I’m on it

Let’s be honest.

I think we all know that I am the last mom to, say, create a from-scratch leprechaun trap, have a leprechaun hunt, and dye the water in the toilet bowl green.

After I microwave a dinner out of a can, I may or may not have a history of bragging to Husband about how I lovingly toiled to prepare the family meal.

Nevertheless, let us state for the record that today is March 27, a full three days before Easter, and this year…

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the Easter bunny has got her shit together.

=

In 1776 when our founding fathers declared our independence by stating “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men (and I would venture to add, “women”) are created equal…” I think they were onto something.

While I myself am probably not Christian, I have a young daughter who most certainly is. Whether I buy into it all 100% or not, this post from Momastery represents everything that I could not myself properly articulate, but truly and sincerely agree with and believe.

If it were mandatory to take a class before becoming a parent (and in a perfect world, it probably would be), and I were the instructor (let’s pretend for a moment that I would be anything other than laughably unqualified to teach such a class), Glennon’s hypothetical letter to her son would be required reading.

The last time I will ever ask my four-year-old about her day

Every afternoon at pick-up, I ask my girls about their day. I very much look forward to hearing their responses.

Okay. In the interest of full transparency and disclosure, I very much look forward to Stumps’ responses. When I say “Beanie, what did you do at school today?” her response is always “No!”

Yay two.

Anyway. Mine and Stumps’ little routine is always the same. I ask who her friends were that day. Sometimes she lists nearly every kid in the class. Other times, crushing my mommy heart, she lists only her teacher.

We progress to the day’s excitement, and Stumps tells me that she played in “home living”, “sensory”, “manipulatives” (Yes.), or “block area”. I then ask what she made, or what she built ,or what she sensed, or what whom she manipulated and she tells me all about it.

Today when I (as I have unfailingly for the past two years) unwittingly inquired “Stumps, what did you do at school today?” she responded with

My friend Blank threw up in the bathroom and not in the toilet or in the trashcan but on the floor and some splashed on the counter and some made it in the trashcan and it was really wet and brown.

So anyway, I am now in the market for some new post-pick-up conversational topics if anyone has any suggestions.

“I’m two. Don’t f*** with me.”

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My now four-year-old Stumps was a high-strung newborn who would routinely scream from 4-7 pm every afternoon for the first four months of her life. So when the Jellybean came along nearly two-and-a-half years later, we didn’t know what hit us. Beanie was such an easy, happy, laid back baby that it was uncanny. No amount of antagonization was going to provoke Beans into fussing. I remember asking Husband more than a few times in those early months, “She’s so chill. She never cries. Do you think there’s something, you know, wrong with her?”

Beanie’s amiable and easygoing temperament was quite fortunate, all things considered, since I am pretty certain I said “Leave the baby’s head alone!” to Stumps at least twice a day that entire first year.

Fast forward to now, and in hindsight, we now know Beans was just stockpiling rage to unleash upon the pitiful creatures of this world throughout her toddler years.

In other news, they are eating a meal at an actual table (see Items #3-5) , so we can consider that progress.

If anyone would like to propose a caption for what the comic strip thought-bubble above my twenty-two-month-old’s withering glare might read, I welcome submissions!

{Edited to add: When you click on the picture, it is not at all blurry, so not sure why it is blurry embedded in the post?}

To mistreat a child. The nerve.

Within the House of Stumps and Beans, a full-fledged theatrical tantrum is occurring at this very moment.

The words being tearfully, hysterically, and repeatedly screamed are “Nooooo!!! I don’t want it cut in sliiices..!!! I don’t want you to slice it!!!” 

From the sheer severity of this episode, one might think the “it” to which she refers is a prized posession. A treasured lovey. The family pet. Perhaps one of her fingers.

In the interest of full disclosure, the subject of this particular tantrum is an apple.

How can you just stand by and witness such tragedy?? Get off your duff, stop reading this blog, and alert the authorities!!

Callous people of this world – have you no souls?! Due to your apathy, ambivalence, and inactivity, a child is suffering!