Type A

The more I write in the blog the more I realize that as much as this is about the Mud Puddle it is also about me. In a bigger way than I had planned. It has allowed me to see all of the pieces of me in him, some days it is like looking into a mini mirror and makes me glad to know that we have bonds that run deeper than skin and thicker than blood. We share foibles, fears, and things that make us laugh. Those are the best moments as a Mom for me.

So with that touchy, feely bit out of the way let’s get to the good stuff.

The Mud Puddle, it would appear, is barreling down the road of Anal Retentiveness at top speed. The child is three and a half but is already showing the classic signs of being a control freak.
He has started asking me for our daily itinerary. Now when you are three, a day is the equivalent to a week in adult time (think about it, he has only lived ~1,292 days compared to my ~12,500). So a day to him seems like a lifetime but he has started wishing them away.

The other night I tell him that it is time for bed.
“Then what?”
“We go to school.”
“Then what?”
“We come home.”

He didn’t seem to be satisfied with those answers so I offered up a little more detail: We get up, get dressed, get in the car, go to school, come home, drink juice, eat dinner, watch Simpsons, go to bed.
That seemed to satisfy him. So now every morning before daycare and every evening afterwards I have to provide him with an updated itinerary of our next twelve hours.

Now I am anal, a control freak, holding on a little too tight. I don’t like surprises of any kind and I mentally pick out my clothes for the entire week on Sunday nights.
Yes, I have issues and I am not afraid to admit it. I LIKE being a control freak.

But I would really rather he have a chance to be a little boy before he starts worrying about the daily routine. That is why he has me, to make sure he is where he needs to be when he needs to be there. I am his personal assistant, basically.

But he still insists on being of aware of what is going on, no going with the flow with him.
And if you deviate from the schedule? He will let you know. I had to stop at the grocery store the other night and he informed me that it wasn’t in the plan. He may be worse than ME. Poor Scott.

Dragon Slayer

I have a new title to add to my resume: I am now the official dragon remover for the back bedroom in our house.

The Mud Puddle was doing his usual toy inventory in his room while I finished getting ready this morning when I heard:”Mommy, there is something in here.”

My mind raced and stomach sank. Was it a mouse, a ghost, what? What could it be???
I hurried down the hall and he said.
“There is a dragon in my room.”

Ok, I quickly decided an announcement to any and all dragons might do the trick:”Attention all dragons! This building is not zoned for dragons, you must leave immediately and don’t come back!!”

I mentally wiped my hands and gave myself a ‘that’s that’ when the Mud Puddle informed me that there was one on the floor by my feet.

So I “picked it up”. He told me it was heavy, so I pretended it was heavy. It got loose from my arms – or so said the Mud Puddle. I scooped it up in a blanket and carried it outside.

Then there was ANOTHER dragon, this time under his bed, so I pulled it out by its tail and informed the Mud Puddle I had a tight grip and it would not get away.
I tossed that one outside and told the Mud Puddle dragon cleaning was done and it was time to go.

He has been all about using his imagination lately. He encourages me to use mine, which is funny given that I am the same person that can convince herself in five nano-seconds that the noise outside is Jason with an ax. And I am a grown up!

I hope that this dragon stuff doesn’t get out of hand; I can’t be hauling dragon butts around all day and taking his word for their escape abilities.

Of course I do have some experience in the removal of imaginary animals. When I was a little girl I went to stay at my grandmother’s house and fell out of bed. I blamed it on the gorilla that was sharing the bed with me and the next morning tossed it over the backyard fence.

Hopefully the Mud Puddle will quickly learn the value of removing your own imaginary animals, and take some pride in his work.

Sicko

The Mud Puddle is sick (not in the head – that comes after years of bad jokes and limericks told repeatedly by his father and grandfather) but physically sick.
The reason that this is Blog worthy is two-fold:

First, he has Scarlet Fever, I didn’t even know that you could still get that. Apparently when you have strep throat (which he does) it can cause Scarlet Fever.

Secondly, he hasn’t acted sick, at all. He has had a fever since Friday but Tylenol seemed to keep it at bay and he didn’t complain of any other symptoms. He was his usual old self – just a little pink in the cheeks.

He was sent home from daycare Monday with a fever and a bit of a rash (I assumed it was a reaction to new fabric softener, which has happened before). When I called the doctor’s office the nurse was less than impressed with his symptoms and I had to press to get him an appointment.

When we got in to see the doctor (Not ours, another member of the practice) she treated me like I was an idiot and a bad mother to boot.
“Do you know what that is?” she asked rather condescendingly.
“No…..” I replied with a sinking feeling in my stomach.
“It is SCARLET FEVER!!” she informed me, and implied any self respecting mother would know that. (In hindsight that Law and Order “Duhn, Duhn” sounded in my head but I was too upset to notice).
“He is a very sick little boy,” she said as the Mud Puddle wiggles his butt on the paper covering the exam table to make that noise he loves.

I almost started crying. I am no longer in the running for Mommy of the Year (see earlier posts about juice and tv) but now I am a prime candidate for Worst Mother of the Decade.

I feel so incredibly guilty that I didn’t know he was sick, but in a lame attempt at a defense, no one else did either. Daycare was shocked when I told them what was wrong, as was everyone else.
He was dancing around the living room (“I like to move it move it”) 10 minutes before his doctor’s appointment. He was his usual happy go lucky self. And while it is nice he can ‘handle’ being sick, it makes me worried.

He was VERY sick and could have had some serious problems if we hadn’t gone to the doctor when we did. So what am I supposed to do? Do I rush him to the doctor every time he has a sniffle? *sigh*
The least he could do is act sick if he is going to BE sick.

Today he is better, Scott has been taken out by the strep and I am headed to the doctor this afternoon. I am going to have to bomb the house with chlorine and burn all the sheets once we have all gotten over it.

What so funny for?

I will whole heartedly admit that I am completely biased when it comes to the Mud Puddle, he is smarter, cuter, better mannered than any child I have ever met. But on this count I know that I am only moderately biased: He is FUNNY. And not in a three year old funny kind of way but in an adult, making comments and expressions to elicit laughter sort of way. We are talking Jerry Seinfeld funny.

We always suspected that he was going to be on the humorous side. While the average pregnant woman is riddled with emotions ranging from rage to frustration to sadness, I was lucky to only have serious bouts of laughter. Crying my eyes out, nearly wetting my pants laughter. For no reason. That would last for a good 15 minutes. It was quite the sight. Even in-utero he had me cracking up.

When he says and does things funny he always asks “What so funny for?”. That leads to another round of laughter. Don’t take my word for it, try these on for size:

We were watching the show “Deal or No Deal” completely silly game show (no skill is involved, it is luck and guts pretty much) which is hosted by Howie Mandel ( a favorite comedian of both Scott and I). When a contestant gets an offer from the banker they say either “Deal or No Deal” (hence the name).
We are watching Monday night, the banker makes an offer and the Mud Puddle says “No deal Howie” complete with horiztonal flat hand gesture.
Both Scott and I busted a gut on that one, and the Mud Puddle asked “What so funny for?”

A couple of weeks ago we were driving home from our weekly trip to the bookstore when he asked me to turn on the overhead light (it was dark at this point and he wanted to read his new book). I said no and he replied under his breath “G*d-d*mm*t”, perfect inflection included.
I swallowed a laugh and told him he was NOT allowed to use such language, and that I would have to tell daddy so any further infractions would be handled with the Naughty Corner.
His reply:
“Why do you have to tell him? Can’t we keep it a secret?”
How does he know what a secret is and how does he know how to use GD so well? I snorted and sniveled the entire way home trying not to laugh out loud.
“What so funny for?”

We watch American Idol (he LOVES that show, and I know I am out of the running for Mother of the Year for letting him watch so much tv). At the beginning of the season he referred to it as ‘the bad singers’, and rightfully so. Once the bad singers had been weeded out and we were on to the Top 24 I explained to him that the bad singers were gone and they were “good singers” from now on.
So we are watching the girls one night and after a particularly bad rendition of Whitney Houston or Alicia Keys (when will these people learn NOT to sing songs done by great singers?) he turns to me and says “I thought these were GOOD singers.” The future Simon Cowell ladies and gentlemen.

“What so funny for?”

Promises, Promises

While I was pregnant, and even before then, I vowed never to let me child watch too much tv drink anything but milk, and we would eat dinner at the dining room table every night.

So guess what?

We watch tv A LOT (the Mud Puddle begs for the “Bad Singers” – aka American Idol- every night).
He drinks juice like it is going out of style (I do cut it with water based on a report I read that juice has as much sugar as soda -I don’t believe it but I am all about hedging my bets).
The dining room table? Currently covered in mail and unread magazines. It hasn’t seen a meal in MONTHS.

We have a friend who says you have to have at least two kids because ‘you always mess up the first pancake.’ Personally, I am trying really hard not to mess up this one. But I sometimes stop and question my choices as a parent. It was really easy BMP (Before Mud Puddle) to make grandiose statements about how I would do things.
“There will be no juice or tv unless it is PBS, there will be many vegetables including brussel sprouts and lima beans.”

But the reality is that day to day, juice is easier, Noggin is easier (and necessary if I want to slap on make up and spend more than 30 seconds with my hair), dinner at the coffee table is EASIER (especially since we all eat at different times). And I don’t know if these easier choices will come back and bite me some day in the near or distant future.

He maybe 20 and unable to eat at a dining room table without a Dora placemat before these ‘bad choices’ rear their ugly head.

I feel like I do make some good choices too. I have kept one or two of my Good Mother Commandments, surprisingly enough.
I said that my child would inherit my love of books and the Mud Puddle has. We go to the library on a regular basis. Hit the book store once a week (granted, we start the visit with a cookie and a ride in the elevator but STILL), and read a story (Nearly) every night before bed.
I make sure I don’t push him too much to do what I think he should – he doesn’t like soccer? Ok, we can revisit again at a later time. He really wants to try skiing? Ok, lets give it a go and see how it plays out (pretty well, btw).
Teeth are brushed, hair is combed and cut on a regular basis and the face is washed daily.

I kind of feel like I am batting .500 on the Commandments and I cross my fingers, light a candle and say a little prayer that the ones I slide on won’t make a difference in the grand scheme of things.