Memorial Day Realization

In the midst of visiting neighbors with toddlers and inviting friends over to visit, I came to the sudden realization that with a  house with a toddler can be a train-wreck disaster or it can aspire to reach various levels of “less embarrassing.”  There is no “clean.”

The Magic Ticket

Cookie from the bathroom: I’ve finished pooping.  Who’s going to come and wipe my butt?

Me: Paper.

Mommy: Rock.

Cookie, we can’t wait until your arms are long enough to reach your butt, but fortunately, Mommy always chooses rock first.

Me:  Looks like, you’re up.

Mommy: Awwww…

Cookie: Who won?

Mommy:  Daddy did.

Cookie:  Oh, good, Daddy won the ticket to wipe my butt.

Me:  Wait…  That’s not how it works.

I Might Not Be A Mature Adult, Part 2

I might not be a mature adult.  Every day I come home with a Happy Meal toy for you, Cookie, is a day where I proudly walked into the lobby of a Manhattan office building, rode the elevator upstairs, and strolled through the corridors of a high powered office, unabashedly carrying a Happy Meal.  Does that make me immature?  Nope.

Does tempting all of the people glumly carrying salads (especially those trapped in the elevator) with the wonderful aroma of the extra large order of fries make me immature?  A little bit.

Does leaving my office door open during lunch with the happy meal box prominently placed on my desk and with the wonderful aroma of the extra large order of fries wafting down the hall to contaminate my side of the floor make me immature?  Heh.

In my defense, I do share the fries with anyone who asks.


I Have Something For You, Daddy, Part 2

Tonight, I came home late, and missed my daily scream greeting and hug. Fortunately I was in time for a very late bedtime.

Cookie getting out of bed:  Daddy, I have something for you.

Me: It’s really, late, Cookie, shouldn’t you be in bed?

Mommy: It’s ok.  She has something to show you.

Me, wary this time:  It’s not another poop in the toilet is it?

Cookie jumping up and down excitedly: How did you know?  Come see!  Come see!

Me disgusted but still awed:  That’s …. HUGE!

Mommy:  Yep, that’s amazing.  I told her not to flush so you could see it.

A few things to note here, Cookie.

1.  When you read these posts year later and realize that many of them revolve around poop, it’s not completely my fault.  You and Mommy play a significant part in the choice of subject matter.

2.  Even tough I’ve unfortuantely seen them occur over and over again (and get impossibly larger and larger each time), I’m still not sure how these gigantic toddler poops can came out of such a small body. If your tummy is thusly big, your stomach is probably here, and your large intestines should be… How is this physically possible?

3.  I married the right woman.

I Have Something For You, Daddy

On the nights I’m home early enough, I’m greeted by a screaming toddler, running full tilt to the doorway to give me a hug.  Cookie, that’s the highlight of my day. Today, however, the shrieking stopped a good yard before impact.  As I stood waiting for the hug, you motioned me to follow you.

Cookie jumping up and down: I have something for you, Daddy!

Me: Oh?

Cookie: Follow me.  Hurry!

Me:  What is it?

Cookie actually running:  This way.  Hurry!

Me: Why are we going to the bathroom?

Cookie:  I had a gigantic poop today, Daddy.  I saved it so I could show you.

Me: …!

Your gigantic toddler poops always made me wonder how it was physically possible for such a large thing to come out of such a small child.

Cookie beaming:  Aren’t you proud of me?

Me:  Ummm… yes.  Yes, that actually is impressive.

Me:  …but just show Mommy next time, ok?

I Might Not Be A Mature Adult

Cookie:  Are we there yet?

Me: Not yet.

Cookie: Are we there yet?

Me: No.

Cookie: Are we there yet?

Me:  Yep.  We’re here.  We came to see that tree over there.  Isn’t it beautiful?  Ok.  Time to go home.

Cookie:  No, not the tree.  We’re going to the museum to see the whale.  We’re not there yet.

Me:  Oh.

Me:  Are we there yet?

Cookie: No.

Me:  Are we there yet?

Cookie:  Not yet.

Me:  Are we there yet?

Cookie:  No.

Me:  Are we there yet?

Cookie: NO!

Mommy: Guys!

Me: She started it.

In my defense, Cookie, you rarely repeat the “are we there yet” mantra on trips.  I attribute your excellent behavior to my, ummm…, reflective example of how annoying this sequence of questions can be.  Yep.  That’s my story.

Baby Trafficking

One Saturday morning, when you were two, we went on a shopping trip to Buy Buy Baby (While it’s a nice store, this isn’t meant to be a plug.  The name had hilarious consequences).

Cookie sitting in the stroller: I want a baby of my own.  Then I get to push her in a stroller.

Mommy: Do you know babies are a lot of work?

Cookie: Really?

Mommy: Yep.  You have to change their diapers and give them baths.

Cookie: Oh.

Mommy: Then you have to cook special foods and spend hours feeding them when they won’t eat.

Cookie:  OH.

Mommy: Then when they throw up, you have to clean up the vomit from the baby, the floor, the walls.  The throw-up goes everywhere.

Cookie: OH.

Mommy: And then they wake up in the middle of the night, and you don’t get to sleep.

Cookie: I don’t want to have a baby.

Cookie suddenly crying: I don’t want to go to Buy Buy Baby.

Please understand that this was a big shock to Mommy and me since you rarely cried when you were little, and full on water works were extraordinary.

Mommy: Why?

Cookie crying: I don’t want to go buy a baby!  I don’t want a baby!

Mommy: Buy Buy Baby is short for Buy Buy Baby Stuff.  You can’t buy a baby at Buy Buy Baby.

Cookie inconsolably crying: I don’t want to go to Buy Buy Baby.

Mommy:  Buy Buy Baby doesn’t sell babies.  It’s illegal to sell babies.

Cookie in the middle of sobbing: What’s illegal?

It’s a good thing I was pushing the stroller as you couldn’t see me behind you, Cookie.  I didn’t want to seem insensitive cracking up in the middle of your crisis.

A few minutes later, when we entered the store, you had the most suspicious face a two year old could summon.  And no, there were no babies for sale.

You Can’t Buy Me … That Easily

Never ask a question to which you do not already know the answer.  Mommy should know that rule –she is a litigator, after all.  She also plays favorites: a bad combination.

Mommy:  Cookie, do you like Mommy better or Daddy better?

Usually you’re diplomatic:

Cookie:  I like Mommy and Daddy better.

Sometimes you tell the truth:

Cookie: I like Daddy better.

At this point, I pull Mommy aside to gently remind her that this line of questioning probably isn’t the most mentally healthy (even if she usually is joking when she asks), but by now she’s so perturbed (her mood may or may not be caused by the ear to ear grin I usually have at this time) that she continues:

Mommy: Why do you like Daddy better?

Cookie:  He buys me ice cream.

That’s not the most solid foundation for a daddy-daughter relationship, but I’ll take it.

After this conversation repeated itself several times (distressing Mommy more than she cared to admit), she took you to an ice cream truck that parked itself outside of our building one afternoon.

That evening, as we’re putting you to bed, Mommy started down the same disaster road again.

Mommy:  Who do you like better?  Mommy or Daddy?

Cookie: I like Daddy better.

Mommy: Why?  I buy you ice cream too.

Cookie holding up a finger: Once.