Mommy has a headache so...

I feel like someone's played "Whack a Mole" with my head, leaving my brain quivering in agony, and my neck feeling like a collapsed accordion.

Thunder and lightening commandeer the sky chasing me and The Booger inside.

I gotta lie down.

Next thing I know, tiny fingers grab my eyelids, pinching and pulling. "Mommy. Wake up. Mommy, why are you sleeping? You heads hurts? Are you sleeping?"

Someone's hands, probably mine, flail knocking the pincers away. Fearing a repeat attack, I cover my eyes with my hands.

My nose is twisted in an unnatural position. "Mommy, do you gots boogers? How 'bout snots? Hey Mommy, look. Look! I pulling your hair. Mommy, I'm pulling your hair."

Fanning my fingers ever so slightly, I brace myself for the next "incident." A brown eyeball hovers over my hand hole. "Mommy, are you in there?"

Air explodes from my lungs as a thirty pound toddler belly-flops on my tummy. "I'm not gonna bite your face, Mommy. I'm not."

"That's nice," I say covering my face as The Booger proceeds to lick me. Ew. I push him off. "Mommy's head hurts. She needs to rest a bit, okay?"

"Ohhh-kay. I gotta find my pick-up truck." Booger trots up the stairs. His voices bounces off the hall walls, "I foun' it!"

THUD! THUD! THUD! "Brrrrrrrrr, mmmmnnnnnrrrrrrrr. Mommy, your airms are roads. Mmmmneeeer. Motorcyles race up Mommy's arms, over her nose, down other side."

"Leave me alone!" Plastic motorcycles fly through the air. I cross my arms over my face.

"Ohhh-kay. I listen to thunder noise. God's playing the drums."

Peace.

"Mommy! I make you feel better. Take your medicine." My right eyelid is torn back and a plastic object is shoved into my eyeball. Screaming I swat. "No, Mommy, you need to take your medicine!"

"Eyeballs don't take medicine," I sit up and grab his arms. "Booger, that hurts!"

"Your nose. What about your nose. Your nose takes medicine."

My hand shoots out like a striking rattle snake deflecting the doctor toy (the thingie they use to look in your ears) headed for my nose.

"Ohhhkayy." A plastic thermometer is shoved in my ear. "I take your temperature, Mommy. You have a fever."

By this time not only my head hurts, but my eyeball is throbbing and my ear stinging. The phone rings. It's John asking me to find a phone number. I sum up the past few minutes of torture and feel something rush up my leg.

A motorcycle.

"Mommy, the motorcycle is gonna get stuck on your butt."

Lovely.

Mommy has a headache so let's go ahead and take her mind off her head by making other body parts hurt.

Anyone want to buy a kid?

Disclaimer: For anyone considering calling child protective services over my last sentence... Don't. It's a JOKE. Like, I'm gonna sell the Booger on Ebay. Seriously?

Elmo underwear...

I can lead colorguard units to state championships, teach kids how to do some pretty crazy things with flags, rifles and sabers but do you think I can teach a toddler how to use the potty?

Oy.

If I had a bathtub that my body could fit in and could afford Calgon, I'd be screaming, "Calgon, take me away!"

One thing about motherhood that I've never come to appreciate or tolerate is poop. The more I have to look at it and smell it, the more I despise it.

Different pull-up diaper brands boast guaranteed success towards potty training if you use them. Cool Alert is supposed to tingle the tinkler so the toddler can trot to the pot. Not my kid. Doesn't seem to feel it or care.

We've watched videos on how "big boy" it is to do you business in the toilet. Videos that hold real underwear in high regard.

When I opened Booger's door this morning, the smell hit me like a tsunami. Gagging, I chased him around his room, over trains, through a tee pee and into a pile of stuffed animals. My fingers latched in his arm pitts and I hoised him on the changing table (which is duct-taped together b/c he's pulled it apart and destroyed it).

"No! No diapers! I don't want diapers!"

"I'm gonna put on your almost-underwear to help you get ready for real underwear."

"Real underwear, I want real underwear." Kyle wiggled and kicked at me as I tried to shove his feet through the leg holes. I'd put him in underpants if he had some. Money is tight and The Budget won't allow for much beyond bills.

Booger vaulted over the edge of the table, I caught him and put him on his back - again. Then I remembered my mom sent a little money in a Halloween card. I knew just the thing to buy.

At Babies-R-Us, Kyle marched proudly down the aisle behind the sales lady toward the rack of big boy underwear. Diego, Cars or Elmo? I was hoping for Thomas, but the Boog lunged for his fave red monster.

"I want Elmo!" The sales lady handed him a 3 pack of 2Ts and he hugged it to his chest twisting from side to side with a huge grin.

After lunch, I dared to ask if he wanted to have an underwear party and put on his new underpants. He chose which pair he wanted to wear.

"Now, if you feel like you need to go poop or pee, tell me and I'll put you on the potty, okay?"

"I play Thomas," Booger said.

Every few minutes I checked for a tell-tale dark spot on his sweat pants. Wanted to catch him before any pee got in my rug.

An hour passed. Bogger bounced up and down on his bed. "Mommy! I jumping!"

And I smelled it.

Let me ask you parents; have any of you ever tried to check you kid's pants while they were bouncing up and down? If not, it's not easy. Trust me.

Matching his rhythm, I pulled at the waistband. The top of a brown pancake peeked at me. Great. Now what? How do you get a kid out of underwear full of poo? I couldn't peel it off like a diaper. Nor could I lay him down. I didn't want the stuff spread like peanut butter down his legs.

Into the bathroom we went. Booger kicked and screamed, "My butt! My butt! Mine poop!"

"I know it's your poop, but it needs to go bye-bye. Elmo is sad because he's dirty." I flipped up the lid of the toilet with my toe.

"Noooooo!"

Suspending his backside over the edge, I peeled down the pants. Or tried. Booger writhed, sending brown quarter-sized poocakes flying.

"Is that poop, Mommy? Is that poop?" He lifted his arms straight above his head and slid from my grasp, planting a socked foot firm in a pile.

I wish I could tell you I reamined calm and collected and said in my most business-like voice, "Now Kyle, I need you to hold still so I can get your sock off. Then I'd like it if you could move over by the tub."

"Nonono! Ew! Getyourfootoutofthere, yuck, your're stepping- oh gross! No! Don't jump! Stopjumpinginyourpoorightnow! I'm loosing it. How do I do this?"

I tucked my kid football style under my left arm and yanked off a yard or so of toilet paper.

"Mommy? Is that Kyle poop? I want to pick up Kyle's poop. Mommy?"

"Don't talk to me, I'm trying to clean-" I remembered the socked foot rubbing against my arm wasn't clean. "Ahhhhh!" I flipped poor Kyle upside down and peeled the offending sock from his foot, flinging it out of reach. "Oh, crap!" It landed poo-side down on the carpet.

"Mommy, are you okay?"

"I'd be okay if you pooped in the potty instead of your pants."

"Where's Esau? I want to scare him. Like a ghost."

Good thing I can bend my body like a pretzel. With one hand I grabbed the sock along with the nasty pants, tossing them in the sink. Now what? Do I just wipe him off with TP or take him to the changing table.

"Stand still so Mommy can clean you..."

"I scare Esau!" My little bun-rocket shot out the door.

"Get back here! You have a dirty bottom!" I gave chase and caught him under the arm-pitts. "I need to clean you up and put on a diaper so you can take a nap (and I can get some work done)."

"No! Mommy, I want underwear!"

Booger is wearing a diaper right now. He's jumping on his bed, scribbling in Daddy's checkbook, and chasing the cats.

No wonder some kids wear diapers until they're eight!

Modern-day Motherhood

Oh. My. Word.

The terrible two's are upon me and he's not even two!

This morning I had to go to the Kaiser Permanente clinic for a blood draw. Before I left the house, I called John to ask where he put the stroller. The answer?

In his car trunk.

In Downtown Denver.

Am I gonna drive all the way down there?

Nuh-uh!

Well, Kyle's walking pretty good. Those legs aren't painted on...

At the clinic we get out of the car and head across the parking lot. The little body hit's the asphalt with a thump. I grab a wrist. "Get up. You need to walk."

"No." Kyle says, punctuating his one-word sentence with a thumb plug.

I pull, he pulls back. Tries to lay down. I circle like a vulture over dead meat. We're in a parking lot. Cars drive along this path. I pick up the child. "Mommy's carrying you because you can't sit in a parking lot. It's not safe. When we're in the building, you will walk like a big boy."

The sliding glass door close behind me. I stand Kyle on his feet and take his tiny hand. "No!" he yells.

I notice we are near the waiting area for the pediatrician's office. "We're here for Mommy. Mommy is getting her blood drawn, not Kyle."

He pops the thumb in his mouth, looks up at me and grins.

Grins!

In a second, I'm behind him, lifting him up by both wrists. "Walk. Now." He thrashes, he cries out, "No!" The lab is the next waiting area down. Only about thirty feet away. I let go and walk to the check-in desk. Kyle sits on the floor, sucking his thumb and looking around. Old ladies in walkers shuffle by chatting it up. He blows kisses to them. I check in and sit down, pretending to read. Kyle stands and takes a step forward.

"Looks like he's gonna come, " another vampire victim comments.

Just as I start to think my ploy of ignoring him is working, he toddles to a table and rifles through the magazines. For a moment, he turns his head and shoots me a brilliant smile. My blood starts to bubble. I hope the phlebotomist doesn't get burned.

I'm called in. Kyle is toodleng around the pediatric waiting area. I'm forced to get him. As I approach, he raises his arms. "Up. Up."

A few onces lighter, he and I walk out to the car. He walks like a big boy. But...

I have one more stop to make. I have to go to Ulta and buy some conditioner and make-up. They don't have carts.

I head off the parking lot fight by carrying him into the store. I put him down and he follows me to the Bare Minerals aisle. Lots of eyeshadow choices along with little test containers line the shelves. Little test containers + little hands = disaster.

Kyle grabs three or four eyeshadow powder thingies and shakes them. Drops them on the floor. I grab his hands and squeeze. "Look, don't touch." The power of temptation is too much for the toddler mind. He rakes them off the shelf. I grab a kit of neutral colors and haul baby. Sometimes the best course of action is removal.

Baby doesn't want to be hauled. I still need conditioner. I drag him, kicking and screaming across the store. (I saw a mother doing this at Kaiser when her toddler son was called back to see the pediatrician. It worked. Sort of.)

His screams echoed off the bottles of hair dye. The conditioner was in sight. I let go of him, and scoot down the aisle. Kyle engages in thumb therapy and grins. He totally thinks he won!

Laiden with eyeshadow, hair conditioner and a bottle of glaze, I attempt to travel toward the check-out counter. Kyle wandered near me, running this hands through a box of Burt's Bee's lip glosses. I take his hand. It's full of lip-gloss tubes. "Put that back. Mommy doesn't need lip-gloss." He shakes his head. I set my unpurchased products on the floor. I have to peel Radiant Red and Buff out of his fingers. He sits. He screams. He even swats at me. People stare.

I run my fingers through my hair. What would my mom do? Smack my butt, that's what she did. I look at Kyle. A gray-haired woman stands near-by, hand poised over the cell phone attached to her purse strap. If I tried to discipline Kyle, she'd probably call the police. Social services would come. They'd take Kyle away, and we'd never be able to adopt another child.

Reasoning with a toddler is like asking Osama Bin Lauden to emcee the March of Dimes charity drive.

Getting out of the store and into the car was pretty much the same scenario as above.

I told Kyle I was disappointed in his behavior. I wasn't happy he disobeyed me. He's way too young for the "Wait 'till we get home!" tactic.

What's a mother to do today in a society where a tiny smack could make you do the jail house rock? Kyle knew my hands were tied. He doesn't behave this way at home. For now, I'm not going anywhere w/o the stroller. But I still need a strategy for defiance in public. Stripes make me look fat.

Emotional Fatigue and Tiny Tantrums

SPLASH!

Water oozes across the parquet floor soaking everything in its path. Including a cat, magazine and baby boy.

"Kyle!" I jump out of the chair in front of my computer to discover numbers 1,3,4 and 5 floating in the animals' water dish. Kyle, sitting in the middle of the ever expanding puddle, flashes me a toothy grin. "Don't play in the water." I say bending to pick him up so I can clean the mess before something else 'drowns'.

Kyle claps in glee over his new found ability to create lakes where none existed - that is until I plop him down on the living room floor.

WHAAAAAAAAAAAAH! He rolls onto his stomach, scrunches his legs underneath and plows the carpet with his fuzzy little head. Kyle looks more like a doodlebug than a baby.

A toy cement mixer sits idle. I lunge for it, pressing the sound button. "Here. Play with this."

The tiny ball of boy explodes into a swarming tangle of arms, legs and loud screeches. The water is soaking into the wood floor as I watch in horror.

"You'll get over it." I shrug my shoulders and set off in hunt of a super-absorbent paper towel.

He got over it, all right.

The moment I knelt to sop up Lake Gudger, Kyle came scuttling across the floor on all fours landing with a belly flop into the lake. Spattering me. Great. Now I have to clean the floor, the baby, and now myself. How's a mom to get anything done around here?

An emergent walker takes full advantage of his newfound freedom. Freedom for him means more work for me. Every task I set out to accomplish takes five or six times longer than BMB (before mobile baby). Oh, I could shake open the pack'n play and drop the baby inside for a few hours of uninterrupted write time, but I don't.

Why?

Kyle needs to learn boundaries. He needs to know tantrums get him nowhere and there are certain objects in the house that are not his to play with. It would be so easy to pen him up, but being a mom is my primary job. I don't regret that one bit.

But it's emotionally exhausting! Mothers of toddlers should be given free year passes to a local spa for the hyper-vigilent watch we must keep on our wee ones while working and doing boring house stuff.

Living in a constant state of emotional fatigue is hard. Good thing it's only for a season.

Oh!

Pardon me while I go remove Kyle's fingers from Esau's nose...

"Kyle! Don't pick the kitty's nose... Don't. Pick..."