Archives for the month of: March, 2016

The Mushmonster is 3 years old. Well, technically she’s 3 years and a few months old. I’d like to say that those extra months have been insignificant, but they’ve given Mushie a lot of time to develop. A lot. Also, I’ve pretty much forgotten what happened at her 3rd birthday party…some fuss about pizza, cake, beer, etc. The first few kid birthdays are a blur. Kids screaming. Dogs barking. Parents hovering. Noise. Candles. Wishes. Crying. Bedtime. And hopefully we got the good parts on tape video.

My blog posts have been sparse, mainly because the kids are active…not like walk in the park active, but more like do one triathlon after breakfast and a marathon before bed. And if I’m not watching or participating, there’s hell to pay! So I apologize about the late post…but as with all things having to do with the second child, I just don’t care as much…just kidding. I have to get this post out before the Worm turns 5!

She’s lovely. I can’t say that she’s always been this way because she’s very, um, fickle. In fact, I didn’t really like her much early on. And I think she felt the same. Our timing was off from the beginning. I wanted her to sleep. She wanted to play. She wanted to sleep. I wanted to do some chores. When I didn’t time her meals or naps right, she let me know in buckets of tears. When I would forget to leave the house with extra diapers, she’d let me know by squirting chocolate pudding from her baby carrier…and conveniently up her backside.

Worm and I had a groove going before Mushie…you know, a connection. Me and him. Him and me. Then, Mushie basically shot down the proverbial slide hollering “Whee! Look at me!” and proceeded to literally crash every boy’s party we held. And she’s been trying to steal center stage, since.

The Mushmonster is not really quite like her brother. I feel that when she was born, she broke the mold, ate some of it, and then tried to stick a piece or two into the nearest electrical socket. If I were to use three words to describe my daughter it would be: messy, loud, and unpredictable. There’s always a trail of food crumbs when she eats. I can hear her from a mile away (unless she’s up to something mischievous). And when you need someone to think outside of the box, she never disappoints.

All of these characteristics make Mushie, well, my Mushie. My life would be pretty boring if I had two well-behaved children that listened to me and did as I instructed. I know that. Besides, who doesn’t want to be a hero by rescuing their child twice a day for the rest of eternity the unlimited reward of ‘mooches, hugs and kisses!

I didn’t think I’d like a little girl much, but this one’s neat.

She’s rough and tumble, spicy and sweet.

I don’t understand everything she does.

But, man, can she eat!

The girl has heaps of strong character traits that don’t work well for someone uncoordinated, less than four feet tall, and still forming neural connections. “I DO IT!” she’d say. And I’d reply “You can’t reach the gas pedal yet.” “NO, I DO IT!!” And then I’d strap her down in the back seat and explain to her that she doesn’t have a driver’s license.

She’s as willful as they come. What does one do with a toddler that has no sense of fear, pain, or self-preservation? The only option I see is a professional fighting career. We each have suffered a busted lip at the expense of her little hands (well, it was her head, but you get my point).

“Though she be but little, she is fierce.” – Shakespeare

Mushie, If You're Going to be a Fighter, You're Going to Need to Learn How to Cook!

Mushie, If You’re Going to be a Fighter, You’re Going to Need to Learn How to Cook!

Me: “What’s wrong, lovie? Why the sad face?”

Mushie: “My belly hurtin’, Hondaddy.”

Me: “Aww baby…I’m sorry.”

Mushie: “Hold me!”

Me: “Come here sweets…uhh, oh, hey…mmph!”

Greaaaaat, a piece went in my mouth.

If there’s anything more gross than noticing baby poop under your fingernail while taking a bite out of your own handcrafted sandwich, it would be tasting someone else’s vomit.

There’s an old saying that goes “Holding a young child is like being forced to juggle balloons filled separately with pee, poo, and puke…while holding a razor blade between your fingers.”

Kids are a molotov cocktail of bodily fluids. Bad things can happen when they throw themselves at you.

I’m starting to believe that this whole parenting thing is one big joke and we’re being recorded and broadcast in an alternate universe for shits and giggles.

I’ve basically seen it all…or at least 98% of it all. (I’m ok with leaving the last 2% to imagination!) And thus far, one carpet steam cleaning, a bath, and a good night’s sleep has all but erased every disaster from the day before. So far…

The warm, fuzzy feeling of hugging my venom-spewing adorable children has been lost. I may be experiencing some mild form of post traumatic stress disorder, because I get flashbacks of  upon hearing them hiccup in my arms. But that’s ok, they’re getting too old for hugs anyways…

This is my reward for getting stomach acid in my face and mouth...hooray, parenting.

This is my reward for getting stomach acid in my face and mouth…hooray, parenting.



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