse jammies Santa had just gifted her son. I threw them away. Immediately.

At this point I could survey the real damage and it wasn't good. It was horrific. My kitchen, living room, and couch not only lost the battle, but I was truly afraid they had lost the war.

Before I could clean anything I wiped X-man down with baby wipes and chucked him in a tub of bleach (California Baby 100% natural and organic, but I really did consider bleach) and told his sister in Act 2 of her production "Sit here. Watch him. Do not touch him. Just sit here. Scream if his head goes under."

I could hear "Mom... I'm only four. Am I allowed to watch a kid in a bath? Alone?" and I just kept jogging down the stairs.

My couch cushions are machine washable. The label says otherwise, but they are. They can also tolerate a little bleach (definitely Clorox this time - nothing organic in that load but the load he unloaded (pun intended)), a gallon of detergent, and even more bleach.

Woolite, Oxy-Clean, and Resolve bottles in varying stages of empty were now used, abused, and recycled.

Xander's water was cold at that point, so I did what any other respectable momma with a child covered in shit would do. Drained it, turned the shower on his unsuspecting head, drained that, and filled it up again with bubbles, warm water, and bleach.

Ok, it wasn't bleach this time, either, but I would have felt better if I did. I was having wild, poop smell induced flashes of my child having C-diff from this horrific morning, but I never did bleach the kid.

The carpet was the hardest. And the worst off. Apparently, when you call Stanley Steamers and cry, very very hard in Stan's ear (yeah, there's an awesome joke there but I was too exhausted to try it), he clears his schedule and makes it to your place. Quickly. With an OSHEA suit on.

Xander looked like an amphibean by the time he was sanitized and Zoe earned herself time on sproutonline.com for her heroics as the "my brother did not drown under my watch" champion.

By 10 am all was calm, all was bright, all was good. Except me. I could still be heard shaking and dry heaving in the laundry room. Pretty sure, a week later, I'm experiencing PTSD  at 9 am and 4 pm daily (Xander is very regular now), but we'll make it.  (And he can go to Kindergarten or even Prom in diapers if it means we will never have another morning like that one. Potty training smotty training.)

Weiners

I cannot say NO. It's not because I am unable, mute, or not aware of all the directions I am pulled day in and day out. I cannot say NO for one reason: I do not want to say no! I want to go, go hard, and do it all. I want to be the momma who is involved in everything; not creepy, suffocating momma, but room mom, Parent-Extraordinaire. So I am.

Last Wednesday I was responsible for procuring pizza for the Little Friends pizza party. It's a monthly fundraiser that for $5/child they get a slice of pizza, fruit and veggies. In all honesty, it's really so the mommy's get a day off fighting their preschoolers on which vegetable they will attempt to taste. See, we must send in five - yes, five - of the food groups in their lunch. Fantastic on paper. Miserable in practice if your son is anything like Xander.

Xander has some sensory issues that make meal times a challenge. Not a challenge like "Take five more bites and you can have a snow cone" or even "Take three more bites and you can have a pony" that my friends talk about. Nope, this is balls to the walls prying his pinched, pursed lips and locked jaw to get three bites of ANYTHING down his throat within a three day span. I have literally dangled a Popsicle, Pop-Tart, and Eggo in his face in attempt to see a single calorie intake for a 24 hour period to get a "Nah" as he walks away.

So packing his lunch isn't the easiest of exercises. He sees his puppy dog insulated tote come out and immediately starts with, "I no lunch." It only gets worse when he sees a wayward carrot slipped into the bag along with a single strawberry. Forget the Ritz crackers and a single cheese cube (which apparently round out his "acceptable" list, right behind Apple Jacks and, well, um... a grilled cheese once upon a dream), this kid saw the veggies and it isn't pretty. Thankfully, we aren't the only home dealing with this carb-a-holic dilemma of what to pack her preschooler. One of my closest friends once admitted to using the same baggie of carrots and apples until they molded and then starting fresh a month later. All year. Hey - she SENT the food. The miracle workers in the classroom could deal with getting the preschoolers to touch the food!

Back to last Wednesday and the procuring of pizza.

I got to the Costco Food Court as it opened and was surprised an elderly man in a wheelchair was already ordering. I offered to help him with condiments on his hot dog - he declined - and then I immediately ordered an abundant amount of 18" goodness in the form of molten cheese and crust so chewy it's been known to beat the Tooth Fairy at her own game by taking in loose teeth to never see them again. I had 45 minutes to kill, so I took to the aisles of retail glory that is warehouse shopping.

While picking through a pile of girls Speedo suits for $6.99 ($6.99!!!) my elderly friend was scooting along next to me and stopped close by. I glanced over and then jerked my head back, unsure whether to call the police or ask him if he needed help finding the (now missing) bun. Sitting in his lap was a Costco-sized hot dog. Not on a plate, not wrapped in foil, and without a bun. Just laying there in a creepy greying crotch/leg of a man with a twinkle in his eye and grease on his sweat pants.

I dropped the Speedo ($6.99, people!) and walked away as tears squirted out of my eyes. I couldn't laugh... right? Was this a joke? What in the hell?

I watched woman after woman drop an item, blush, and move away as Wiener Gate 2012 took place. And I tell you what... that twinkle in his eye told me that this wasn't his first time to play with his wiener in public.

Hiatus... Over.

I'm back, people!

You know, in July of 2010 I thought things couldn't get crazier. I had an 18-month old and a new three year old. They were just starting to learn about life, love, and the pursuit of happiness. And by pursuit of happiness, I mean wanting whatever the other child had. No matter what. Acquiring said item was the only way to feel happy.

Fast forward a year or so. I am now the mother of a four year old daughter whom I don't know whether to pour a cup of coffee and gossip with or give her another lecture that I'm the mommy and she gets to be the kid... so please don't harp on Xander's "poor choices" and put him in Time Out. I'll handle it.

Zoe is a lot like her Aunt Hanah. Everything she tries she is does well and everything she works at turns to gold. Nothing is difficult (except hearing the word NO), nothing weighs her down (except her little brother wanting to hang onto her legs and get pulled across the kitchen), and nothing seems impossible. She embraces life with a smile and shout of glee. Zoe loves to tumble, dance, and sing "Poker Face" and anything Black Eyed Peas. She is the light of my life and my very best friend.

Xander is my heart. I have a 36" little lover who hugs, kisses, and snuggles like the man you always dreamed of would. He came into my life in a mess of emotions - I didn't know how I thought about having Baby #2 let alone a little boy. Well, I've realized my little man couldn't be a better addition to my life unless I had him cloned. Xander is smart, silly, only wants to please, and is so empathetic he'd give his best toy to a stranger if they were crying. He is literally my heart walking around outside my body.

My husband is a fighter. He's been through a lot and continues to keep swinging. He's quirky, hard working, and a great dad to two great kids.

That's us in a nutshell. Keep an eye on the site - I'm back and I'm back for good.