Oh hai. You guys, I have found myself with, like, 20 free minutes before I force myself to go to bed. Well not free really. They’re never free. There’s always squalor to clean, more work hours that could be logged. But both of those things I’ve done a fairly satisfactory job at today so I’m treatin’ mah self. They’re like dollar store minutes I guess you could say. I’ve used like 11 of them already. Eff.
Here’s one thing I wanted to tell you about Mr. Frog. The kid is testing me. He turned 19 months and it’s been like… pshhheewwwww [makes exploding gesture with hands]. Where is my cherubic infant? My curious, bright-eyed, nugget of baby squish? He is still all those nice things of course. Now he’s just a bigger kind of cherub who chucks sweet potato puffs at me. And belts out “MOOOO!!!!” whilst simultaneously tearing up his cow book. And David Blaines his way out of the shopping cart strap so that when I turn around after four seconds of **conscientious mother label reading** he’s standing up and about to dive out of the thing and embarrass me and/or concuss himself.
It’s like, the next meltdown is always waiting around the corner. Here’s a modest sampling of a few meltdown triggers:
Would not let him eat crayons. Made him ride in a car seat in the car. Made him hold my hand in a parking lot (Here’s my hand, Mother, you can use it to drag around my entire body weight ::collapses to ground::). Would not let him play in the toilet. Would not let him eat hair product. Would not fulfill requests to play with the vacuum at 6:15 a.m. Would not let him eat Vaseline. Unfortunately I was a smidgen late discouraging the Vaseline, but conveniently already had a thorough knowledge of its toxicity due to Poison Control calls on Chooch’s behalf. Uhh… we don’t really know about dogs… for a 25-pound person it’s fine though. Frogson too is now 25 pounds. Foreshadowing be some crazy stuff.
I thought about Googling this and stopped to face palm myself. Like, what would I look up, 19-month-old suddenly really naughty and has fits about stuff. I don’t know but there must be some kind of alarm that goes off at Google HQ when stupidity like that surfaces. Like it’s going off in the middle of the night and a bunch of Google employees are sliding down the fireman pole to talk about how dumb I am. GETTALOADA THIS GAL! What’s next? 6:00 a.m. large orange orb rising in the sky help very scared. December seems colder than back when it was September could it be El Nino.
I made a few sorry attempts at time out. I know I know I know it’s discouraged by AP experts and all the other self-appointed Lords of All Parenting Knowledge running around. But, you guys, when it comes to stuff like biting, ain’t NOBODY want to be the mom at the playground with the biter. Come on. When it comes to stuff like that, wwhhh-pssshhh [makes whipcrack gesture with hand.] [I’ll stop with the hand gestures now.] So, time out. I would never trust him alone in his crib. I think he would be strong enough to climb out of it pretty quickly if he wanted. I only let him sleep in the crib, and he sleeps in a full body zipper blanket so it kind of incapacitates him. (Point: mother.) I also was pretty impressed my intelligence when I came up with this idea for time out– his old Bumbo-esque chair with a strap. Chair’s safe on the ground, strap keeps him in, DM me for the address to send my Nobel Prize to.
FAILED TO TAKE INTO ACCOUNT A FEW OTHER FLAWS IN MY ENGINEERING:
Another quick piece of advice I wanted to share for any other frustrated parents in similar trenches. As in all things in life, I’ve found things are easier to handle if you 1) don’t take things too seriously and 2) find humor in challenging situations. Today Frogson had just woken up from his nap and found himself headed towards the day’s 400th meltdown within like one minute of being awake. It was impressive. This time (once again) it was because I separated him from his beloved vacuum. Seriously I’m picturing his future Prom pictures next to a vacuum with an updo and corsage. Future wedding save-the-date with Frogson and the vacuum kissing in a poppy field or something. For more information about hotel accommodations please visit www.frogandvacuumforever.com.
The protest reminded me of what you might expect with some kind of grand, romantic anguish and I found myself singing Leanne Rimes’ “How Do I Live” for the situation. This is a terrific song for belting and it’s actually REALLY AMUSING to imagine the lyrics written for a toddler and vacuum:
How do I,
Get through one night without you?
If I had to live without you,
What kind of life would that be?
I need you in my arms, need you to hold,
You’re my world, my heart, my soul.
And you guys? You guys. The singing diffused the meltdown. No joke. Apparently terrible power country ballads of the latter 1990s are effective in this capacity. This is what you’ve learned today.