Happy Father’s Day – Some Assembly Required

Cookie:  Happy Father’s Day!

Me:  Thank-you.

Mommy: Cookie made you a card in art class, but we can’t find it.

Cookie:  It’s a scavenger hunt!  Here’s a hint, Daddy.  We already searched the living room.

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Happy Father’s Day to Me

Cookie:  I have to go to the bathroom.

Me: After we’re done ordering.

Cookie:  Can you take me please?

Me: But .. ok.

***

Cookie: Carry my backpack please.

***

Cookie: I don’t want to use my scooter anymore.  Can you carry it?

***

Cookie:  I’m tired.  Can you carry me?

Me: But…

Cookie: Please?

Me:  Ok.

***

Cookie: I want Daddy to give me a bath tonight.

***

Cookie:  Daaaaaaady!  I finished pooping.  Come and wipe my butt please.

Me:  It’s Father’ Day.  Shouldn’t I get a rest?  Can’t Mommy do it?

Cookie:  But it’s Father’s Day!  I want Daddy to do it.

Me: [word deleted]… Ok.

 

And a happy Father’s Day it was.  I can’t move today (why do you never get tired or asked to be carried when you walk with just Mommy?), but I wouldn’t change a thing.

The Dangers of Toddlers Reading

Cookie:  Daddy, why does the cup that I use to brush my teeth say, “Killian’s Irish Red?”

Me: [Because drinking.]

Oh good, the internal dad filter is working today.

Me: [Because sake bombs tricks are fun to try.]

Nope.  Swing and a miss.

Me: [Because  double shot glasses (plastic, of course) are the perfect size for toddlers.]

Better, but I don’t want to answer what double shots are.

Me: Look, Cookie, don’t you like the horsey on the cup?

At least toddlers have the attention span of …. SQUIRREL!

Shaming by Toddlers – The Cure for Societal Ills

Ever been embarrassed by the unfettered and brutal truth from the mouth of a toddler?  With a fresh perspective and no inhibitions, toddlers can say whatever they want, and no adult can really deny a toddler telling the truth without digging themselves into a bigger hole.  What if we could harness that power to better society?

Cookie speaking too loudly, as usual:  I smell gas!

Me: No, that’s not gas.

Cookie:  But it’s a bad chemical smell.

Me:  There is something  floating around, but it’s not gas.

Cookie speaking loud enough for the entire street to hear:  It’s bad perfume!

Cookie pointing at the man in front of us:  It’s him!  It’s coming from him!

Me:  Shhh, Cookie.  Not so loud.  And it’s cologne, Cookie.  When men wear a fragrance, it’s called cologne.

When we caught up to the poor guy at the stop light, his face was beet red.  Everyone else around us tried unsuccessfully to hide their grins.  I’m guessing he’s not going to bathe himself in that bad drugstore musk in the future.

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.

Kids Are Scary

No, I’m not talking about kids being scary in the financial sense (here’s looking at the “day” cares seriously charging college tuition to teach finger painting) or about the awesome and petrifying responsibility of raising another human being that is completely dependent upon me for every little thing (no pressure!).  Kids are actually scary.

Cookie, your Mommy and I often awoke in the wee hours of the morning to a quiet, disembodied voice floating through the monitor.  “Mom-my.  Mom-my.  Mom-my.  Mom-my.  Mom-my.  Mom-my.  Mom-my.  Mom-my.”  You didn’t cry or scream.  You just repeated the words calmly, elongating the sounds and accents eerily, just like ghosts in the horror movies that I’m sure you’ll grow to like.  Somehow at a very early age, you learned that Mommy and Daddy watch you via the baby monitor in your room.  You would stand up, look at the camera, and talk to us. Turning on the view screen of the baby monitor, we would see your face up close to the camera; only, the night vision of the camera doesn’t pick up the whites of your eyes, leaving a black pit where your eyes should be –a cherub face possessed by the demons of the darkest pits of my imagination.  That first time we saw your eyes completely black caused a jump and a scream (a manly scream, I assure you).  We love you, Cookie, but we still jumped very single time afterwards.

Cookie through the monitor:  Thirsty.  Milk.  Please.

*paper*

*scissors*

Me whispering to Mommy: D’oh!  Well, maybe she’ll fall back asleep.

Cookie through the monitor:  No sleep.  Thirsty.  Milk.

To make things worse, you have inhuman hearing.  Your bedroom is all the way down the hall and on the other side of the kitchen, yet you heard Mommy and my conversations in our bedroom with both your and my doors closed.  It always freaked us out to hear you joining our conversations via the monitor.  This, of course, was the first time, so it freaked me out all the more.

Me:  Coming Cookie, I’ll warm up the milk.

Note how well you had me wrapped around your finger, Cookie, and you weren’t even one yet.  I didn’t even speak into the monitor, I just accepted that you could hear me, and if my demon daughter with inhuman hearing needed milk, well, off I went to heat it up.  You obviously heard my response, because you sat down in your crib to wait.

So there I was, sleep deprived and already spooked, standing in the kitchen warming up a bottle of milk, when all of a sudden your toys in the dark living room started talking to each other.  I, of course, jumped three feet up in the air, splashing milk everywhere.  You couldn’t have gotten by me from your bedroom to the living room –you couldn’t climb out of your crib–, but maybe demon babies with inhuman hearing could also fly, so I went to the living room to see… no one.

Great.  Now I had a demon daughter, possessed toys, and spilled breast milk.  Where was I going to find an old priest, a young priest, and a divorce attorney at this hour?

Parenting tip: apparently many baby toys that speak or sound have a slight time delay function where it will speak or sound to regain the baby’s interest a few seconds after the baby last played with it.  On this particular night, however, all of those toys coincidentally and simultaneously had a six hour delay.  That has never happened again.