Friday, February 1, 2013

Nothing Is Sacred

We don't give kids enough credit. They are sneaky little bastards; programmed for survival from Day 1.

To anyone who has ever said, "the most wonderful thing about children is that they don't lie," I daughter.

For the past three months or so, we've had the training potty prominently displayed, but never used - much like a bad tchotchke - in our bathroom. We have these lofty hopes that one day The Bean will suddenly decide to start using the potty and we can all leave our diaper-changing days behind.

So far her favorite thing to do is take her stuffed animals for boat rides in the removable bucket of the potty. Potty training? Nailed it.

Before her bath each night we go through the same routine:

Me:  Do you want to go potty before we have a bath?

Bean: No!

Me: If you have to go pee-pees, we need to go in the potty - not the bathtub, right?

Bean: [pointing at the tub] No pee-pees. [Does a little wriggly dance.]

Me: Do you have to go potty?

Bean: [immediately stops dancing] NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

Then we start the bath; which is, by far, her favorite part of the day. 

At some point in the bath, she'll stop all the bouncing around and singing (a sign that things are about to get serious) and she will stare intently at a spot on the wall. 10 seconds later she suspiciously starts singing, "pee-pee, pee-pee, pee-pee!"

Me: Did you just go potty in the bathtub!?!?!

Bean: [stares directly into my soul...hesitates...]...noooo...

Then she'll pick up a cup and start drinking the piss-filled bathwater.


So The Bean lies, but the truly aggravating part is she's not consistent about it.

The other night, The D-Zo clan was cuddled up in bed watching the original Muppet movie as a nighttime treat.

Now, we had Ethiopian food for dinner that night and so what happened next shouldn't have come as a surprise, but...well..."toooooooot."

It just slipped out! 

And before I could blame the intrusive noise on my daughter (one of the perks I was told about this whole parenthood gig), she stands up, points at me and says, "Mama toot toot."

Sold out by a one-and-a-half year old.

Wednesday, January 23, 2013

How To Lose a Binky in Ten Seconds (or Less)

Roughly 1 hour and 23 minutes into our careers as parents, it became clear Mr. D-Zo and I were in the "we can just let that slide, right?" camp - quickly abandoning our previous positions in the "we should establish some baseline expectations and try to raise our child properly" camp.

The first breach happened when The Bean was rolled into the hospital room for her first feeding and had a pacifier sticking out of her mouth.

Oh no you didn't! I was NOT, NO WAY, NO HOW going to raise a child who was a binky user.

But then there was all that loud, annoying, inconvenient crying and it happened every time we took the pacifier out of her mouth. And, oh! Praise be to the Lord! How quickly the noises stopped when you shoved it back in.

So the pacifier stayed and we became those parents.

Then The Bean started getting teeth.

Not wanting to be the parents of Piranha Girl, we decided pacifier limitations were in order.

The pacifier was only allowed at bedtime.

And nap time.

And when The Bean was starting to get cranky.

Then we realized toddlers are always cranky. So a pacifier intervention was needed, but Mr. D-Zo and I weren't quite ready.

Me: I asked nicely, but The Bean didn't seem interested in going to bed without the binky.

Mr. D-Zo: I know! I tried to take it, but she started crying. She stopped when I gave it back.

Me: Thank goodness you held your's like she doesn't even care that we're trying to ensure she doesn't have warped redneck teeth, while also maintaining a healthy sleep schedule for ourselves.

Mr. D-Zo: Did you give her a bottle?

Me: Yeah, but she started yelling for the binky when she was done...this is impossible. Let's just reason with her when she's 25.

Mr. D-Zo: Deal.

We were out of ideas.

And just when it looked like the pacifier was to remain a permanent member of the family, fate and a mother's conniving ingenuity saved the day.

You see, Piranha Girl's The Bean's teeth had become quite sharp and one day she bit the nipple clean off.

I'll admit, my first thought was to panic and run out to get a replacement pacifier STAT. But The Bean is my daughter through and through and immediately knew SHE had broken the binky and was besides herself with guilt. I seized the opportunity for us to part ways with her stinky, ratty, teeth derailing best friend.

Guilt and shame: helping parents win for 250,000 years and counting.

Monday, September 10, 2012

Rebel without a Cause

While The Bean has been busy growing into a real girl, I've been reliving freshman year at college.

The Bean is an awesome sleeper most nights; which means I get to do things I enjoy in the evenings. And I may have gotten drunk and carried away with my newfound freedom.

When you're making your sixth jar of pickled okra, you can put down the tongs - you've canned all the things.

You'll be glad to know, I'm inept as ever at this whole parenting this. Once you think you've got it all figured out, the child learns something new and ruins everything. You might remember how the Moby saved my life and allowed me to food shop.

Boy. Those were the good ol' days...

Thursday, July 12, 2012

The Last 3 Months...Clip Show Style

So I've been gone. It's probably something you did. But thankfully I finally forgave you.

When last we met, it was Mother's Day and The Bean and I shared cake OCD style. Since then, things have happened. Nothing earth-shattering.

Except this:

Why yes, that is a vacuumed carpet. You may start worshiping me any time now.

Then there was the Baby Bird Rescue of 2012. Did you hear about it on the news? No? Well, it was more of a regional story. In my backyard. It consumed my life for a week and a half as I rescued the same baby robin no less than three times. Once after he fell out of a tree; once from the jaws of my cat; and once when he got trapped in a fence. He lived and flew away with not so much as a thank you.

Ungrateful nit. Should've let the cat eat you.

Then The Bean turned one. Which most people say is a momentous occasion. I celebrated by vacuuming the carpet again.

We also felt since she was now a mature young lady, this was the right moment to teach The Bean that the world is a cruel place where mothers bake you cakes that look like giant turds, force you to stand in front of a room full of strangers in a bathing suit and let you grab burning candles.

After that we went on a trip. I realize now that I have a child the word vacation will never again apply to my life. 

As our fortune would have it, the trip coincided perfectly with Death Hotness from Hell Week which added an extra fun element - the 'let's stay in the air-conditioned hotel room where we will eat teacups and not go outside' element.

Then we did a bunch of boring things and The Bean barely enjoyed herself.

Until we met which point I determined The Bean will be home schooled and enter a nunnery at the ripe age of 16. Her behavior was completely inappropriate for the first date (of which she had a few - little hussy)...

Not napping or sleeping for 10 days straight because you're afraid you might miss all the things is exhausting, especially for a young lass. So she's been sleeping for a week.

And now you're about caught up.

She walks (like a drunken sailor).

She talks. "Babry (Baby)," "Dahg (Dog)," "Cah (Cat)," "Uh-oh (Uh-oh)," Da Da (Da Da)," and "Mum-Mum (as in the rice cracker snack - not me...I don't actually have a name)"

And is pretty groovy.

Two Minutes Hate

Dear children's book "authors,"

Thanks for ruining what I used to think would be one of those highlights of parenthood: reading with my daughter.

I'm looking at you, creators of the crafts-gone-bad "books" (felt, glitter and yarn glued onto a few photos of animals barely qualifies as a camp project, let alone a book).

There I am dutifully reading our animal book like every other parent of an infant:

"Cow. Moooooo."

"Pig. Oink, oink."

"Horse. Neigh, neigh."

"Tiger. Rawr."

And then, you coy, sadistic little a-holes throw in a picture of a turtle. What am I supposed to do with that?

The Bean looks up at me expecting a noise and I got nothing; you know she's thinking to herself "Jesus, this woman doesn't even know what a turtle says...I'm doomed."

She's my daughter...I assure you, she's judging me.


Mrs. D-Zo

Monday, May 14, 2012

A Post about Quirks, but Does Mention Mother's Day So the Other Mommy Bloggers Don't Spurn Me

There is a special level of embarrassment saved for those moments when you realize you have unintentionally broadcast a personal idiosyncrasy to the general public and are suddenly forced to defend it so you aren't admitted to the closest mental health facility.   

I am repeatedly faced with the unsettling truth that my life is a sham. No matter the lengths I go through to appear like a sane, functioning member of society, there is one undermining and undeniable fact: 

I am a weird eater. 

Not a picky eater. God, those people are annoying. I can say that because I dated the King of Picky Eater Land and making fun of picky eaters is the prize I won for those grueling years of my life. 

You're dying for details, aren't you? 

At Taco Bell there could be no lettuce on whatever he ordered. Like none. At all. One time he unwrapped his burrito for The Mandatory Food Inspection and found a sliver of lettuce inside; we had to get back in the car and get a new burrito. 

I am the type of person who, if I ordered a hamburger and received a cabbage milkshake, would just power through the shake. Confrontations - and most social interactions - are not my strong suit.

However, I am not a picky eater; I am a weird eater. My weirdness manifests itself in 3 distinct levels of awesome.

Level 1: When I Say Organization Is a Way of Life, I Mean It.

When confronted with a bowl of fruit salad, most people react this way:

I am not most people.

A girlfriend and I were splitting a fruit salad at brunch one day because we wanted to save our calories for the bottomless Bloody Marys. We were mid-conversation when she suddenly stopped eating and stared at me in disbelief. 

Unconsciously, I had done this to our plate:

She gave me a lovely psychological dissertation on the need to have control over minor things in life when one is avoiding dealing with bigger issues...blah, blah, blah.

Little did she know, she had only caught me mid-act. Had she let me continue on to fruit salad harmony, the plate would have looked like this.

Why yes, there is an equal number of fruit pieces in each color-coded category, thankyouverymuch. This way you can eat in a circle and have an equal amount of each fruit at the end instead of a plate of cantaloupe with nary a strawberry in sight. THE HORROR.

And people are surprised when I tell them I analyze data for a living.

Level 2: Order Sits at the Right Hand of Our Holy Father, Organization

I am a terrible conversationalist during dinner. Mostly because I am so busy. After organizing comes the prioritization of foods. [It's at about this point you're probably thinking to yourself, "Wow...I have really got it together. This one's a nutter." You're welcome.]

My goal is to make the last bite of my meal a forkful of the most delicious item. There is one flaw in this plan. I married my husband.

Early on in our dating career, my husband made an epic mistake. As he was finishing up his salad course, his fork strayed onto my plate and took a heaping pile of blue cheese and bacon lardons I had meticulously avoided. My anticipation level for this grand finale of porky saltiness was on par with the release of the final Harry Potter novel (hey, you already think I'm insane so I may as well throw nerdy into the ring too).

To be fair, he thought I was eating around those items because I didn't want them - hence, fair game. The scars on the back of his hand serve as a constant reminder to not interfere with my dinner routine.

Level 3: Portions Bring Us One Step Closer to World Peace

At the end of each meal, Michael's plate looks like a crime scene. An experienced investigator could recreate a play-by-play of Michael's meal by examining the bloody clues left behind. You could return my plate to the cabinet because I ate my portion of food. Every last drop.

Whenever we eat out, my to-go box is an exact replica, in miniature, of the meal I had (Level 1 and Level 2 of my food insanity help drive this). I am not left with a monster pile of green beans, 2 bites of a steak and the hint of mashed potatoes served. If I opened up a to-go box and saw those proportions, you might as well shoot me in the face because what's the point of living another day?

Which leads me to yesterday.

For Mother's Day, The Bean and I visited the local coffee shop to split a slice of cake while we sipped on coffee and gabbed about our girlfriends behind their backs. 

The cake was enormous and I knew I would need to take half of it home.

Have you been paying attention Dear Reader? Which of these do you think were my leftovers?