Prolly All the Time

mental gymnastics...

So far, my single biggest observation of being sans-employment is how freaking busy I am...  Seriously, there was a metric shit-ton not getting done around here on a regular basis. 

IMHO (and since this is my blog, that is pretty much all you get here...) I have been pretty pleased with my ability to address issues that heretofore have taken N.'s and my collective talents MONTHS to figure out.  The number of solutions I have created for the master bedroom cable issue ALONE is quite impressive, not to mention the organization of my new closet.

[Did I mention that in the midst of the rather abrupt decision to leave the job, casa t'pon also relocated?  I didn't.  Hmmmmm, well consider yourselves informed.] 

N. would probably interject here to offer the perspective that he is quite amazed at the number of "problems" I can imagine in just the first 10 minutes of the day that need to be solved ASAP and preferably with some kind of large expenditure.  But he is insane from inhaling paint fumes, so feel free to ignore him.

Also, finding myself with much more available time during "normal business hours," I have been enjoying the task of running a whole new world of errands, beans in tow. 

I bring this all up not to try to get someone to throw me a ticker-tape parade (although, that would be nice).  I bring it up to state the mind-achingly obvious.  This shit is... challenging.  I have a new found respect for women (and men) who go about the task of hunting and gathering in the urban landscape each day with a child (or, GASP!, children) strapped to them.

Now, I have ALWAYS thought that being a stay-at-home parent was ridiculously hard work.  N. and I have long paid someone good money to do that job at casa t'pon. But what I have never fully grasped, until now, was how much mental work is required.  Dare I say it, but there is some graduate-level problem solving going on here...  and I find myself woefully under-qualified.

Yesterday, for example, started with a real-life scenario of that old "fox, chicken, bag of grain" brainteaser when I took Banzo to the vacuum repair shop.  How, I asked myself in the parking lot, was I to get one toddler, one broken vacuum, and my other stuff out of the car and into the store without raising the concern of an overzealous "do-gooder," irking off the guy who would be fixing the vacuum, or crushing my skeletal structure trying to get everything at once. That one errand, put me back 15 minutes on my schedule.

There are the complex, multi-party negotiations; chemical compound identification and analysis; mechanical and electrical engineering; required vast knowledge and immediate recollection of 20th and 21st century Kiddie Lit; geography; economics...  the list goes on, and on, and on...

And, it has only been one week. 

I am so very tired and am really beginning to welcome the thought of going back to work.

But, I need to know...  what brainteaser did your day most resemble?

coq...

A few years back, bean and I were really into this site (can't find it now, so sue me for the link...) filled with audio clips of kids making animal noises in different languages.  Now, I consider myself a pretty cosmopolitan person...despite the obvious suburban location.  But I had no IDEA that animals spoke in different languages.  I mean, I guess in theory that makes sense, but still...

Anyway,it was a bit of an obsession... a cute obsession. Bean would run around the house, making animal noises in different languages while I struggled to just get him to say anything in English.

And then after a day sometime, it was just irritating. It maybe got so bad that I wished I had never introduced it in the first place.  The kind of bad that that makes you want to bang out your ear drums with a meat tenderizer after the 18th time in the last seven minutes you have heard the rooster crow in French.

And so, I unintroduced it. (Like I unintroduced M*ckey M*use Clubhouse when I determined that it was melting my will to live.)   And after much gnashing of teeth and tearing of garments, Bean moved onto other Web-based obsessions. For many happy months, the inhabitants of casa t'pon lived a francophone rooster-free existence. 

Let me interject here.  What I find truly amazing about kids (at least mine) is how they operate like a really funk-dirty sponge.  Soaking up everything around them, but only saving up the truly nasty, dirty, germy bits to spread around your counters and table tops for fun later on...  Can't get this kid to remember to poop in the poop-can, but he sure can remember to tell everyone in Target that his mommy is tired of cleaning "sh&t" out of his pants...  precious.  really.

And so it was that a few days ago, the francophone rooster returned.  at 5:30 in the MORNING.  with a megaphone.  attached to a sub-woofer. placed directly inside my BRAIN!   

If I were the kind of parent that thought spontaneous bouts of cuteness were charming regardless of the hour or VOLUME...  perhaps, I would be a better person all around.  But, alas, I find cute to be far more, well cute, with an extra 2 hours of sleep in the morning.

So here's to you...  CO CO RICO!  I am getting some duct tape and taking a nap!

joy

This morning, I decided that I am far too young to have two toddlers. If I were giving grades in family planning I would give myself a "D." [ NOTE:  I am not grading on a curve...  If, for example, one were to take into account teenagers and couples whose family planning goal appears to be fielding a Division 1-A athletic program, I would clearly get a B+.]

Per the custom at casa t'pon, this morning Bean woke up just shy of 6 AM.  I heard him come down the stairs, pitter-pat across the tile floors into our room, SLAM the freaking door, and then creep up to my side of the bed.  Now, this is usually when he climbs over me into our bed for about 30 minutes of uninterrupted Bean-time (until Banzo wakes up in earnest).  Instead, on this fine fall morning, I was assaulted -- smacked in the face with a wet and heavy diaper and informed by my eldest son that he was, in fact, "WET!"

happy freaking blue bird day...

I headed upstairs to get Banzo shortly after meeting little Mussolini's additional demands for "MILKSH!" and "TEEBEE ON! HEHWOES!" (which for those of you not versed in Bean-speak amounts to Milk and Higglyto*wn Heroes). Per the custom at casa t'pon, the smell of crap was heavy as I opened the door.  And this morning, I was greeted by a huge shit-eatin' grin... literally.  Poop on the sheets, poop on his hands, poops in his hair, and poop on his mouth.  One giant, 27-lbs poopsicle.

its a shit-shining day...

Clean everyone up, make the morning bottle, curl up in bed with my boys and start to feel the warm glow of motherhood push aside the less than stellar start to this Friday.  I roll over, and there is that familiar smell again... poop.  On my sheets. Not much, but enough.  Not from the kids... please Gahd, not from N... nope, from my left boob.  A big smear of baby shit on my shirt. C-R-A-P... hmmmm.

And then, as I am semi-silently cursing a blue streak.  I hear it...  "HAPPY OU-AY OO YOU!" with big snotty kisses and vice-like hugs.  We dance to the Bea*tles.  And it only gets better from here.

opposites attract

What amazes me most about these two boys...  more than how fast they grow, more than how much they eat (oh GAHD, how much they eat!!! when these kids hit puberty, we are going to have to buy some small agrarian island society just to reasonably support their appetites) is how different they are -- like some Eastern Philosopher's vision of balance. And it goes way beyond the obvious physical differences -- brunette/blond, shorter/ginormous, green eyes/brown eyes... Bean is the risk-taker while Banzo prefers to sit on the side and let him take the first horrible fall.  Banzo is our lover and Bean has been known to kick and scream his way through a hug.

I think that I have mentioned before that save a sense of humor, N. and I have precious little in common.  I often stare blankly in his direction wondering how on this green Earth have I ended up with someone who believes that free t-shirts constitute a complete wardrobe.  He also cannot recite a single line from a John Hughes movie and until recently had not even seen Breakfast Club and Better off Dead. (I know...  let me give you a moment to recuperate.  It would be understandable were he from a foreign country, although in fairness...  Beavertuckey is a whole other world) He, in the interest of equal time, finds himself at a loss for my total lack of interest in getting my own beverages and snacks.  I would rather die of thirst than get up first. Oh and I hate college football and golf, which puts me just one rung shy of blasphemy. (I could fake it, but really who does that help?).  I mention all of this to get to my point which is I am quite certain that Gahd's got a plan when it comes to these boys... 

If N. and I were ever to part ways [knock on wood], we will have a HARD time deciding who gets the good TV...  but it will be easier to split the children.  Banzo for N. and Bean for me. 

limits

I believe that I have mentioned my personal belief that misery loves MY company and as such, I must always be mindful of people trying to rope me into situations that are chiefly designed to make me crazy. I am mostly successful, but this hyper paranoia vigilance often leads to nights spent communing with a berry-pie sundae, trying to engage with whatever visual crap I have located between channels 207 and 575, while ignoring my husband's rants re: World of Borecraft guild politics.  (brief aside: I am starting to wonder if this might be a self-fulfilling prophesy.  shit.)

I am not sure what spawned a sudden resurgence of interest in casa t'pon's reproductive plans, but in the past 72 hours I have fielded no fewer than seven inquires as to the ETA of our third child.  Is it the fact that the baby-weight I chased away while on maternity leave, came back with ten of its friends and set up camp ever so sloppily in my mid-section? Is it that my friends and family continue to struggle with the will of Gahd, who has chosen to withhold the girl child to whom I had hoped to bestow all of my feminine wisdom and whiles (well at least as soon as I figured out what those were...)?  Is it because Banzo has started to walk at the tender age of nine months and the baby cuddliness is starting to give way to the purple and green shine of toddlerdom? Could it be that these well-intentioned, highly inquisitive folk think that I am the kind of parent who makes this shit look easy? 

Let me make something crystal clear here, there is no and will be no third bean. 

Why?  Because even with the wonders and convenience of modern science at my disposal and the help of a team of dedicated childcare providers...  we are barely holding this shit together.  I got a memo from my pinkie nail yesterday requesting paid disability, claiming that the burden of holding on (particularly given the return of the aforementioned fat) is causing undue stress and strain.  We have since switched responsibility for holding on to my pinkie toes, but that is dicey...  I have very squatty pinkie toes.  They are like the hobbits of the foot world -- they aren't really even whole toes, more like the top of a toe stuck directly to my foot, and the toenail is not even worth the dot of nail polish it takes to cover it.  Crap, where was I... see what I mean, driven to distraction.

At any given moment, someone is crying or shouting about something, even if they can't remember what it is they are crying/shouting about. There is a basket of clean clothes on my couch that I have been living out of for two weeks (and yesterday, I had to smell the pit of a shirt before I could decided to put it on).  In the past two days, I have very nearly impaled my foot or broken my leg as a result of stepping on legos in the dark, trains left on the stairs,  spit up on the tile,  or dogs under foot. I haven't seen the cat since Banzo tried to violate him with a purple crayon yesterday afternoon.  The other day, I caught Bean mountaineering in the pantry, helping himself to some uncooked pasta and peanut butter. I haven't had a good night sleep in three years. And I just ate a piece of Kr*ft Mac and Cheese off of the front of Banzo's onesie.

I am pretty sure that I got myself into this situation because someone told me that N. and I would have beautiful children and be great parents.  That is right, I let down my guard and I was sucked in by an ass kissing.  But fool me once...  blah blah blah.  I am not falling for that crap again.  I love my kids dearly (and they are pretty cute, if I do say so myself) but the thought of adding another to the mix and tilting the balance fully in their favor makes me throw up a little in my mouth.

The only way that I can see clear to having a third is if Gahd comes down to discuss it with me directly over a giant latte. And, I do not mean a burning bush or dove or some other shitty sign that is subject to misinterpretation.  I mean, Gahd himself... face to face at the bargaining table.  And He is going to have to be prepared for some pretty serious demands. Like it HAS to be a girl, who is guaranteed to be potty-trained from birth, will sleep through the night, and is completely void of the tantrums -- both toddler and teenager varieties.  I will also require a slamming body four days post-partum and child support through age 21. Quite frankly, I have to believe that He has bigger fish to fry, so there you have it.

No mas ninos... It is important to respect one's limits when it comes to drinking, long distance swimming, high stakes poker, and child raising. Two is mine.

two hits

Before even making it to the 2.5 year mark, my charming big boy got into his first fight at school. 

“Bebets,” the nanny, picked him up and related the story to me as follows:

The teacher indicated that she needed to speak with Bebets about an incident that occurred earlier. Her initial reaction (which would also have been my reaction) was "Crap, what did he do now…"  Don’t get me wrong, it is not that he is a problem child, but he can be a little rambunctious and well, challenging.  Anyway…

Bebets:  "What did he do?"
Teacher:  "Um, he didn't do anything, exactly… there was an incident with another kid. Le*stat bit him."

Bebets: "What?!  Someone BIT him?  Did he break the skin?"
Teacher: "No, the skin wasn't broken, but Le*stat bit him hard."
Bebets: "So, what did Bean do to start it?" (again, we are so ready to accept that Bean had some active role in starting this incident.)

Teacher: "Um, actually he didn't start it, but he certainly was prepared to END it…"

Totally unprovoked this kid Le*stat (who I have since learned has a history of biting and is current on his rabies shots) bit Bean's belly, right below the rib cage (who the hell bites people there, but anyway).  It must have been hard because even a few mornings later, you could still see the outline of the kid's teeth on Bean's tummy.  Bean was PISSED.  He didn’t cry, he didn’t scream or whine…  no my kid resorted immediately to physical violence.  He bum rushed the kid, knocked him to the ground and took a swing at his head. 

The teacher quickly stepped in and separated them putting Le*stat on one side of the room and Bean on the other.  She spoke to Bean explaining that while it was clear that Le*stat bit him, AND that she was sure that it hurt AND that Le*stat had done a very bad thing…  we simply do not hit (and don’t worry, I also reinforced that message at home later that evening).  She asked them both to sit quietly for 2 minutes.  Both children obliged.

When the two minutes was up and the teacher released them from their chairs… Bean got up and WENT AFTER THIS KID AGAIN.  Now, I have seen this kid.  He is bigger and older and have I mentioned, fucking BITES with a PSI of at least a pit bull.   When the teacher scolded him, he pointed to his belly and loudly proclaimed "OWIE" and pointed at Le*stat.  His teacher asked if he needed a kiss, he replied "Si!" (you know, because he can not respond in English, but that is another issue altogether), took his kiss and went about his merry way. Not another issue between the two of them for the rest of the morning.

So, I take from this two things:

• ONE:  My kid is a badass.  He was not going to let some kid bite him and run.  While I certainly do not condone violence…  any concerns I had previously about my kid getting bullied.  GONE!
• TWO:  He continues to be a sucker for a pretty girl.  One little kiss and he completely forgets that he was about to fuck that kid UP! 

It has just occured to me that perhaps PRIDE is the wrong reaction here.  Oh well. Just chalk it up to another reason I am maybe not the best parenting role model out there.

(Obviously, although fitting, this is not the kid’s real name. Perhaps I should suggest the change to his parents.  You know, since they can’t control the biting, the ought to just accept it. And, it would give everyone else fair warning, at least.)

captain obvious

UPDATE:  My husband reminded me that his nom de blog is "N." not "M." and has requested that I make the correction immediately, lest you all think that I have, in the intervening months, shacked up with someone else to raise these two kids. Or, perhaps he wants to amke sure that he is getting all of his due credit.  For you to decide.

When Bean was just starting to vocalize, N. and I would spend copious amounts of trying desperately to figure out what our little man was working out.  We hung on each syllable, each sputter, looking for our sign of genius, that spark of Lincoln, the proof we needed that this child would deliver us from the ho-hum existence of suburbia right into the hands of the life that only a privileged few know...  fame, fortune and fabulous snacks on the talk show circuit...

I guess that it is like that with every first parent.  You comb through the milestones looking for some indication of your child's gift, a signal of the person they will one day become.  You sift through the clues that you think will help you to know them and guide them...  for ever searching.

With the second kid, well lets just cut to the chase... Between keeping everyone diapered, fed, entertained and alive, we are a little over-extended. There just isn't that same amount of time for N. and me to be super-sleuths. In order to cope with the extra load, we have had to bring in an intern -- someone to examine the facts, sift through the bullshit and cut to the chase.

While we were having a rare family dinner last night, Banzo (that's the bebe, in case you lost track) was sharing some of the details of his day. At eight and a half months, he is really just getting his chit-chat on. Lots of NANANAAAANANNA, and BUUUUBAUUBBUUUU and SPLRRRRRTS. You get the idea. Clearly we have the next O*bama here on our hands.  I know... get in line, you can say you knew him when.

Anyway... he is babbling, "NANANAAAANANNA... BUUUUBAUUBBUUUU"

N. turned to Bean and asked him, innocently enough, "What is he saying, Bean?  What is Banzo saying?"

Bean looked at N. like he was quite the moron, not a bit slow on the uptake, not a few screws loose, but barely functioning, lucky to get his pants on straight MORON.  And the look was tinged with sympathy.  Make no bones about it...  on a daily basis, Bean is quick to remind each of us how trying our interference is and that we are simply lucky that he tolerates our presence at all. 

He then responded, slowly and with added volume (because that is how you talk to a moron),

"He sayed, NANANAAAANANNA, and BUUUUBAUUBBUUUU, daddy."

the road not taken...

They tell me that confession is good for the soul...  In my experience, it has only gotten me into more trouble than I started out in. However, in the interest of maturity, growth and all of that other bullshit I am supposed to be into now that I am personally responsible for the moral upbringing of 1.75 human people... here goes.

Two roads diverged in the t'pon household, and sorry that we could not travel both and be a united set of parents, long we stood and looked down one as far as we could, to where it bent in the undergrowth...

About a week ago, N. and I were faced with the hard choice between what most would consider "humane and just" and "what would keep us from losing our freaking minds."

Bean, as I have mentioned before, is working his way through a very tumultuous transition from crib to "big boy" bed.  We were planning on making this transition to keep us from having to buy another crib for Banzo, but Bean jump started the process by channeling his father's "special combat warrior" training and becoming a very sneaky and agile baby ninja.  In a manner of weeks, he figured out how to scale his crib, hoist himself out of a pack and play, manipulate door handles, traverse the baby-gates, and walk through walls (ok, I can't prove that last one, but I have my suspicions).  At every turn, we have tried to stay ahead of the little Houdini, but alas when the baby gates began to fail us...  we were at a loss.  There was precious little separating our bundle of Bean from the inevitable tumble down the stairs under the cover of night.  Plus, we were obviously going a little insane from the lack of continuous sleep. 

Together, we (with more than a mortgage worth of education between us) could think of only one option...  an option not discussed in any book, or on any parenting website we could find.  We were filled with shame even considering this option...  but what else to do, continue patiently putting this willful ninja back in bed over and over and over ( it is like a repeating six)...  begin camping out in front of his door...  set a ear-piercing motion detector outside of his room...  or do the unmentionable.

Seeking to alleviate myself of some of this guilt...  looking for someone to share the blame, I turned to the experts in the computer.  I called upon Mary and Laura, of Partners in Parenting fame.  I won't lie to you, after pouring out my pain and confiding in them the path upon which we were about to embark, they laughed a little (I am sure when one is not so sleep-deprived that they are rocking under their desk at work, curled in the fetal position, sucking on a Tylen*l PM, it would seem rather amusing). 

But in a mere 24 hour period, they delivered our saving grace directly to my email inbox... Permission to do the unmentionable...  not for the sake of our sanity, but for the SAFETY OF OUR CHILD!  There was our out, we were NOT horrible parents... we were preventing a catastrophe.

Hallelujah, all praise be to the women of P-I-P... Although, I still worry that through this confession I am inviting Texas CPS directly into my house for a spot of tea.  But, at the very least, I will be better-rested (and thus not bear the appearance and communication skills of a drug-addict at the tail end of a nine-day bender) and Bean will not be wrapped in plaster casts and Ses*me Street band-aids. 

And both that day equally lay in advice (offered by drive-by moms and grandparents) no step had trodden black.  Oh, we kept the first for another baby! Yet knowing how way leads on to way (or habit and experience), we doubted if we should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh somewhere ages and ages hence (while paying for Bean's inevitable therapy):  two roads diverged in the t'pon household, we took the one less talked about, and that has made all the difference.*

The thing is...  it has worked.  After more than a month of struggling with Bean, trying desperately to negotiate, reason, communicate with a 19-month old boy hell-bent on nighttime mischief, he is finally, and happily, back to his old sleeping self.  The kid who goes to bed at a reasonable hour and sleeps all night.  The kid who can put himself back to sleep without roaming the halls like a very small, but very effective banshee. The kid who willingly goes down for a nap without testing the hinges on the door 783 times.

I still feel a twinge of guilt knowing it has come to this... but sleep... safety. Surely, my Wubbies, in the interest of these things, you can forgive me?

Hello, my name is t'pon. And for the past week and a half, I have been locking my kid in his room at night.

* My thanks and apologies to Mr. Frost for the inspiration and subsequent adaptation of his work...

breaking up is hard to do...

I have debated, as my brief break turned into one of my full-fledged sabbaticals,yet again trying to explain away a lack of posting.  My plan was to attribute it mostly to a crazy busy month of work, the exhaustion of chasing a very active toddler while taking on pounds faster than an English banker, and a long sojourn to the Outer Banks to rest my weary soul...  but really, it comes down to lazy.  which I am.  how else can you explain a 44 hour per week TV habit. alas, on to the stuff...

I have come to realize in my short, albeit active romantic lifetime, that there are really only two camps of people when it comes to break-up situations, everything else is simply a shade of grey.  When an individual begins to suspect that something is rotten in the state of Denmark, that the special someone with whom they have spent the past several hours is about to leave them, they either a) cling desperately to every last moment of togetherness in hopes that somehow, someway they can change their beloved's (or not so beloved, as the case may be) heart, or b) beat that someone to the punch, making sure that all the world knows that they, in fact, were the one's in full control of the walking out... and NOT the other way around.

Our dog, Nugget, is a perfect example of type a.  When she devined that we were having Bean, and now again with the upcoming arrival of the Banzo, she has been by my side every last minute of the day.  Following me from room to room, leaning into me, rubbing up against me, generally looking pathetic as she searches my face for any last sign of love and affection. I assure you that it is NOT that bad...  I would never dream of being neglectful to my precious pup, and you would think that she would understand this... but everything is melodrama with this dog.

Bean, as I have come to discover, is a case study in type b.  It is refreshing to know that I have surrounded myself with such diversity.

For the past several weeks, Bean has made it quite clear, to anyone who will listen that we -- me and he -- are no longer "peas in a pod" (if you will allow me to mix my legumes).  Not only are we no longer a matched set...  but it is also essential that everyone understand that HE did the unmatching.

I think that it has something to do with the ever-increasing bulge right here in front of me. Is it possible that he has sensed that I am, in fact, incubating a challenger to his inheritance, an individual with whom he will be forced to (GASP! horror of horrors) share the spoils of casa t'pon? I think so, and for this trangression, I am being brutally rebuffed.

It has been my messiest break-up, indeed.  What with the screaming, the pleading, the pulling of hair, the abject protestations... and that's just me.  This does not even begin to paint the picture of my small toddler howling as if his very being is being seared by acid and flames each and every time he comes into contact with his mother.  Or, the sheer panic that crosses his small face when N. leaves him alone with me, if only for the briefest of moments.  And let's not forget the abject disgust that Bean displays when asked to give his poor, suffering mama a kiss or a hug, you would think that we were asking him to lick the underside of the trash can lid...

None of this would be so bad if we were only ever in the company of people who know us...  but having just returned from a trip to the beach which involved travel... with strangers.  well, it was awkward to say the least.  Particularly given the aforementioned fact that Bean and I look nothing, at all, alike.  I am sure that on more than one occasion at the airport, on the beach, in the restaurants we frequented and the grocery store, someone wondered aloud if I was kidnapping Bean or at the very least why that young father kept leaving his small son in the care of a person who so clearly struck fear and loathing deep within the child's bosom.

I am slowly fighting back, through an organized program of shiney trinkets, mini-marshmallows and extended tickle battles. This kid will love me if it kills me and our bank account.

It's funny, but I never really thought of myself as a "type a" kind of person.

dervish, of the whirling and screaming variety

To say that things have been challenging the past few days at casa t'pon would be to employ a certain level of understatement that I find, quite frankly, to be passe.  To say that my once darling son has turned into a head-spinning, pea-soup spitting minion of Beelzebub himself...  well, that would be to employ a refreshing element of truth rarely seen in this day and age.

I am not quite sure what is going on with him. In the past three days I have, on several occasions, thought that duct taping him in a large refrigerator box with some graham crackers and a gallon of milk might not be such a bad idea to get just a moments peace.

I am not trying to imply that he has always been a perfect child, so joyful that sunshine was spilling out of his ass, but he was certainly pleasant...  generally fun to be around and a good sport when things occasionally did not go his way. Even on his worst day, we could count on certain events that would bring this kid around -- a walk to the park, a nice long romp in the tub, and of course a hearty meal.  Alas, it appears that the days of simple distraction have gone the way of the penny candy.

These days, there is the screaming, the stomping, the extreme arching of the back and most recently the troubling and sickening thud produced by a small child banging their head against the floor or wall. I am told that this is mostly likely a normal reflection of a toddler's frustration with a desire to communicate and a vocabulary that fails him.  But let me tell you something, he is making his point QUITE effectively. 

And when he is not doing his best to summon all of the demons of hell to his side, he is flat out moving at a speed that is inhuman. I suspect that he might be physically incapable of rest.  At any given moment he is running, climbing, getting into anything and everything that is casually set aside for even a second. Yesterday, I caught him trying to climb up the shelves of the linen closet to reach a bottle of lotion that I had taken away from him only moments earlier and three days ago, I came into the living room to find him standing on the coffee table.  Two days ago, he figured out the child proof casing for the surge protector.  What the FAAAAHCK?  Why did we pay for all of this ugly-ass child proofing crap if he was just going to figure out how the FAAAAHCK to use it. 

Oh, and have I mentioned that he has stopped eating anything that isn't a cheese slice or yo baby?  So, in addition to being in a constant state of frayed nerves and preparedness for the eventual trip to the emergency room, I am also nursing a pretty intense concern that he might in some way be damaged by too much calcium and too little of anything else.

Upon mentioning this concern, my mother pointed out that perhaps, like any other normal craving, this was his body's way of of doing a little preventative care...  strong bones are less likely to break.

Well, his bones might be safe from breaking, but that is precious little consolation to my spirit.