Archives for the month of: May, 2014

The Smushter likes to eat!  And that’s great, but what’s more important here is that I LOVE to eat.  When I’m hungry and can finally fix myself a meal (which usually happens after I’ve spent 90 minutes feeding the helpless ones and my stomach starts to digest itself), I make just enough food to get satiated.  No more.  No less.

I prepare to sit down and eat a peaceful, stress-free meal at the coffee table in the living room.  (The words “small children” and “peaceful” have never gone together in our house, but on the days full of morning beers, I feel like I’ve got Jedi powers…and I try to use the force to merge the two.)  As soon as my plate clunks the coffee table and my butt hits the floor, the vultures children congregate, one performing FDA inspection of the plate contents, and the other poking my food to make sure it’s dead.

The older “inspector” doesn’t usually grab pieces of food off my plate.  He’s mostly just looking at it.  But 9 out of 10 times, my food doesn’t pass his standards and the punishment has him climbing on my back with arms wrapped around my neck choking me into unconsciousness oblivion.  Even that’s not that terrible, because when enough oxygen gets back into my head, I can shovel a morsel into my mouth.  It’s the younger “food critic” that’s worse.  She’s uncouth, picking and poking at my dishes.  She tests and taints my meal when it doesn’t meet her approval.  And her reaction is always the same.  She pulls the wet, half-chewed food out of her mouth and places some on my plate.  Then she spits the rest of the pieces onto my face and food in disgust.

It was time to put my foot down.  If I didn’t stop the madness, I’d die of starvation.  (I guess I could die by asphyxiation, but that’s much worse than keeling over with an empty stomach.  Much worse.)  So I devised a plan…mainly against the Smush, because she can ruin a whole meal for me just by spitting on it.  I decided that I’d buy some spicy potato chips and bait/entice/lure her to pick and poke away at my food.   When she loads up her mouth, she gets hit with a blast of mouth burning discomfort.  (Yes, I even amaze myself with my own cleverness!)

Let’s just say that my ruse worked like a charm!  Smush grabbed a fistful of chips off my rigged plate and got a faceful of hotness!  I couldn’t help but fall over laughing at the look on her face.  That’ll teach her to just put any and everything in her big boca!

What better way to stop a baby from grabbing handfuls of food from your plate than clubbing her?  The answer is clearly jalapeno potato chips.  It’s a technique that’s not in the textbooks, but it’s great for those parents that just want to eat in peace…or some semblance thereof.


Ha ha ha ha!  Now, who has the last laugh!  I'm still on top, Mushy Mushy!

Ha ha ha ha! I Got Ya, Mushy Mushy!

Gavin – 30; Honeydaddy – 20 (I know it’s a win against Smush, but I’m giving myself the point here.  I’m just too excited and tickled about this!)

It was inevitable.  The Smush Monster is spending more time on two legs than four now.  She began her bipedal trundle over a month ago, and as with all things Smushie, she bulldozed over toys, insects, and sometimes brother, with little regard to their respective muffled screams beneath her pudgy, sweaty feet.

If you recall, months ago I was overwhelmed with the idea that my little girl NEEDED to walk as soon as possible.  With her walking, I could lessen my burden by about 25 lbs and free up an arm or two for carrying other things (or just letting them sway in the breeze like normal people do).  So I put Smush through a sort of baby boot camp with pushups, wheelbarrows, squats, and situps.  She added strength, stamina, and muscle to her chubby and ‘oh so cuddly’ little body.  But, my efforts have recently turned into more of an exercise for me than for she.  (I know it’s supposed to say ‘her’, but ‘she’ rhymes with ‘me’ and I like it!)

I thought I’d eventually take both my kids for leisurely strolls in the park, free from the three-wheeled BOB that limits our mobility, flexibility, and creativity.  We’d play with the freedom bestowed upon young minds and bodies.  (When I say ‘we’, I really mean ‘they’.  I’m getting old!)

The truth is that I’m chasing the walking version of Smushie everywhere and sacrificing my body to minimize the potential perils of her climbing up the stairs, swinging from handrails, and jumping from the curbs.  She may be physically ready to walk, but her brain isn’t quite ready to take on other functions.  Her brain power is spent doing a lot of this:   “Left foot forward.  Now, right foot forward.  Hey, a tree!  Um, which foot goes next again?  System error.  Shutting down legs.  *PLOP*

Now I’m looking into exercises that will keep Smushter from walking so quickly:  overfeeding her, tying a mini parachute to her back, binding her feet, etc.

There’s an old adage that goes “Teach a baby to talk, and you’ll get a headache.  Teach a baby to walk, and you’ll get a backache.  But teach a baby to stay in a confined place and neither cry nor try to escape, and you’ll have found nirvana.”  (No, the other nirvana.)

The real lesson for me is that I should have just let things happen on their own.  I could have allowed her mind ample opportunity to wire itself for some measure of self-preservation before her body was able to find harm’s way.  Stupid, stupid, stupid….me.  Whoops, gotta go!  I’ve got to go save her from walking straight off the stairwell…again…for the eighth time…today.


Smush, Now That You're Trapped, I Can Get Some Work Done!  See You Tomorrow!

Smush, Now That You’re Trapped, I Can Get Some Work Done! See You Tomorrow!


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