PunkKittyDiddy

Finger Pickin' Good

My stance on this particular issue may very well incite heated debate and controversy within the toddler community, but I have to get this off my chest:  I fervently believe that pretzels, and other assorted foodstuff, have no business being shoved in a nostril, or really in any bodily orifice, except for the mouth.

Z. made it clear that she falls on the other side of the fence on this topic, because yesterday she launched a nice-sized nugget right up her nose.  Fortunately, I am getting the hang of this whole maternal instinct thing: while I didn't actually witness the incident, I had handed her a pretzel (mind you, she has previously had no trouble maneuvering such into her mouth), turned my back for mere seconds, and then looked at her again, at which point her face was contorted into a mask of raging discomfort and confusion.  "Nose!" she protested.  I immediately deduced what had happened to the pretzel.  I'm Sherlockian like that.

OK, maybe this wasn't the most amazing feat of superhuman sleuthing ever performed.  Maybe this was a no-brainer.  Maybe a more experienced parent would have instructed her to NOT put the pretzel up her nose before even handing it over.  Maybe figuring out what happened to the pretzel was even more straightforward than handing Lindsay Lohan a vodka tonic and an eight-ball, turning one's back momentarily, and inherently knowing, seconds later, exactly where those items had disappeared to.

Anyway, I followed a course of action that would have made the incarnation of my former, non-parent self (and any non-parent) shudder in horror.  I had my finger waaaaay up that little nose in an attempt to dislodge the quite visible boulder of dough and salt.  (Did I mention that this was all taking place in a moving vehicle?   I wasn't behind the wheel, at least, but it certainly gave me an idea for a new challenge that could be pitched to the producers of Fear Factor ........)  For whatever reason, Z. didn't want to sit still for this  farce.  Doesn't matter, because I quickly realized that this approach was not likely the most practical course of action anyway, as I was probably just lodging the obstruction further up the nostril. 

We then embarked upon a crash course of how to blow one's nose good and hard, so that everything short of brains comes flying out.  Z. proved to be a most astute pupil, and the bloody morsel was soon launched out of the nostril and into the stratosphere, never to be seen again.  (Actually, it may have landed in grandma's purse, but aren't those little unexpected discoveries just part of the joy of grandparenthood?) 

At any rate:  victory! 

But......must every bite of food now be dispersed with the disclaimer that enjoyment of said food item cannot be guaranteed if ingested through an inappropriate body cavity?  I bet lawyers make really good parents.  They probably think ahead and cover all of this in a boiler-plate waiver which their kids are required to sign before each meal or snack. 

Man, I had no idea that parenting required such an degree of hyper-specificity.........

The Miraculous Stunt Wallet!

I recently developed an ingenious device intended to spare me from both immediate financial crisis and longer-term economic inconvenience.  I hereby reveal to you all (particularly those of you who are parents to toddlers) my new invention:  the Stunt Wallet.

As dear Z. quickly encroaches upon the rocky terrain of terrible two-dom, one of her favorite games is removing my wallet from my purse and scattering the contents like chum in shark-infested waters.  If you think this description carries with it an overbearing stench of melodrama, you try retrieving a wad of currency once it has been cast to the winds in a public park, or finding a debit card that has been buried in a polyester tomb of sofa cushions and further encrusted within an impenetrable seal of food crumbs and lint by a tiny criminal mastermind who, even after being caught and questioned about the crime, reveals herself to possess both a maddening lack of fluency in English and a wholesale disregard for authority.

So I was cleaning out my closet (sort of) and found an old wallet of mine that contained a number of expired credit cards, frequent shopper cards, depleted gift cards, and so on.  After doing a bit more rummaging in random desk and kitchen drawers and rarely used (these days) evening bags, I located other similar items, and even an expired driver's license of mine from another state.  A stickler for detail, I then gathered up a smattering of Monopoly money just to complete the illusion.  Oh yes - from these raw materials I quickly forged a highly authentic-looking Stunt Wallet!  I placed it in an easily reached, even conspicuous locale within my handbag and waited to observe the amazing Stunt Wallet in action.  Would the results of my field study back up my hypothesis that I am in fact a genius, or at least a moderately clever person?

No.  It seems Z. can readily find gainful employment working for any number of local, national or even international law enforcement type agencies who run any sort of elite Counterfeit Task Force.  She sniffed out the impostor wallet within seconds, and after examining its contents all too briefly (I wasn't clocking her speed or anything, but I estimate it was about one-twentieth of the time it took me to actually assemble my invention), she tossed the offending item aside in her haste to locate the real deal.

Still, feel free to borrow the idea.  Your mileage may vary.  

Now, If Only Twinkies Imparted Spiritual Awakening or Social Responsibility.....

Word of the day:  metacognition.

It means, "thinking about thinking."  I stumbled across it quite by accident as I planted wee Z. in front of the TV to watch Blue's Clues.  Prior to the commencement of the episode in question, a message appeared upon the TV screen, bearing the news that this seemingly innocuous kiddie show actually develops "metacognition" in its viewers.  So, basically, I was subjecting my preschooler to a potentially potent force of unknown subjective origins (good?  evil?) without having any idea what I was doing.  I mean, sure, I could piece together the gist of it.  I know "meta."  And I know "cognition."  Yet I exposed her to a concept whose meaning I had to confirm in a dictionary before I could fully grasp the repercussions. 

Is that bad parenting?

Worse, what if metacognition had meant, "to instill an affinity for monster truck rallies and aerosol cheese" instead?  We would have been totally screwed, because I probably still would have let her watch it, since I had some freelance business to attend to and was desperate to buy myself a little uninterrupted time at the computer.

Every day brings a new obstacle course of moral and ethical tripwires in this marathon of parenthood.

Road-Rage Elmo Rides Again

Over the weekend I finally had the opportunity to re-connect in person with beloved pal I.S.. We had fallen out of touch for two years or so, right around the time I was stumbling headfirst with gobsmacked ill-preparedness into new parenthood.  Turns out I.S. (well, I guess it's I.C. now) was awfully busy herself during our friendship's hiatus, as she found herself falling madly in love, getting married, and giving birth to a delicious little dollop of a baby boy, who is now nearly five months old.

Since reuniting, we've mostly been exclaiming, "Whoaaaa, dude, we're, like, uh....moms now!" to each other over and over again.  (Picture Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure meets Baby Mama.)  It's pretty awesome to now be able to share new motherhood with an old friend.  Plus this doubles the number of close mom friends who sit inside my inner circle - yes, that number has skyrocketed overnight, from one, to a whopping TWO.

What's particularly funny is that back in our footloose and fancy-free days, when I.S.C. and I were just a couple of single gals cavorting around the city, whenever we'd have an encounter with one of L.A.'s famously awful drivers (which was often, because they are legion), we would amuse ourselves by channeling Road-Rage Elmo.  We considered ourselves to be the height of hilarity, ironically juxtaposing the Red One's bubbly and boisterous babbling with an R-rated eruption of verbal filth.  We were trend-spotting, nightlife-living bachelorettes, after all.  We worked at a movie studio.  We were edgy.  We blithely mocked the sanctity of Sesame Street, and the furry muppet nincompoops who trod its hallowed streets. 

Who's laughing now? 

Elmo, of course.  His spiteful cackle has long since numbed my eardrums and become a recurring background noise in the soundtrack of my new life.  While I.S.C.'s son is just small enough to evade the Red One's calculating grasp, at least for the time being, it's only a matter of time before Elmo completes his circle of revenge and ensconces himself in the S./C. household too.

I'm telling you now, my friend, it's a rough road once Elmo makes you his bitch.  Though we probably had it coming.

Her Juicebox Runneth Over

Z. has not yet learned how to say, "I'm thirsty," and so instead she makes this really weird gargling/warbling sound that goes something like, "Bbbblubbalubbablubbbaglug!" when she wishes to inform me that she has reached a state of parchedness.

I decided I am going to try this approach next time I am dining out and wish for a waiter or busboy to refill my beverage.  No polite display of verbal excess such as, "Excuse me, sir......?" - not anymore!  Just,  "Bbbblubbalubbablubbbaglug!"  Although maybe it's only cute when you have smeared Spaghettios all over your face and you're not quite 2.  We'll see.

Without wandering outside the general confines of the subject of adventures in tipsy-cupping, I've taught Z. to let out a prolonged, "Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!" after taking a sip of any type of liquid refreshment.  I can't imagine this will actually come back to bite me in the backside later or prove annoying after prolonged exposure to the habit.

And On The Sixth Day He Created Red Dye #40, Which Begat Red Vines, and It Was Good.....

  The allmighty Diesel hath verily wrought an epic tale of candy carnage so funny, 'twould be a sin not to read it.  All I can really do is drop to my knees in awe over his mighty creation. 

Dude, you're spectacularly funny.

This works out well, as I'm feeling a bit lazy this morning, so go enjoy the fruits of his sweaty keyboard labors instead.......

Damn it.  Now I want candy too.

If Only

Z. woke up this morning in the midst of a bad dream about some heinous worldwide juicebox shortage, or so I'm guessing, because she was frantically shouting, "Noooooo!" and "Juice!  Juice!" as she awakened.

I love this.  I love that her world is so uncomplicated.  There is no recession or terrorism or global warming or ongoing superdelegate tally.  At worst, for the moment, there's just maybe not enough juice.

   

Marie Antoinette Would Be Proud

Z. has just recently learned one of the most potent words in the entire English language.

"Cake."

I'm further pleased to report that her cognitive development is very much on track, and she has a solid grasp of the concept behind the word, "cake"....oh, this is no coincidental, arbitrary verbal eruption that toddlers are so prone to......nay, it's wholly unlike her grasp of the word, "elbow," which is often blurt out at random, decidedly non-elbow-related moments. 

See, we were celebrating Stepdaughter's birthday tonight, and thus for the occasion I had been assigned the task of procuring the relevant foodstuff.  So Z. and I roll into a bakery earlier today to snag us a little somethin'-somethin', and the Wee One immediately set forth to prove her emerging way with words.  Though perhaps you had to actually be there to appreciate her delivery.  Rife with nuance, it was.  It wasn't, "cake," so much as, "CAKECAKECAKECAKECAKECAKECAKECAKE!" 

You know that part in The Shining, where Jack Nicholson cleaves the door open with an ax, and pokes his head through, and says, "Heeeeeere's Johnny!"??  That's kind of exactly how it rolled off of Z's tongue, only she was saying,"CAKECAKECAKECAKECAKECAKECAKE!" instead.

Incidentally, I'm still feigning total ignorance as to whom she inherited her sweet tooth from.

The Boneless Chicken Method of Circumventing Parental Despotism

In clashes with authorities, one of the more favored methods employed by peaceful protesters is to simply let their entire body go limp when being arrested.  I've seen footage of anti-war sit-ins and love-ins from the 60s, as well as more current scenarios in which this tactic is utilized, and I had naively wondered how imitating Gumby could be all that effective in wearing down the opposition.   

Fast forward to present day.  Somehow this anti-war footage found its way into Z's tiny little hands, and she's studied it diligently.  Well, this is the only explanation I can come up with, at any rate, because seemingly overnight, Z. has developed an uncanny boneless/rubber chicken impersonation.  (The first time she pulled this ace out of her sleeve, I was immediately reminded of my very favorite Far Side cartoon, at left.)  She usually wields this strategy when I am attempting to move her against her will from Point A (say, the candy aisle of the supermarket) to Point B (the far-less-festively decorated slum-like outskirts of said supermarket, where all the grotty, pungent mounds of broccoli and green beans are being peddled).

I no longer smirk at this deceptively pansy-ass-looking tactic of psychological warfare.  It's damn effective.  In fact, when faced with moving one solitary, twenty-something-pound toddler whose entire skeletal structure has suddenly turned to jelly, I become highly anxious.  The very idea of having to clear an entire city block of flaccid pacifist vegans in such fashion makes me feel like sobbing uncontrollably whilst beating myself into submission with a policeman's baton.  I get it now.  It works.

Now, the tear gas chucking and body checking methods generally used by the authorities to disperse of your standard anti-war protest crowd is clearly an unlikely option when dealing with a beloved toddler. Any of you more experienced parents out there have any effective, appropriate remedies for the whole bowl-of-jello stalling tactic?  Will be waiting with baited breath in the candy aisle for your texted suggestions.

Thanks in advance. 

Outtakes From Child's Play 5: The Reckoning - Live From Our Living Room

I am starting to think that toddlerhood inevitably has a touch of Chuckie about it.  I mean, it's not like Z. has developed an abnormal interest in cutlery or crime (either would result in a stint on the "naughty chair," per Supernanny's recommended regime), nor has Z. ever utilized voodoo to transfer her soul into an inanimate object in a sociopathic effort to avoid taking responsibility for her actions when she's in the wrong and attempting to elude a hardened street detective who's hot on her heels (at least not that I'm aware of...although, granted, it is amaaaazing what a toddler can accomplish in the span of a few seconds when your back is turned....). 

Truly, Z. is a sweet, mellow, good-natured toddler.  It's just that, once in a while, she gets a bit Chuckie-esque when certain conditions converge - like, under the light of a full moon, if it's a Tuesday, occasionally her actions and behavior would make more sense if they could be attributed to some vague Chuckie Lite shadow figure.   

I'm not too worried yet, because from what I've heard and read, this is not exactly an uncommon toddler phenomenon.    It's just weird to watch the transformation, but what was I expecting?  How much trouble could she have possibly gotten into when she was a newborn and 100% immobile?

I.G. is the one who first drew the Chuckie comparison.  Since Z. has graduated from walking to running, her little footsteps are falling a bit heavier on our hardwood floors these days.....and as she barrells down the hallway, well...yes, admittedly.....the sound is not unlike that of Chuckie running amuck at a potential crime scene.  Morever, when Z. stops running, the silence is not soothing, or long overdue, or welcome.  It's just eerie.  Why?  I can tell you she's not standing there quietly doing nothing.  She's dissecting the printer.  (With a salami.)  Or she's plotting a burial at sea for some small, valuable electronic item or communications device (cell phone, blackberry, remote control, camera), via our toilet.  (Yes, we have one of those toddler-proofing locks on the toilet.  The only thing that accomplishes is driving her into a mini-tantrum, during which she'll take the small, valuable thing she was hoping to send to a watery grave, and use it to bash the toilet lid in an attempt to alleviate her frustration......which, it turns out, is only marginally less destructive to the overall condition of the small, valuable thing than immersion in toilet water.)  Yesterday, she took a crayon and was trying to trace Cat #1's outline on the floor.....at first I thought it was rather ingenious of her - very Keith Haring circa 1982 - but then it reminded me a bit too much of a crime scene chalk outline, so I redirected her artistic outburst away from the feline and toward a large sheet of scratch paper instead.

Sure, when Z. starts laughing maniacally, the whiff of Eau de Chuckie in the air grows a bit stronger.  Think the comparisons stop there?  Nope.  Have you ever tried to have a sane, rational conversation with a homicidal maniac?  I haven't, but I'm guessing the odds of success are slightly higher than they are when you attempt to have a sane, rational conversation with a toddler in the throes of a tantrum.

Thing is, I'm more in love with Z. now than ever.  Madly, deeply, profoundly, irretrievably in love with this little nut, so.....eh.  I guess I wasn't really going anywhere meaningful with this whole analogy.  Mostly I just think it's cute when she gets that impish glint in her eye.

It would be cool, though, if I could get a full orchestra to camp out in our living room - if I had to turn my back for a second, the ominous swell of music would be a huge help in tipping me off to any mischief in the making............