Last week, while Daddy and I were busy looking at pictures of Sherman and his man-parts, Bug went to play at Grammy Lu's house. After I wiped all the ultrasound gel off my belly and drove back to Centerville, Grammy, Bunk, and I took Bug to lunch and out to a pumpkin patch to really kick off the season.
Isn't it funny how kids seem to remember very specifc incidents and recall them in perfect detail? We ate lunch at In N Out Burger that day, and as far as I can recall it's maybe the second time Bug has eaten there in her entire short life. Somehow, though, she locked the signature look of that bright arrow sign into her little mind, and now every time we drive by one, she hollers "fries! fries!" at the top of her lungs. Nothing like that to make a mom feel great about the nutritional values she's teaching her toddler. She's sure never flapped her arms with that much joy while shouting "broccoli! broccoli!" from the shopping cart in the grocery store.
Anyway, it was great to see how excited Bug was at the pumpkin patch. They had a kid-sized little hay maze that she ran through with all the joyful abandon her little heart could muster. It took all my mommy-powers to get her to hold still long enough for a picture.
Bug had a hard time wrapping her brain around all of the possible pun-tin options available to her in that whole patch, and at first she just ran to the first one she saw, content to take home any ol' lopsided, half-rotten, or worm-chewed gourd she could lay her hands on. We quickly taught her the importance of judging every pumpkin on it's most superficial features, though, and she seemed to get the hang of it.
We found two acceptable pun-tin specimens and let her choose between them.
As a side note, this is the way I intend for her to choose her spouse, as well. No half-greenish son-in-laws for us.
Bug was sure glad that Mommy let her wear her special Halloween outfit that Grammy Lu had given her a week or so before so she'd be sure to radiate holiday spirit. It was a close call, since she was hard pressed to remove that owl shirt (whooo! whooo! she says) from her frame AT ALL, let alone long enough for a whole wash cycle. The girl's got preferences, I tell you. I had to hide the Halloween costume because she wanted to wear it all. the. time.
Grammy misplaced the $20 bill she brought with her, and our trip nearly turned into the most expensive pumpkin purchase in the history of the world. Amazingly, the staff there found the bill the next day and called her to return it! It's a Halloween miracle!
You turned two yesterday. This milestone horrifies your mother just as much as the others have, but I'll let you in on a secret. Somehow this one seems less surprising, somehow more believable or something. It's just that recently you seem so BIG. Every single day the child I lift out of the crib is less a baby and more a kid.
You've developed ever so many funny little quirks that have me rolling my eyes and chuckling at you nearly all day long. One of my favorites is that absolute shock and disappointment you exhibit every day at some of the basic parts of our schedule. Every day for, like, a million days in a row, even multiple TIMES every day, I have lifted you out of your high chair after every single meal and carried you directly to the sink for the mandatory sticky-fingers-sticky-cheeks rinse session. And yet you always act horribly surprised to find out that--SHOCK OF ALL SHOCKS!--Mommy is going to wash your hands right this very second. The phony tantrum is blessedly short lived, generally a wail of protest and a dropping of those expressive little eyebrows (makes you look like your daddy, sort of, which is strange since he doesn't scowl much) and the whole event is basically over before we've even dried your fingers.
I am blown away by your new-found language skills. You weren't particularly early developmentally in the words arena, and for a long time you basically stuck with a few favorites like mommy, daddy, milk, wubby- the basics, really. Now there is just no way I could list all the words you can say. I am surprised constantly by words you know that I swear I didn't teach you. (Scary, really, but so far we've avoided anything too naughty.) I am blown away by your ability to string the words together to make sense of your surroundings, too. A week or so ago, you were prancing around in some of my high heels when Daddy called from work to check on us. He asked what we were up to, and before I knew it, you were describing your fun with "mommy's church shoes" which sounds just a little like "mommy's cheech shoooes" in your little toddler accent.
The one possible exception to your otherwise squeaky clean verbal skills (and I hope this is embarrassing to you later) is your somewhat unconventional pronunciation of the word truck. You are a champ at making the T-sound in words like tubby, tummy, two, and Tommy, but for some reason, you prefer to start the word truck with an F-sound. Luckily for us, you have yet to perfect the hard consonant sound at the end of the word, but it's close enough that your excited shouts of "FIRETRUCK" while we're in the car still leave mommy and daddy shaking in the front seat in silent laughter, touched with perhaps just a hint of panic.
Don't worry, though. My next door neighbor when I was a kid did the same thing, only he nailed the hard K-sound at the end, resulting in a terrible version of "truck" ringing out loudly, clear as a bell.
And his grandpa was a trucker. Which he was quite proud of.
Really. And he turned out ok, as far as I know.
A very few things have stayed the same with you, it seems, but there are a few. When you are tired or a little nervous about something new, that little thumb still goes directly into your mouth. I do hope you grow out of it one of these days so you're not one of those weird kindergarteners that doesn't have any friends, but it's pretty cute in the mean time.
You still love to dance and shake that little tushy every chance you get. In the car, you invent new dance moves with your arms and demand that Daddy and I participate, too. We find ourselves sitting in the front seat, obediently mimicking our two year old and wondering where all our parental authority went.
Now I'm watching you bubble around the front room in the oversized Aggie game day shirt and enormous Aggie sweats Aunt B got you for your birthday, and it feels like maybe the next time I look up you'll be in a t-shirt that fits you, painting black marks under your eyes and excitedly exploding out the door of your first apartment for the Homecoming game.
And here is something you can't possibly understand until you are a mommy, too. That thought, that vision and the crystal clear images of you at every stage in between now and that day, make me equal parts devastated and elated. It's like my heart is torn exactly in half- part mourning the squishy, soft little baby that you aren't anymore, and part bursting with the anticipation of seeing the absolutely lovely girl you're becoming.
And those are big thoughts for someone who is just two.
I love you, Sugar Pie. Right up to the moon and back,
Back when we first found out we were expecting another baby, we spent a few days coming up with a silly name to use until the kiddo comes out, like we did with Floyd. It seems a little funny to spend time on a joke name when it took us about 9 months to come up with Bug's real one, but it's just nice to call the thing something other than 'baby' all the time.
I've mentioned befre that Schmoopsie is a big BYU fan. While I was throwing around Bernards and Herberts, Paddy suggested we call this fetus Jimmer.
You know, the Jimmer. Jimmer'd. That guy.
And don't get me wrong, I enjoyed watching the guy play ball. Stacey and I took the boys to the last BYU basketball game of the year and had a great time watching the circus. But really-- Jimmer? I explained over and over again that the reason Jimmer wasn't funny was because people would think we were serious. Between the ridiculous Jimmer-mania that occurred around these parts and the fact that Paddy's father's name was James, I was nervous that people would think that we were really, seriously considering naming the kiddo Jimmer.
Which, to be very clear, we're not. There will be no Jimmer in our family.
So we compromised, and Paddy calls the kiddo Jimmer in private, while we call him Sherman everywhere else.
Oh, that's right. HIM. We call him Sherman. Based on facebook and the blog poll, 56% of you were wrong.
I have been a happy dog owner for almost 3 and a half years. We love our puppy, but let's be honest. Any one familiar with dogs, particularly large breeds, who tells you that dogs are not completely disgusting creatures is a liar. Or they're selling something. (Probably a dog.) Our dog is wonderful, happy, pleasant, loyal, lazy, and... gross. She eats her own poop and drinks out of the toilet, ok? Freakin' sicko.
Now, in the interest of full disclosure for any of you weighing your options, let me fill you in on a little secret. I have been a happy mother for just short of 2 years. I have come in direct, personal contact with EXPONENTIALLY more poop because of my daughter than I ever dreamed of touching with the dog.
Besides the new baby blowouts, my daughter has now removed her diaper in her crib and smeared poop all over the bed. And bedding. And herself. As of today, this wonderful event has happened TWICE.
So essentially what this amounts to is the somewhat disconcerting knowledge that, to one degree or another, everyone smaller than me in this house is totally in to touching their own crap.
This picture is several months old. It's from back when I still liked Bug.
We had a quick family home evening lesson with the Buggy girl about this story, (I wish I would have seen the cool pictures and summary for children on the link above before I decided to just sort of wing it) and then built our own tents in the living room out of blankets. Turns out that blanket fort building skills decline with age and lack of practice, and Schmoopsie and I quickly found that the average 10 year old could probably whip up a decent blanket fort in half the time it took us. After a few failures and careful consideration of our architectural plans, we employed the use of a vaccuum as center pole. It all came together fairly well after that.
Once it was done, there was plenty of room in there for Daddy, Bug, the computer streaming the session online, and yes, even pregnant Mommy to sprawl out uncomfortably on the floor.
Bug held still like that for, oh, about 4 seconds. At nearly two years old, it's not surprising that the concept of relaxing and listening quietly was completely lost on her. In fact, I'm sure the entire adventure was simply a messy change from the norm for her rather than the cool scriptural object lesson it was intended to be, but we still thought it was a fun tradition to start early.
We decided that during the next General Conference in April, we'll have to hide Sherman underneath the safety of one of the wooden kitchen chairs to protect him/her from the hopping feet of the toddler and inevitable blanket collapse that quickly follows.
What are other fun traditions for General Conference? Our family also loves to stuff our faces with a breakfast of ridiculous proportions in between the morning and afternoon sessions on Saturday, and the girls enjoy a shopping trip while the boys check out the priesthood session Saturday night. What do you do?
I feel a little like a bad pregnant blogger what with being halfway done with this pregancy (what the WHAT?! Round two goes by ridiculously fast!) and no pictures of my rounding belly.
The easy answer for this: I haven't taken any.
The easy reason for this: I spend the entire non-working portion of my day as a crazy person-- cleaning, cooking, and trying to keep at least half an eye on my rambunctious two year old. This equals a great deal of pajama wearing and almost no makeup wearing/hair washing/leg shaving. By the time I am presentable, I am running out the door to work. I get home from work in the middle of the night, you'll remember, or in the early morning after an all-night shift. Neither of those are times that I want visual documentation of.
So anyway, excuses, excuses. I have a belly. Let your imagination wander. I'll take a picture soon.
Anyway, just so I'm not a total motherly failure to my little Sherman-fetus, I put up the obligatory gender poll. (It's off to the right underneath the BlogHer ads.) Give us a vote! For what it's worth, I'm sort of thinking boy. But I was sort of thinking boy last time, too, and you can see how accurate that was. Two of my coworkers know already, actually, thanks to a spur of the moment ultrasound play-date in the middle of the night, but I asked that they not tell me since Schmoopsie was snoozing away at home. The two of us will know a week from today!
It happened while I was folding up the blankets from our weekend fort. Bug came trotting down the hall, hair askew, with a mildly disgusted look on her face, attempting to spit out very small chunks of an unknown white residue.
Afraid to even consider the possibilities, I wiped the crud off her lips and tentatively took a sniff.
It smelled... clean.
"Is that SOAP?!" I asked, incredulously.
"Suhp," she repeated, nodding.
I demanded to be led to the scene of the crime. Tiny fingers wrapped around my hand and dragged me down the hall and into my bedroom.
I can imagine what you're wondering at this point, so I'll just go ahead and confirm it for you. Yes, that is my deodorant. Yes, those are very small teeth scrapes. No, they were not there yesterday.
I CANNOT WAIT for her to bring a boyfriend home.