Posts from — November 2007

We got ourselves a new camera.

Merry Christmas to us, from us!

Dear Jerks,

Sorry to interrupt your cell phone conversation, but if you don’t mind, I’d really appreciate it if you wouldn’t lay on your horn for half an hour to try to get me to turn in front of the oncoming semi as I sit in front of you with my blinker on. I know you are in a hurry. However, the way the world works is, if I’m in front, I get to decide when to go. Maybe someday when you have a small human being in your car whose life you’d kind of like to protect, you might make the same cautious choices that I do. Until then, kindly shut the hell up.

Sincerely,

ME

First shirt of the day: Soft, cute, matches pants. Also apparently is covered in questionable stains not noticed previously. Removed and thrown in laundry.

Second shirt: New! Has a cactus on it. Very cool. Saturated pretty much immediately with milk. Removed and thrown in laundry.

Third shirt: Refused. Vehemently. Thrown onto floor.

Fourth shirt: Chosen by Bug. Is a pajama shirt. Battle ensues. Mommy wins.

Fifth shirt: Running out of options, but both parties settle on a kicky blue and green striped number. That Bug insists be paired with bright red socks. At this point, any alternative to naked is accepted.

And so we have a shirt. Next, on to pants…

“Mama play cars with me. Will you play cars with me? Play cars, Mama!”

“Ok, Bug I’ll play cars – which ones do I get?”

“You get Daddy’s birthday truck and the ambulance and I get the race car and the blue open top car.”

“Ok, Bug – my cars are going to race this way! Let’s go!”

“No. Mama, our cars are hungry. They want ice cream.”

“Alright, let’s go get ice cream then. What flavor are you going to get, blue open top car?”

“No, Mama! There’s no ice cream shop car to give us ice cream! We have to find ice cream shop car!”

“Ok, is it this yellow car?”

“No.”

“Um, is it this green car?”

“No, Mama, it’s the hot dog car! We have to find it!”

(We search. And search. And search. Upend cushions. Shine flashlights under beds.)

“I found it! I found it Mama!”

“Yay! Ok let’s have ice cream! Hot Dog car, I’ll take Rocky Road.” (’cause I’m a car, get it? So much of my humor is lost on a two year old.)

“We’re closed.” (says Hot Dog car)

“Wha-?”

And that was the end of playing cars.

Bug has decided that he is no longer going to call me “Mommy”. It is now “Mama”, said in the most baby-like babble possible. This shouldn’t bother me as much as it does. I mean, some children always call their mothers “Mama”. But it’s like he’s trying to screw with my mind. Or maybe he’s trying to get out of having to learn to use the toilet. Like, “See, I’m a little baby still – I can’t be rushed into this adult lifestyle of toileting and tying my own shoes.”

I don’t know where he picked it up, but I suspect it’s the same place that has taught him to sound like he’s a character on Designing Women. “Daddy” sounds like Da-yuh-dee. Cars being towed are “busted.” And it’s not “bed” or “bread”, it’s bey-ud and bray-ud. I know I’m not Southern accent free by any means, but I do keep my one syllable words to one syllable.

So you add “mama” to these things, and I feel like I’m raising a Good Ol’ Boy. Like one day I’ll look up and he’ll be standing there in a Polo button up, khaki shorts, shades and flip flops with an old faded baseball cap on his head, nursing a PBR in a coozy, like the guys we saw yesterday in Little Five Points standing on their stoop with a big sign that said “You Honk, We Drink”. (We honked of course, and they raised their bottles to us in unison and took a swig. Ah, frat boys.)

I don’t think I’m ready for that.