C is for Cookie

And Lula was already in bed, so Lumpyhead didn't even have to share it.

Proof of Shelf Life

The Cookie abides.
For now, at least.

It is certainly not out of danger. It still has to make it through the day. I wouldn't consider it Lumpyhead's yet.

Oh, and it occurred to me yesterday that I didn't buy a cookie for Lula.

So today's question is: Should I go buy another one this afternoon, or should I make Lumpyhead share this cookie?

An Ethical Question

Lumpyhead's teacher once gave him an iced sugar cookie, and now he refers to such baked goods as a "Miss Beth Cookie." I do not mix, roll out, cut, bake, ice, then festively decorate cookies at my house, so Lumpyhead does not get these cookies very often. (Since the initial introduction and subsequent constant mention of Miss Beth Cookies, I think we bought him one once. Poor deprived boy.)

I stopped by the bakery at lunch today, just to "see if anything looked good." As if. I ended up back at my desk with a $4 fudge-covered brownie in addition to my less-than-sensible lunch.

The bakery also had a pretty display of Miss Beth Cookies, so I bought one for Lumpyhead to assuage my guilt.

But here's the thing.

1. I'm not going straight home tonight. I'm going to Happy Hour first.

2. I don't want to cram this beautiful cookie into my briefcase - where it could get broken. And I'm taking the metro to the Happy Hour location, so I can't just carry the cookie carefully to my car and leave it there.

3. After approximately 36 square inches of fudge-covered brownie, I'm starting to eye that damn cookie a bit too lustily.

So. Internet:

Can I eat the cookie?

User Error

Over the course of the long weekend, I took 128 pictures - most of which are fuzzy,
blurry,
or wherein the subjects are clearly being tortured.

Bump took one. It looks like this.

Seriously. Why do I even bother?

Lumpyhead, Where Did You Go?

He's hiding.

Sometimes you just have to play along.

I Was Raised by the Dutch, You Know

Nana bought Lumpyhead this great little contraption. It "reads" specially designed books using magnetic dots near the book's spine. Lumpyhead loves it, but the books are not very durable (they are essentially spiral-bound paper). The boy is careful enough with them, but Lula is not. She rips through them like a gleeful crosscut shredder, much to Lumpyhead's dismay.

I spent about an hour last night reinserting and repairing a torn-out page from one of Lumpyhead's favorite books - using sixteen tiny pieces of tape and two tweezers. This shows:

a) I am an extremely dedicated mother who will do anything - even something sublimely ridiculous - to make her son happy.

or

b) I'm too fucking cheap to spend $8 on a new book.

Next Lesson: We Don't Unplug the Lamp When We're Supposed to be SLEEPING

We decided to wait to transition Lumpyhead to a big kid bed until after the move. We even have a kick-ass race car bed waiting at a friend's house for that fateful day, whenever that might be.

Our plan changed yesterday when during naptime, Bump went in three times to find Lumpyhead out of his crib, handing the baby things or taunting her. Lumpyhead willingly showed Bump his escape technique - which was pretty graceful - and had re-entry not proved so tricky, Lumpyhead might have kept his newfound freedom a secret for a little while longer.

The first thing Lumpyhead told me when I came home last night was "I climb out of my bed, Mama!" Awesome, Little Man. Awesome.

Bump converted Lumpyhead's crib to a toddler bed. Lula immediately climbed into it, stood up, and started jumping. Then she hauled every member of Lumpyhead's Paci Posse - those night time toys she usually can't reach - into the living room. I'm pretty sure that was just to bug her brother, because she didn't seem to want to play with them once they were there. Maybe I shouldn't assign such dark motives; it could be that she wanted to show the Paci Posse there was more to the apartment than her brother's bed.

Lumpyhead seems pretty stoked about the new arrangement. I've heard there are toddlers who treat their big kid beds like islands - even though they can get out of them, they don't.

Lumpyhead isn't one of those kids. I have good reason to suspect he spent the entire night playing with the electrical outlets in his room.

Maybe I'm a Little Oversensitive

Morning diaper changes typically go like this. I ask, "Who wants a new diaper?" and Lumpyhead enthusiastically replies "Baby!" - effectively calling Not It on the first diaper question.

Lula usually comes willingly, but this morning she took Lumpyhead's "Baby" declaration as her cue to shake her head and run squealing in the other direction.

My toddler is faster than me.

I'm really fat and cumbersome right now, but even at my un-pregnant thinnest I wasn't setting any land speed records. It took me nearly an entire lap around the apartment to catch her. If she hadn't started giggling, I might not have caught up at all. I considered throwing something at her legs to slow her down.

It's not enough that she can outwit me, apparently. She has to outrun me, too.

--

Every evening I get an email summarizing my blocked spam messages. Occasionally a real message gets caught, so I read the subject line of every blocked "likely spam" message, just in case.

For example, last week a friend sent an email with "Poker tonight?" in the subject line. Punctuation and the word "poker" (heh heh, poker) was apparently enough to categorize this invitation as "likely spam," meaning I didn't get the message until too late. Bump told me he was interested in playing and I meekly agreed to stay home with the kids, thinking I hadn't been invited. Damn spam filter.

So the emails I would otherwise ignore are starting to get under my skin. I can shrug off the solicitations for discount viagra and advice on how to keep her satisfied, but the offers to hook me up with local horny singles have lately said things like "You're a lonely loser" and "Don't spend another Friday night at home." I gotta say, it's starting to hurt my feelings.

Wail! Gasp. Sob.

The last few times I've gone to get a corn dog they have been out. This afternoon the lady behind the counter told me they weren't selling them any more. "It was fun while it lasted, though, huh?" she said cheerfully.

I couldn't tell if she was making fun of me or not.

I'm crushed.

Help a Mother Out, Again

When I get home on Mondays and Thursdays, I ask Lumpyhead if he had fun at school that day. I ask him what he did.

With prompting from Bump (who very helpfully reads the "What Your Child Did in Class Today" sheet when he's not co-oping), Lumpyhead tells me a thing or two about his preschool day.

Last night Lumpyhead asked me, "Did you have fun at work today, Mama?"

I stammered something like "Well. . . I guess so."

Which was terrible, right? Shouldn't I be modeling the kind of conversation I would like him to have with me on school days? My excuse is that I was sort of stunned by the question, so I didn't have a prepared response.

So, Internet. The next time this question comes up, do I:
1. Lie. Gush about how Yes! I had wonderful fun at work that day. I saw my friends and played with my computer and ate all of my lunch.
2. Actually tell him about my day. Explain that I had a two-hour meeting about the wording of a footnote and that my Senate counterparts are being jackasses. Again.
3. Thank him for asking and move on.

Other suggestions? Should I tell him that work isn't "fun," and I go just to keep him and his sister fed, clothed, sheltered, and insured? Would that just spur him to tell me that school isn't "fun"? Should I stop asking him if he had fun at school, and instead just ask what he did?

Do you debrief your kids about your day?


(Oh, and I kept the dress. But it still pisses me off every time I see it in the closet. Too small in the belly?!? Cripes.)

This One Goes to Eleven

According to my doctor's scale (which lies, obviously. LIES!) I have gained eleven pounds in the last month.

Eleven.

Clicking around the internet, I have seen belly photos of pregnant women ready to deliver any minute now who are smaller than me. Bump's cousin, who is due with her first baby in a few weeks, sent out belly photos last weekend and she is definitely smaller than me. Seriously, my belly laughs at her tiny tummy. My belly eats bigger things for lunch.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get a corn dog.

The Proud Parenting Moments, They Just Keep Coming

Lula will not abide kitchen towels hanging on the oven handle. She pulls them down immediately.

As I was getting Lumpyhead some juice this morning, he picked up the towel Lula had just flung on the floor and said "Oh Baby," in the best put-upon voice I've ever heard. As he pitched the towel onto the counter, he grumbled "Shit."

"What was that, Sweetie?" I asked, certain I had heard him wrong.

"I said shit," he muttered.

Well then, there you go.

Given the intonation, Bump and I are fairly certain that Lumpyhead is parroting his father. Because when I say "shit," I say it with more alarm. Also, Bump is pretty sure he calls Lula a Little Shit every time he has to pick up a towel off the floor.

--

Lumpyhead wore the surfer shirt today. He selected it out of his drawer himself. As I was putting it on him, he said "I LOVE this shirt."

Dude, if he hadn't just busted out with "shit," I would have been really annoyed.

John Lee Supertaster

One of Lumpyhead's favorite songs from Here Come the 123s is "John Lee Supertaster" (it's on the CD but not the DVD). He listens to it in the car. A lot.

If you're not familiar with the song, this won't make any sense at all. But if you are, enjoy. He almost makes it all the way through the intro in this video, before he's distracted by his dinner.

Oh, and immediately after this performance, my brilliant son picked his nose. Both nostrils, both hands.

We're obviously very proud.

New Shirt, Rejected

Can somebody please tell me what is wrong with this shirt? I mean, other than being constructed by a Vietnamese kid four months older than Lumpyhead, I think it's pretty sweet.

When I put the shirt on him this morning, Lumpyhead vehemently disagreed. According to him, the shirt is too wide (or perhaps white) and has buttons - making it unacceptable.

After several minutes of complaining, the final showdown went like this:
Lumpyhead: [clawing at it] NO LIKE this shurt!
Me: Why don't you like this shirt? Mama likes this shirt.
Lumpyhead: Mama wear it.

He made a valid point.

I let him pick out another shirt.

Let me recap the week: I have been outsmarted by my 15-month-old and lost a debate to my nearly-3-year-old.

If you have any upcoming negotiations, you probably won't want me arguing for your side. Just saying.

Confession

I know it's wrong, but I did it anyway. I knew it was wrong when I was doing it, but I still did it.

Forgive me, Sisters, for I have sinned.
It's an affront to real female sports fans everywhere, but I bought a pink Red Sox hat.
For the baby.
I think it's cute. Sue me.

Chastened

Last night Lula got her hands on my camera, and my attempts to regain possession of it resulted in squealy fits.

I needed to convince her to voluntarily give it up, so I came up with the bright idea to offer her two things she wanted, thus making her drop the camera. Brilliant, huh?

I got her pacifier and bear.

She glanced at my proposal, then looked down at the camera in her hand. She transferred the camera to her left hand, snatched the pacifier with her right, shoved the pacifier into her mouth, and immediately grabbed her bear.

She still had my camera.

I was outsmarted by my toddler, and I know it won't be the last time.

How About Now?

Lumpyhead has a new take on the "repeat wish until granted" tactic. He acts as though he's reconsidered the issue, and has come to a new conclusion.

Lumpyhead: I want to watch DVDs, Papa.
Bump: No more TV tonight, Buddy.
[a few minutes later]
Lumpyhead: Papa, I think I do want to watch DVDs.

Nice try.

Help a Mother Out

I ordered this dress, with plans to wear it to a wedding in late June. It was on sale (woot! 25 bucks!) and I liked the pattern a lot. I received it yesterday.

It fits well in the upper arms and chest. I don't like to call these my "problem" areas, but let's just say they are the places most likely to give me trouble. The length is fine. But it's too small in the belly.

THE BELLY.

Who in the hell makes maternity clothes that are TOO SMALL IN THE BELLY? Is that some sort of sick joke? What the everloving fuck. I'm not even done embiggening yet. (And yes, it is a maternity dress, purchased from a maternity shop with the words "maternity" on the tag, presumably meant for a pregnant woman to wear.)

So, Internet. Answer me this, Do I:
1. Send it back, spending another three bucks on top of the $9 shipping I already paid to send a $25 dress back to the store.

2. Save the $3 and
a) keep the dress and wear it post-partum, when it might fit.
b) put the unworn dress into the donate box, which will go to the next sucker I know who gets herself knocked up.

You got another suggestion? I'm all for 2c's or 1b's or even 3's and 4's. Have at it.

By the way, I still need something to wear to that wedding. I kind of liked this dress, but couldn't bring myself to order it because I kept thinking "As handi-capable as One-Legged Didi was, her no-legged boyfriend was even handi-capabler."

Bonus if you can you find me a special-occasion worthy dress that doesn't show too much non-existent cleavage or flabby upper arm. I'm even willing to pay more than $25.

A Very Short Case Study

Object: Cannon Corn Dog
Dilemma: Gets cold before I get back to my desk
Solution: Begin eating sooner

Result: Gone before reaching elevator