Trash Sauce

Jack is a wonderful child, but he has not always been a wonderful eater. He will drink milk at the rate of one gallon per hour, but will not consistently eat, or even SAMPLE his dinner.

Lately Dan and I have been taking the tack of ogres. He is not allowed to leave the table without eating at least half of his dinner, and frequently gets time-outs for screwing around. I enjoy this both because a) we can stretch a gallon of milk for two whole days now, and 2) I am no longer throwing away entire plates of food.

In a wonderful turn of events, the other morning he actually cleared his plate, mostly due to the aid of barbeque sauce. We let him dip his eggs and hashbrowns in it, and he loved it. (Thank you Dan for even thinking of trying this because I think that it sounds g-ross and would never have suggested it.) So the lovely barbeque sauce provides the lubrication necessary for a very picky 3-year old to swallow his food. But the BEST part of all of this is that Jack calls it, "garbage-Q" sauce.

Rated R

So my apologies in advance for this post, which is, as you may have suspected, a little on the unsavory side. Unsavory in the sense that if you are a normal (female) human, you may be offended. This is also for anyone who has a son who is not yet 3 (HA HA Megan!)--consider it a preview of coming attractions.

Dan was home to give Jack his bath the other night, and I left them alone to do the deed while I made our bed. (Yes, I was making my bed at 8pm. God does not care when you do it as long as it gets done.) I was innocently listening to their sing-songy conversation as they filled the tub and denuded, when Jack suddenly burst into a little number I happen to know that he made up himself. And the song went something like this: "Penis-hole! Peeeeenisss...hooooooole, little penis hole!" Now, admittedly, this is somewhat funny, but the truly disturbing part came when Dan joined in for the chorus. This is when I contemplated moving to Nebraska. Alone.

Party of Two

So I have been having the most ridiculous cravings lately, for those gross, processed, not-as-good-as-they-used-to-be Hostess Cupcakes. The ones with the white squiggle of "icing" on the top. Well, having never actually purchased a box of these, I just went to the grocery store, where you would think you could purchase this horrible treat, yes? NO. They didn't have them! I tried another grocery store, still NO CUPCAKES. I was getting frenzied. My Dad suggested that I try 7-11, however there are NO 7-11s in North Carolina! Then he suggested a gas station, but warned me, "Make sure they're not old." I have no idea how I was supposed to determine the age of these apocalypse-proof snacks. Finally today I found some sweet Hostess goodness at the Lowe's Food. I also found all sorts of things that I don't usually buy: crunchy Cheetos, creme horns, facial masques, bottled root beer, deli sprinkle cookies, and Rollos. All of this junk prompted the sweet lady checking me out to ask, "Are you having a slumber party honey?" To which I replied, "Yes, and I am the hostess!"

THOUGHT

Non-alcohol related barfing is several degrees less horrible than hung-over barfing. Although if I am barfing I would rather have had a LOT OF FUN the night before, and shockingly, I did NOT.

Another complaint: I was awake for 14 hours today before I was able to successfully ingest solid foods, and I am apparently still pregnant because I'm STILL CRYING at the tv (this time when the cowboy danced on Dancing With The Stars). I am a hot mess.

Digital Child

Jack loves computers. He loves to caress my laptop, ALMOST pressing buttons. And the cutest, most ironically southern thing about his fascination is that he calls it a 'puter. Pronounced, "POOTER." This always makes me laugh, ("Mommy, can I turn your pooter on??") so I haven't really corrected him, but after spending a few weeks with the genius child, I feel that I am not giving Jack a good jump into life by encouraging his hilarious vocabulary instead of makin' thangs raaaht.

So now he says, "COM-pooter."

Laughing Hysterically

As we listen to Jack, sitting on the potty, alone, singing songs in a falsetto voice and slapping his thighs in time to the music.

Calderado

We finally arrived back from our trip to Colorado. The thing that I love most about vacations (especially ones that are longer than one week) is how very strange and delightful it is to return to your own home; to smell it as a stranger smells it; marvel in the high-ceilings of the South, the delicious humidity that keeps your nose lining happy and moisturized (despite the adverse affects it has on frizz-prone hair) and a bathroom that is directly off of your bedroom. I love waking up in a confused state wondering why I am sleeping in a huge room with an actual TV in it. Then it hits me, I am home, sweet home.

We had a great time, especially Jack. He had a lot of firsts: skiing, lo mein, mountains, having a 3-year old twin, sharing a room, and peeing in an airplane bathroom. Most of these went off without a hitch, EXCEPT the room-sharing. Jack, like his parents, LOVES TO SLEEP. Our host-friend (Little Gary) is what I would describe as a party animal. He is uncannily smart, and not a little bit precocious in his tormenting of Jack. (This child is going to be hell on wheels in college.) He devised endless ways to keep Jack awake at night, resulting in a somewhat grumpy mini-Tarkenton who took to ratting his friend out in his over-tired frustration. The week consisted of lots of post-bedtime thumping (Gary), yelling, chastising (Jack) and banging, which the adults took turns addressing (me with rational coaxing, Dan with rational bullying, and Big Gary with "I will chop your feet off and you will walk on pegs for the rest of your life!!! Arrrgggh!") Needless to say that Jack was terrified. It was wonderful. I heard a lot of, "Mommy, I don't want foot-pegs!!! Gary was hiding in the closet, he is being bad!!!"