snapping, here

Andy is pushing every button he possibly can right now. It was like the third birthday arrived and the next day he was evil. Well, more evil than age 2, I mean. He was evil before. He's evil-er now. In fact, he's on the couch right next to me whining his way through the leftovers of his most recent tantrum.

He asked for a Capri Sun and I got him one. Of course I took the damn little straw and punctured both sides of the drink. So I had to regroup and do it again. I gave it to him and he chugged for a while in silence.

Whenever he's done with something, out of habit he hands it to me and expects me to put it away for him on the shelf or the counter or the end table or wherever. But he's 3 now, and I'm sick of it. He has legs and arms and all the appendages that the rest of us possess, if we haven't lost them in some sort of toddler-flogging accident or something, of course.

So I told him to put his own drink on the table. And of course the response was the ever-predictable "No!" Followed by whining..."Mommy, I can't. You put it down."

I'm at the end of my rope today and of late in general. So I said firmly, "Andy, do it yourself. I'm not doing it for you. You can put your own drink down." (And I bit my tongue hard before any obscenities flew out.)

And he came back with, "No Mommy, I'm too sick to put it down. I can't even burp!"

******
Updated to add: Then he said, "I don't say excuse me when I burp. I just burp."

new names

Today Andy announced that his right foot shall henceforth be known as Mr. Foot.

His left shall be known as Sgt. Foot.

That is all.

not-so-happy birthday

Today is Andy's third birthday. I can't believe it. Feels like yesterday. Anyway.

We had great plans for him today: A trip to Caldwell, Ohio, to visit his great-grandparents and witness the annual Fireman's Festival, which he loves. We put off his birthday party until next weekend in order to have this special trip.

Alas, the microscopic world of germs ruined our plans, as Andy developed a fever yesterday. The poor kid is miserable and has had two restless nights. We're keeping him full of Tylenol and Motrin, but he's sick enough that he wasn't even interested in driving up to ColdStone Creamery for his free birthday cone. In addition, the weather is supposed to be violent this evening and Pap is having upcoming heart surgery and doesn't need to be exposed to any illnesses. So, poor Andy is having a miserable birthday.

This morning he was lying pitifully on the couch with big tears rolling down his cheeks as he experienced his first headache (at least, the first one I was able to diagnose as such). I asked him what he needed: Water, food, blanket...all no's.

I hugged him and said, "Andy, I just don't know what I can do to make you feel better."

He looked up at me with his flushed cheeks and said, "Maybe some cake would make me feel better Mommy."

that's what i thought

Andy, whining: How about we watch Dora?

Me, sick of Dora: How about we don't?

Shawn, trying to pacify: How about we watch Looney Toons?

Andy: No! I want to watch Dora!!

Me: How about we watch nothing?

Andy: How about we watch Looney Toons?

close enough

The other day I took Andy to get his hair cut. The barber shop is on the back side of the building where I used to see a chiropractor. Once or twice I didn't have a babysitter and had to take him with me on a visit to have my spine adjusted.

As we drove by searching for a place to park, Andy squealed, "Look Mommy! There's the pirate-quackter!"

obvious or oblivious?

I really shot myself in the foot when I originally dealt with Andy's interruption problem. I explained that if he needed us when we were talking he was to say, "Excuse me, I have something to say."

Well, you can imagine how that unfolded. I'd be talking to Shawn about something and Andy would be hopping up and down saying, "EXCUSE ME I HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY EXCUSE ME I HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY EXCUSE ME MOMMY I HAVE SOMETHING TO SAAAAAYYYY!" And when I'd stop talking to Shawn and ask him what he needed to say, it was always, "Um......uuuuuummm......I see a bird."

Yeah. It totally backfired.

So the other day in the car he was being so rude that I had to remedy the situation. After 5 minutes of trying to carry on a conversation with my husband I gave up and turned to Andy in his car seat.

"Andy", I said. "You don't seem to understand about this interrupting thing. It's not okay to interrupt grown-ups to say any old thing. You need to respect us when we're talking and wait until we're finished."

Then, for some reason, I added, "The only time it's okay to interrupt is if you get hurt. Then you can say, 'Mommy, excuse me, I'm hu--'"

And then he interrupted me, saying (you guessed it),"Mommy! Excuuuuse me! Mommy I'm HURT!"

Shawn laughed his ass off and asked me why I hadn't seen that coming.

okay, maybe i don't

After my chiropractic appointment today, I was driving home with Andy, who wanted to chatterbox incessantly. I wasn't saying much because I'd had quite a workout in physical therapy and my head was pounding like a sledgehammer.

"Mommy, I want you to talk to me!" he whined.

I said, "Andy, I'm sorry but I have a bad headache."

"No you don't Mommy. You're fine."

what the....?

Today I picked Andy up from school, and, since it's Monday, I took him up to Tumblin' Tots (a local kiddie play place) so he could bounce around while I had my chiropractor appointment a few doors down. We were talking about Andy's day when there was a silence and then suddenly an ear-piercing shriek.

"Andy!" I yelled. "What's the matter?"

I turned around, and he was in his car seat with his hand on his forehead, pinching himself.

"This hand is pinching me, Mommy!"

That is so weird. Isn't it?

sensitive soul

I don't know if I've mentioned it on the blog before, but Andy is perhaps the most sensitive child that has ever lived. He cries at the drop of a hat. He gets angry if he's corrected. He sticks out his bottom lip in the saddest pouty face if he's even gently admonished. It's actually a real problem because his hurt feelings get in the way of the message we're trying to deliver.

Last evening Shawn and I went fishing on the river; Andy spent the evening with my parents. They had to go to Lowe's after dinner to look at some rugs and they took Andy along. He adores Lowe's because he gets to climb on every tractor in the store and ride in the race car cart.

But his sensitivity came with him, as it always does. Apparently he was goofing around in the cart, and bent down and began to chew on the handle, where dozens of human hands rest every day. I'm not a germaphobe by any means, but even I agree this isn't the best place for a human mouth to be.

My mom must agree because she gently said, "Oh babe-o, icky. Let's not put our mouth there. It's gross and germy and you don't want to get sick."

His face clouded and the bottom lip immediately protruded.

Mom said, "Andy, honey, I'm not yelling at you and I'm not angry with you. You're not in trouble. I just don't want you to get sick."

The bottom lip protruded further.

She said, "Andy I love you. I'm not mad. I love you so much babe-o."

Andy looked down and, under his breath, said, "I don't love you....."

for parents only

Disclaimer: This blog post is not for the faint of heart and is intended for and will only be appreciated by parents.

Andy is in the process of potty training. But with boys, I suppose, it’s not an overnight transition. (If only it were. I’m so sick of wiping that little hind end.) Part of the experience is his self-awareness. Meaning, "Oh, I have poop in my pants. I stink and I’d better go harass Mommy so she’ll change me." Another part of the experience is the recognition that what goes in, must come out. I guess I’ve grumbled enough times about a post-blueberry poop that he’s starting to realize that what he ate at his last meal will show up shortly before the next one.

So of course the other day he refused to poop on the potty. Fine. I can accept it. He’s not quite ready; it’ll happen when it happens. I laid him on the floor and stripped him down. As I took off the diaper I must have made a face, because he said, "Is it a blueberry poop, Mommy?"

"No, son."

"Is it a strawberry poop, Mommy?"

"No, son."

"Is it a taco poop, Mommy?"

"No, son."

Silence.

Then, "Well, what kind of poop is it, Mommy?!?"

gratitude

Today Andy and I were home from work and school. I felt guilty because I've started working three days a week and sometimes when we come home he wants to bounce around and I'm too tired. So I decided to take him to the park. First we went to several stores for decorations for Andy's float in our little neighborhood 4th of July parade. (Which usually consists of him sitting in a wagon and me pulling it.) I bought him flags and balloons and snacks and other fun stuff. I even found a kite on sale so I bought that, thinking we could go to the top of the hill and fly it after the park.

We went to the playground and played and played. He ran himself and me ragged. We swang and played in the sand and threw rocks and looked at ducks. Then, despite major exhaustion, I packed him into the car and we drove to the top of the hill where I was hoping there would be wind for some kite-flying.

Of course, there was no wind. But that didn't matter to Andy. He was endlessly amused by my running around holding the kite. I could only make it fly under my own power. When he eventually stepped on it and shredded it, I tossed it in the trash and changed the agenda to distract him from the loss. We ran and ran and ran, and he laughed and laughed and laughed. I spun him around in circles until I wanted to puke. Then, to coax him back to the car, we had nauseating races, gradually working our way to the parking lot.

When we got to the car he was very thirsty and demanding a drink. It was then that I realized that my car keys had fallen out of my pocket, somewhere in the expanse of three soccer fields. Not good. We re-traced our steps, back and back, circle after circle. I pawed through the trash. (Gross, by the way.)

After 20 minutes of searching, just as I was pulling out my phone to call for help, we spied them. Then we traipsed back to the car as slowly as his little legs could possibly carry him. I put him in his seat, got him food and drink and drove him home.

As soon as he realized we were again driving past the park but this time not stopping, he got angry. After all of my efforts, time, energy and money, he thanked me for this time together by screaming,

"Mommy I'm going to belch in your face if you don't stop at the park!!!!"

ruder by the day

Andy is driving me absolutely nuts. He's interrupting our conversations because he can't stand to be out of the spotlight. He keeps asking me, "Mommy are you mad at me?" And what can I say to that? It's so sweet.

But he's not really that sweet....because after Andy interrupted for the 15th time, Shawn said, "Andy, go play with your trains."

Swift as thought, Andy replied, "Daddy, you go play with my trains, you old man."

What a jerk.