Friday, December 18, 2015

Life with a Toddler

It is slightly amazing how much I repressed or forgot about Charles’s and Jamie’s toddler stages as they have grown older.  There’s always so much going on, and they’re so interesting to me now, that the previous developmental stages have sort of faded into the background until, occasionally, I realize that I don’t have to do *that* anymore (nurse while cooking eggs, puree baby food, stop sixteen times to go potty on the way to the grocery store).  Except that Freddie is now a full-blown, speed-demon, illogical toddler with the advantage of two older brothers to distract his parents.  I should have realized by now that I need to do *that* again, whatever *that* is (lock up the dog food, for instance, because Freddie is intent upon feeding Buster the ENTIRE CONTENTS of his food drawer every time I turn around and so help me God, I cannot stand another episode of dog flatulence in MY ROOM in the middle of the night).

Signs You’re Living With A Toddler:

The toilet paper in your bathroom has had the top twenty yards unrolled and then rerolled recently.

Toothbrushes are scattered throughout the house and most of them look like they’ve been used to brush the dog’s fur.

Does is smell like poop in your house?  Or at least in one room?  You can’t tell anymore, but your guests always wrinkle their noses upon entering your home.

Mouthfuls of food are seemingly dropped at random, leaving a disgusting Hansel-and-Gretel-like trail to follow, the end of which is NOT a gingerbread house, but rather a small person who somehow gained access to a stash of peanut butter pretzels.

It requires advanced knowledge of lock-picking to access any of the toddler-proofed cabinets, especially where you store the alcohol.

Toddler-proofing the alcohol supply seemed legit at the time, but has turned into the worst idea ever.  You’re basically brain dead at the end of the bedtime routine, so gaining access to the liquor cabinet is of the utmost importance and also has turned into a bizarre Olympic event with one spouse straining to de-childproof the damn lock and the other spouse alternately whispering encouragement and offering criticism, neither of which is well-received.

There are smudgy fingerprints all over your glasses… and your walls… and your windows.

If you lose focus on your child for five seconds to do some important dinner preparation, the child will vanish, only to reappear at the top of the stairs with several pairs of your panties and a bra on his head.

Your shoulders are like an abstract art installation that is also a visual history of what your child had to eat today.

Your child prefers to eat all meals sitting in the middle of the dining table, digging his hands directly into the bowl of spaghetti or cauliflower or salad.

Your daily physical fitness routine consists of bending over to pick up the truck/cup/bowl/paper/ball that was tossed on the floor a second ago with an insufferably cute “uh-oh!” but is now vital for the continued existence of the universe.

It’s always loud.  Until it is quiet, and then you just know that someone small has discovered where you hide the Band-Aids and is busy covering himself with them.

Nothing in the whole damn world is as sweet as that littler person laying his head on your shoulder for a snuggle, wrapping his sticky fists in your hair.

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