Michael, holding Jenna’s toy phone up to his ear, and pretending to talk to “Bamma” (Grandma)…

“Hello, Bamma!  What are you doing?”

(thoughtful pause)

“Can’t come over right now, Bamma.  Michaels fixin’ some tractors.  Then Michael’s gotta drive Daddy’s Mustang car.”

(another pause)

“O-tay, let’s have some corn.  And straw-dobbies*?  O-TAY!”

(pause)

“Bamma, Michael doesn’t wanna take a nap.  Michael wants to watch home movies.  Michael take a nap tomorrow.”

“Bamma, when Mommy says no Mommy means no.  O-TAY! Bye, Bamma.”

*-Straw-dobbies = strawberries

No, not the Dan Brown book.  Though I will say it was my favorite Dan Brown novel, and the movie was quite good as well, much better than the overly lauded “DaVinci Code.”

What I mean is that Jenna has mostly been an angel and Michael?  Well, this week Michael seems to have been possessed by some kind of horrible, awful, terrible twos demon.  Here is where most other “mommy blogs” (shudder) will shut their cyber traps, choosing instead to only write about the smart, adorable, sweet things their children are doing.

But I, Carolicious, believe I would be doing a disservice to mothers and potential mothers everywhere if I didn’t give you the straight dope.  Two-year olds are wonderful creatures but God Almighty, can they be monsters.  That’s not even a strong enough word.  Saying that Michael has been a monster lately would do a strong disservice to monsters.  Monsters could come and take some monster lessons from this kid.

A month or two after Jenna was born Michael went through about a month long phase where he would constantly hit, kick, throw things, scream, yell, and just be otherwise contrary.  I chalked it up to jealousy over all the attention his new little sister was receiving.  Somehow or another it blew over, and for a few months he was hit/kick/throw free.

But lately he has been unruly in general and particularly mean to his sister, poking, pinching, pushing, and punching.  Some days it seems like he’s in “time out” more than he’s in “time in.”  I’ve read a million different things about disciplining children and tried just about every tactic; time-out, ignoring the behavior altogether, and taking away toys/priveleges.  Nothing seems to work.  We are not proponents of spanking, since it seems totally illogical that I would punish Michael for hitting by… well, hitting.  I also think that spanking sets a “might makes right” precedent, which is simply not how things are done in the real world.

The only time I’ve ever managed to successfully get Michael to stop his actions and show remorse was when, completely at my wit’s end, I absolutely burst into giant crocodile tears.  Michael took one look at my tears, quivered his lower lip, and cried inconsolably for about a half hour, curled up on my chest.  Maybe that’s the key to discipline right there.  Make your child think they’ve pushed you THIS CLOSE to completely losing your shit.

I visited one of my favorite blogs the other day and she wrote, far better and funnier than I, a post about this very subject (except that her son is 4… lord help me).  It’s nice to know I’m not the only one, I suppose.  Internet, if you’ve got any pearls of wisdom, pass ‘em on.

On the other hand, Michael is doing some pretty cute and amazing things, too, such as counting to ten with gusto, singing the ABC song, and just singing songs in general.  The other day Michael saw a photo of Muffin and I on our wedding day, and when he asked what it was I explained to him that Mommy and Daddy are married.  He said, “Daddy married Mommy.  Michael gonna marry Mommy, too!”  Everybody now… AAAAWWWW.

This week Jenna has been as charming and lovely as can be.  Of course, I could just be saying this because she slept through the night last night, a feat she has accomplished only a handful of times in her eight months of life.  Her latest trick is waving AND SAYING “Hi!”  Only when she says it, it comes out like, “HiiiEEEEEEEEE,” confirming that “valley girls” really must just be born that way.  Further confirmation has been garnered by her other new trick, putting the phone up to her ear and  babbling into it.  I don’t know what she’s saying, but I imagine it goes something like this:

“Ohmigod, are you serious?  SHUT. UP.  That is like, so awesome.”

She is also the proud owner of two new sparkly teeth and has taken to self feeding with gusto, particularly foods of the Cheerio variety.

A few weeks ago we had some photos taken by a local photographer, James Olson of Alderbrook Imaging.  He did an amazing job and I highly recommend his services to anyone who lives in our area.  I’m posting a few photos below that I particularly love; the rest, if you’re interested, are posted here.

While at the beach with Michael…

“Look, Mommy!  Seagulls!  Just like Snoopy!”

(Pause.  Think.  Laugh.)

Yes honey, they are seagulls.  But they’re not like Snoopy.  See, a seagull is a type of bird.  And Snoopy is a BEAGLE.  A beagle is a type of DOG.

“OH.  Seagulls are DOGGIES.”

No, seagulls are birdies and and beagles are doggies.

“Beagles are birdies!”

(Sigh) Okay, how can I explain this better?

“Explain this better!  Explain this better!”

Yes, I need to explain this better.  A beagle is a doggie.  Snoopy is a beagle.  A seagull is a bird.  And those birds right there are seagulls.  Okay?

“Okay, Mommy.  I go chase the beagles!”

(Runs toward flock of seagulls <<not the 80’s new-wave one-hit wonders>>, flapping his arms like a bird.)

Currently crossing zoologist off the list of Michael’s future career choices.

In just a few short weeks Michael will be two and a half.  Half a year away from THREE YEARS OLD.  I’ll spare you the obligatory mushy parental musings about how quickly the time has passed, because I think that the very statement, THREE YEARS OLD, is an exclamation point all by itself.

And doesn’t it seem like a boy of two and a half should be potty trained?

A few months ago, after Jenna had burned through all the diapers we received as gifts, I had the pleasure of visiting Costco to buy diapers and wipes for both kids.  My cart had exactly three items in it: two boxes of diapers and a box of wipes.  Yet the total on the screen was over $100.  Gulp.  And I would be back in a month to do this all over again.  Double gulp.

We haven’t pushed the potty training issue much, because according to our pediatrician the worst thing a parent can possibly do when trying to potty train is FORCING the child to use the potty.  Instead, we just suggest it casually and sometimes Michael will oblige.  But he never, EVER suggests it on his own, and he refuses to poop on the potty, period.

To try and help things along I bought Michael some “big boy” underwear, adorable little briefs with Thomas The Tank Engine on them.  Wouldn’t you like to wear these big boy underwear with Thomas on them? I asked.  “No, no.  Michael doesn’t want it.”  (Sidebar: Michael has begun referring to himself solely in the third person. I could give that Elmo such a smack.)

Then we tried “pull-ups,” which seem like a natural transition from diapers to undies, pull-ups printed with Lightning McQueen from Michael’s favorite movie, “Cars.”  If you start telling Mommy you have to go potty, then we can wear Lightning McQueen pull-ups! I told him.  “No!  DON’T WANT IT.”

I have even been consulting various books lately about potty training and have been trying tips to no avail.  Michael just has absolutely no problem with soiled diapers.  I should also mention that my in-laws have a pretty bountiful vegetable garden so we are eating LOTS OF FRESH VEGGIES every day, which is good for the body but BAD for what comes out the other end.  I don’t think I can make it much longer.

So I’m turning to you, Internet, for advice.  How do you potty train a rather stubborn little boy?

I give you the kids…

A rare shot with Jenna in a headband; Muffin thinks they make her look like Karate Kid.

Carrots!

"Playing"

Many, many years ago when I was a kid there were these fun cartoons on television that profiled an adorable little rodent named Mickey Mouse and his colorful cast of friends, including girlfriend Minnie, duck pals Donald and Daisy, dog Pluto, and dog?  Wolf?  Long-eared creature?… Goofy.  They even spun these fantastic cartoons into an entire “land” of Disney.  Remember that mouse?

Anyway, if you don’t have kids you probably haven’t noticed that Mickey and his friends?  Not on television anywhere anymore.  Maybe in some iteration, but not the oldy goldy cartoons of my youth.  Gone.

As such, Michael has no idea who Mickey Mouse is.  For this reason, he was a bit confused when my parents, after a trip to Disney World, returned with a Mickey Mouse t-shirt for him.  I tried to explain and showed him a book or two, and he seemed to accept that there once existed a humorous mouse who wore white gloves.

Now we skip to the part of the story where our cat Buddy (affectionately known by the Muffin as “douchebag”) leaves a dead/partially eaten mouse on the doorstep.  I am unaware of this fact, so when I hear Michael open Buddy’s cat door, as he frequently does when he hears Buddy meowing to get in, I think nothing of it.  A few moments later I went to tell Michael that it was time for lunch, and what do I see?

Michael, playing tenderly with a half-eaten mouse carcass.  He looks up at me, grins widely, and says, “See, Mommy?  It’s MICKEY MOUSE.”

Walt Disney would totally not want his cryogenically frozen head to be thawed if he knew this is the kind of world he would have to face.

Michael, do you love your sister?

(looks thoughtful for a moment)

“No… I just like my sister.”

Typical conversation with a two-year old…

Michael, it’s time for lunch.  Would you like some spaghetti?

“No.”

Okay, how about a sandwich?

“No.”

A Lunchable?

“No.  I don’t want it.”

What about some soup?

“NO!”

A hot dog?

“No.”

Michael, are you just saying “no” to everything I ask?

“No.”

Michael, is your name “Michael?”

“NO!”

Michael, would you like some chocolate cake?

(Pause)

“O-tay!”

Overheard this morning while Michael played with the little plastic policeman that came with his new police car…

"You want water, policeman?  In a sippy cup?  O-tay.  I be right back!"

"No water?  You want Apple Jacks?  O-tay.  I be right back."

"You wanna go see Papa [Grandpa] today?  No, no see Papa today.  Maybe tomorrow, policeman."

"You wanna go jump on the couch, policeman?  O-tay!"

Here’s a good one for you, Internet:

Question: What’s worse than caring for a child who has a simultaneous ear infection AND strep throat?

Answer: Caring for a child who has a simultaneous ear infection, AND strep throat, AND is currently teething EIGHT teeth.  Yes, our son has all three of these conditions (and I repeat, EIGHT TEETH!).

Michael had a ’round the clock fever for the last day and a half, which I simply figured was all those teeth coming in.  But then today his temp spiked up to 103 degrees, and when my mom, a former nurse, stopped by to visit us, she took one look at Michael and said, "That child has an ear infection and needs to be on some antibiotics."  Now no child of mine could ever get sick on a weekday when his regular doctor could see him, so a trip to the ER was warranted.  Luckily we got in virtually as soon as we stepped through the door and were seen fairly quickly, and unlike our last visit to the doctor for an illness (in which Michael made, in the parking lot of the urgent care, the most dramatic recovery ever seen by modern medicine), poor Michael simply wanted to be held and cuddled and didn’t even want to play with all the cool ER stuff.  And as most moms will agree, when baby is sick no one but mommy will do, so I have basically been holding Michael for the last two days.  My poor little man.

So we were quickly dispatched some bubble-gum flavored Amoxicillin (ah, reminds me of my youth), along with instructions to alternate Tylenol and Ibuprofen every three hours to keep that pesky fever down.  The Ibuprofen they gave him in the ER seemed to help him get on the road to recovery, as on the way home when passing McDonald’s, he asked the Muffin if he could have a "hammermer and fra fries."  Yes, my son eats Happy Meals, and, considering his low weight and general distaste for most foods, when he asks for one he pretty much always gets one.

And now as I hear the Muffin whining in the background that his throat is beginning to hurt, I’d like to revise my earlier question:

Question: What’s worse than caring for a child who is simultaneously suffering from an ear infection, strep throat, and is teething EIGHT teeth?

Answer:  Caring for TWO SICK CHILDREN, especially when one of the children is a 28-year old man.