She's ba-ack. Kinda.

I'm moving, dear reader (if I have even one left after lo, these two years I've been away). I have been re-reading this blog over the last day or so, and I've even gotten a little verklempt about the time of my life it describes. But that life has changed radically--mind-blowingly so--and so I think it's time for a fresh start.

Feel free to visit me at my new bloghome.

From the You Cannot Make This Stuff Up Files

Ok, so the preschool teacher told me the other day when I went to pick D up that she had been tickling him, because she loves to hear his laugh, and he was laughing, laughing, laughing. And then she stopped, and he stopped laughing and sighed and said "That was amazing."

So then we were trekking out to the bicycle stable shed in the backyard and he was asking for, oh, I don't know, the thirty-thousandth time if he could ride the "big Zander bike" which, as I may have mentioned, has had to be replaced for a short period by a Slightly Smaller Big-Boy Bike (which he is riding here) as he can barely reach the handles. I had already told him, oh, twenty-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine times that he could not, he was still too small, he can ride it when he's three next summer, so I opened my mouth to answer him (perhaps in a voice not specifically designed to be an Inside Voice) when he looked at me like I was nuts, cocked his head, laughed and said "Mommy, I'm just bein' a joke."

And then when I was playing hooky from church, attending a rally for my new man-crush, D and Daddymatic were working the coffee hour room after getting their Eucharist on. Apparently, D asked for--and received, because Miracles Happen in Church--a cupcake. He ate the icing off, handed it back to Daddymatic and asked for another in that Toddler Trance Voice, the one where they kind of mutter the same thing over and over because they know you aren't listening but are hoping to wear you down by sheer volume? And Daddymatic was apparently not wearing down fast enough, because the kid took his father's face in his hands, looked into his eyes and said "DADDY, DO YOU HEAR MY WORDS? I WANT ANOTHER CUPCAKE."

Of course, it's not all Kids Say the Darndest Things around here all the time, though--I think I actually may have said the words "I will stop yelling when you start listening." But then I turned immediately into my mother, so I don't remember much after that.

Six and a half weeks? Seriously?

I've really been meaning to update this blog, but something about a solid month of temperatures hovering around, say, 4000 degrees has pretty much drained all the life out of me. But I realized that since I wrote last, the One True Child has done a number of blogworthy things, and it's high time I just sucked it up and got back on the computer. That and it's only supposed to be about 86 degrees today. I know that sounds like Early Parenthood, when you say things like "Wow, I just got three whole hours of sleep!" and mean it, but seriously, 86 degrees feels damn near arctic after these last several weeks.

Blogworthy Items of Note:

1. The child decided, completely on his own, that it's time to potty train in earnest. At least on the weekends. Of course, the fact that he gets 3 jellybeans for each successful, ah, 'deposit' doesn't hurt. Apparently, however, he has yet to fully grasp the whole concept of Escalating Rewards, because over the weekend, he was peeing and rather unexpectedly dropped a small brown trout in the potty. I got pretty excited and informed him that when he poops in the potty, he gets a sucker, and you would have thought he won the lottery (of course, pre-potty training, he was more likely to win the lottery than to get that much refined sugar in one sitting, but who's counting?).

He gave me this look that said "Are you KIDDING me? There have been SUCKERS in the offing this whole time and you've neglected to mention that up to this point? I have GOT to instruct my attorney to look at the fine print more closely." He hasn't pooped in the potty since, but I'm just glad he lives such a deprived life that we can get away with offering suckers when other people have to bribe their children with actual nice stuff, like model airplanes and bikes and Roth IRAs.

And while we're on the subject, I have to say that I am frightened by the dizzying array of underwear available for little boys. Boxers, briefs, boxer-briefs. And the licensed characters--good grief. Bob, Diego, Spongebob, Spidey, Mater--I have to bring the Noggin Schedule with me just to figure out who's who. Especially since the preschool has put the big ix-nay on "any characters who fight," which in Little Boy-ese translates to "anyone cool."

However, the most disturbing thing about hunting for boys' unna-pants are the kids on the packaging--they just look so spry and jovial, all hands-on-hips, nubile, clothed in nothing but a pair of spidey tighty-whiteys and grinning charmingly. It totally creeps me out for some reason. Having to spend a lot of time browsing on this aisle makes my tummy feel funny, like at any minute the army of Target's anti-pedophile militia is going to swoop down and ask the guy next to me if it really takes that long for him to find some size 4T spongebob boxers. Ick.

2. He has learned to pedal, which earned him a big-boy bicycle, complete with training wheels. He has not learned to properly operate a coaster brake, which has earned me a number of heart attacks. He has, however, accepted as gospel the fact that "big boys wear helmets on big-boy bikes." Video of the entire bicycling extravaganza coming soon.

3. He is becoming learned at the Art of Manipulation, even at his tender age. Case in point: the other night I had to work late and wasn't going to get home before he went to bed, so we talked a little on the phone, and then he said, in the Most Plaintive Voice Ever, "Come home, Mama."

As I was piecing the shards of my heart back together, Daddymatic explained that D had wanted to go outside after dinner and Daddy had said no, and D suggested we call Mama and ask her to come home so that THEN he could go outside. Because apparently I am a complete pushover wussy-pants. After this information helped lift the crushing weight of guilt off of my chest, I have to say I had a grudging admiration for his keen ability to, well, try to completely play two people who, working together at least, should be able to outsmart him. Well done, indeed.

4. You know how everyone has those incredibly sweet, cloying things that their children say, and you get all jealous because your child is busy saying things like "DON'T say no to me, Mama!" and "I want daddy to put me to bed?" Well, I think D has finally redeemed himself in this area: He's been obsessed with these two videos--especially the "C is for Cookie" one. So then last night, this conversation took place:

Me: What does c-c-cookie start with?

D: Cookie starts with C!!

Me: What does D-D-Davis start with?

D: Davis starts with D!

Me: What does D-D-D Daddy start with

D: Daddy starts wiiiith..I love you!

I was afraid to ask what Mommy starts with, but luckily it appears that Mommy also starts with "I love you," which is good, because for a while there, he was saying things like "You not keeming [screaming] at me, mommy!" in this awed, surprised tone, which made me feel just fantastic, because, I guess, it represents such a departure from my normal MO. Or we'd be looking at his "Mercer Mayer book" at the scene where Mama Monster is clearly comforting Little Monster, and I'd ask what the mommy was saying and he'd say, "She say, NO NO, you get a time out." Outstanding.

So those are my updates. Pictures? Videos? One day soon. *sigh* I mean, at least I'm not keeming, right?

Advice from Sistermatic

I got nothing. A weekend-plus of the world's worst case of croup (people still get that! some people get it THREE TIMES A YEAR! Who knew?), a visit from the Outlawz, and about a thousand other things too gross or petty to name have just wiped me out.

Luckily, however, my sister is funnier and cleverer--and apparently better rested--than I am, and she sent me this nugget of advice I thought the interwebs might appreciate:

She and her husband who have been married less than a year (read: still honeymoonish and completely nauseating) just got custody of his son last week. This morning I got this email:

>From: sistermatic
>To: stefanierj
>Subject: New Equation
>
>Some things you have to learn the hard way, I guess.....
>
>Threat of thunderstorms + 7 year old = wear PJs to bed


See, now don't say we don't never offer advice on this here blog.

My personal answer to "what could possibly be more boring than reality TV?"

So say what you will about Di$ney, but whatever sticker company they license their "Car$" products to must freaking rock, because D gave me a sticker for my hand yesterday, and it has lasted through the following:

1 very splashy and interactive toddler bath
1 very wiggly and silly toddler diapering and baby-lotion-applying session
1 sinkful of dishes with the level 2 extra-greasy-slime option package
1 pre-in-law-visit-panic-mode guest room cleaning
2 loads of laundry (which had to be hung up to dry, not because I'm all getting into the Laura Ingalls-y pioneering spirit of Utah or have become angst-fully aware of my carbon footprint, sad to say, but because my dryer is apparently more moody than I am, and a darn sight harder to mollify with a pedicure and a handful of candy bars)
1 shower
1 post-shower high-maintenance product application routine
1 excessively type-A hairdrying routine
3 car-to-office/office-to-car trips. in the rain. without an umbrella. because I am dumb. and this, for Pete's sake, is THE DESERT WEST.

So now I am taking bets as to which will come first: will the sticker wear off? or will someone from my office who no doubt knows me as an Uptight Office Type finally, finally, finally ask why I have a raggedy-ass kid's sticker on my hand?

This is what passes for entertainment when you only have basic cable, people. You have been warned.

The Lord's Day and the Day After That

Okay, so it's time for a confession, Utah-style. Most of you know that while I am not Mormon, I am quite positively inclined towards the LDS church. I think it's a force for good in this community, and while I don't espouse the theology myself, I think there are some lovely ideas there. Being nice to people. Helping out. Being with one's family for all time and eternity. Now, ten days straight with my family is about all I can manage, but hey, if one wants to be with one's family for all of time and eternity, be my guest! If I were a better person, I probably would, too.

One thing I just don't get, however, is the ban on shopping on Sundays. I get the general gist--that it's a day of rest, that one should not conduct business on the Lord's Day, but what about those of us for whom shopping is less and chore and more, say, a form of therapy? Especially when there is a newly opened IKEA in town, taunting me with its cheery yellow and blue promises of extremely cute Scandinavian design. And 99-cent breakfasts.

So yes, I am confessing. On Sunday morning, we decided that we did not need a repeat performance of last week's nursery debacle at the Cathedral of the Perpetually Howling Toddler and went to IKEA instead. I kind of want to duck behind something when I say that, but it's true. I skipped church and went shopping and I'm not even sorry. We had breakfast, which frankly, wasn't that great, but dude, it was 99 cents. We found the toddler bed to end all toddler beds (because it has a tent! that attaches to the bed!) which we won't be buying for some time but which is darned cute nonetheless. We also found all manner of cute stuffed toys, which we need like a hole in the head but bought one anyway--it's a macabre little turtle who sings "Twinkle Twinkle" when you pull his head out from his body. Gruesome? A little. But also silly cute. Now D announces to everyone he knows that "I LOVE IKEA." That's my boy.

And may I say about 3-day vacations is that they are only 3-day vacations for those without children? Because by Monday morning, I was so ready to be back at my desk, fielding countless demands and answering the same question over and over and over again. Oh wait......

Content evaluation

Recent google searches that have led people to this blog:

meal moth cat poop

testicle grabbing

poop "bear down"


Mommymatic: Come for the scatology, stay for...what? More scatology?








(I know I'm being cliche and that every blogger inevitably does a post about the wacky searches that bring people to their blog, but this past week is the first time I've gotten any really good ones, so bear with me. No pun intended.)