Road Tripping with The Roc

It's taken some time, but I think I've finally mastered the art of traveling with a toddler. Lessons learned:

1. Bring snacks. One grocery bag full of juice boxes, animal crackers, bananas, and granola bars per three days on the road should do it. Be sure to include some protein bars and beer to keep Daddy from getting cranky.

2. Travel at nap time. (Note: This has totally backfired on us occasionally, resulting in The Roc crashing precisely as we arrive at our fabulous destination.)

3. Stick to his usual schedule as much as possible, in fact. Toddlers are creatures of habit, and they want to eat, sleep, and brush their teeth at the same times each day, regardless of whether they're hanging out at home or living it up at a resort.

4. Make him carry his own bag. This gives him a sense of purpose, slows him down, and means Mommy and Daddy have two less things to carry.

5. Stay at a hotel with a pool. The Roc was more excited about going swimming in the hotel pool than anything else we did on our last vacation. If the hotel has elevators, fountains, or ornamental fauna (swans, ducks, koi, flamingos, peacocks, etc.) so much the better.

6. Stay at a hotel with a spa and premium cable. So Mommy and Daddy have something to do during nap time.

7. Pack twice as many diapers as you think you'll need. The markup on diapers at the typical hotel gift shop is, by my estimation, around 4,000 percent. And don't forget the wipes! Trust me on this: Kleenex doesn't work.

8. Pack twice as many clothes as you think you'll need. On a bad day, The Roc can go through four or five outfits, and no one wants to spend their vacation doing laundry.

9. Forget about traveling light. Besides the extra diapers, clothes, and snacks, it pays to pack all the comforts of home; having his favorite blanket, stuffed animal, bedtime stories, and sippy cup makes The Roc a much happier camper. Mommies shouldn't travel light, either. Necessary luxuries I have dragged long distances in a suitcase include my favorite slippers, bathrobe, and coffee cup; lengthy hardcover novels, framed photos, hot rollers, wine glasses, bubble bath, and an (allegedly) portable stereo. Worth every penny of the excess baggage fees.

10. Tip generously.

Mommy Smells Like Eggnog

I can tell Christmas is coming because we're out of milk, eggs, and butter, but our freezer is overflowing with delicacies like apple strudel, Omaha steaks, gourmet chocolate, exotic shellfish, and puff pastry; also, the liquor cabinet is so well stocked that it actually takes up a whole cabinet for a change. I haven't done dishes in a week, but that's okay because I've only eaten at home once. There was an office party, a cookie exchange, a brunch, a luncheon, another brunch, another office party, and a baby shower, of all things. I've been so busy that I had to borrow a roll of toilet paper because I haven't had time to go shopping for ANYTHING. It appears that, in an effort to spread the Christmas rush out over the whole month, everything has been pushed up to the first week of December. Come next week, I'll be sitting at home reorganizing my wrapping paper drawer.

This year, for the first time, The Roc seems to understand the true meaning of Christmas: candy canes, presents, lights, ornaments, stockings, Christmas trees, carols, eggnog, Santa Claus, and Baby Jesus. However, he pronounces it "eggnob," and he is under the impression that Baby Jesus is a girl.

He also thinks our Christmas tree came from Old Macdonald's farm. In fact, the Christmas tree came from Home Depot, which shares its parking lot with a . . . McDonald's.

Two-year-olds are naturally chock-full of the Christmas spirit. The Roc gave Santa one of his trademark Big Hugs after getting his picture taken with him, and burst into spontaneous applause the first time he saw our house decorated with colorful Christmas lights. When Santa asked The Roc what he wanted for Christmas, he replied: "A lollipop." The Roc is getting a toddler-sized toy kitchen, a PlasmaCar, and a Tonka truck so big he can ride it, but none of it is going to make him happier than a lollipop. Except maybe that toy weed whacker.

Monorail!

It's been several weeks since I took The Roc to Disneyland for the first time, but I've been too traumatized to write about it until now. Not that we had a bad time; it is, after all, the Happiest Place on Earth, and that's a trademark, not a suggestion. It just left me so exhausted and overstimulated that I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, much as The Roc did upon meeting Goofy face to face.

Fortified with mouse-shaped waffles, The Roc happily hopped onto E-ticket rides like the Tea Cups, Pirates of the Carribean, Autopia, and the Matterhorn, but his favorite attraction by far was--wait for it--the Monorail. Next time, I will save myself $72 (plus the cost of personalized mouse ears) and take The Roc for a ride on the Gold Line. As far as I'm concerned, South Pasadena has always been the Happiest Place on Earth anyway.

Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here

If I have a personal hell, it must be the underground parking lot at the Pasadena branch of Whole Foods, or "Trash Store," as The Roc lovingly calls it. Not once, but twice now I have had to call a tow truck to get me out of it. That's a lot of time spent breathing Prius fumes in a dark, enclosed space with an antsy toddler hopped up on free samples of organic artisanal cheese.

Today, I woke up not quite recovered from my recent bout of non-swine flu and discovered that we were out of The Roc's favorite fish-shaped gluten-free frozen fish sticks, exclusive to Whole Foods. By the time I got us both showered and dressed, it was nearly lunch time, so we hustled into the car. Upon arriving in my own personal hell, I discovered that The Roc's juice cup had leaked all over the diaper bag. So, not only was there a big, sticky mess in my car, but I had no functioning diaper bag and NO JUICE. Which wouldn't have been a problem if the car hadn't refused to start again.

I'm not sure which of Dante's nine circles of hell Whole Foods belongs in. Lust . . . for ripe, juicy, perfectly formed, pesticide-free produce? Gluttony . . . for gluten-free, soy-based desserts? Avarice . . . as in: "There's no way I'm paying eighteen bucks a pound for bacon, even if it is free-range and smoked with sustainable hickory"?

In any case, they didn't have the fish-shaped gluten-free frozen fish sticks. I had to get regular gluten-free frozen fishsticks. But they were having a sale on my favorite non-dairy ice cream and frozen vegan chicken cutlets, so I stocked up. Thus, it was with a car full of melting, overpriced groceries (but no diapers or juice) that I waited for the tow truck, which finally came after 45 agonizing minutes of "Itsy Bitsy Spider" and "Wheels on the Bus."

From now on, I'm taking my chances with the Glendale Whole Foods. At least their parking lot is above ground.

Zoology According to The Roc

Boodie

Pippohotamus

Moocow

Shark

Wizard

Shark

Mangoes

Fishy

Eagle

Hamster

Top 10 Things The Roc Quite Enjoys That Would Scare the Pants Off the Average Adult

This was going to be a list of the Top 10 Things The Roc is Afraid Of, but I couldn't think of anything besides grasshoppers and vacuum cleaners, which are his Kryptonite. There are also a handful of Things The Roc Loves and Fears in Equal Measure, like leaf blowers, peacocks, yappy little dogs, and Disney characters. But for the most part, that kid is fearless. Here are some of his more surprising predelictions:

1. Snakes

2. Roller coasters

3. Big dogs

4. Flying

5. The dark

6. Spiders

7. Swimming in the ocean

8. Popping balloons

9. Heights

10. Fish

Surely I'm not the only adult who's afraid of fish...?

Mommy Smells Like Peanut Butter Cups

This Halloween, The Roc came up with a few creative alternatives to traditional trick-or-treating:

1. Ring doorbell; when door opens, shout "Trick or Treat"; turn around and leave without getting any candy.

2. Ring doorbell; when door opens, shout "Thank you!"

3. Ring doorbell; when door opens, walk into the house.

4. Don't ring doorbell. Just stand there waiting patiently for some candy.

He also kept complaining about not being able to find the elevator. I finally realized he was talking about one of our friends' kids, who had dressed up as Darth Vader. The Force is not strong with this one.

Actually, I was a little surprised to see a Darth Vader costume. When my husband wore one a few years ago, no one under 30 had any idea who he was supposed to be. They thought he was some kind of vampire or samurai.

As for Mommy, I went as a geisha girl; oddly, I already had everything I needed for the costume, and I'll wear almost anything to get out of making a special trip to Target. But first I ran it by a friend of mine who is a professor of Asian-American studies at UCLA, and she assured me that the geisha girl is a pop culture icon and in no way a politically incorrect Halloween costume for a white girl like me. Indeed, it proved to be very popular with Caucasian men of a certain age, which lent the holiday a whole new kind of creepy.

But The Roc wasn't fooled. He knew all along it was Mommy. Which is great, really, because I didn't want to have to explain the whole high-class Japanese prostitute concept to him. I'm still working on explaining Darth Vader, and where all The Roc's peanut butter cups went.

Bedtime Snack

Mommy: "You can wear the helicopter pajamas or the pirate pajamas. You have two pairs. Which do you want?"

The Roc: "I want some pears."

Halloween Decorations According to The Roc

Pumpkin

Pineapples

Spider

Batman

Happy Face

Snowman

Why Two-Year-Olds Shouldn't Jump Off Sofas

Last weekend, we got together with a group of friends and their kids--a total of four boys under the age of six, with The Roc being the youngest. They played more or less quietly in another room while we enjoyed dinner and grown-up conversation. But, as with the proverbial monkeys jumping on the bed, it was only a matter of time before one fell off and broke his head. Just as Daddy and I were congratulating ourselves on producing such an independent and well-behaved child, we heard The Roc crying.

Although we had thought there was another adult in the room at the time, it transpired that the kids were alone, and they were amusing themselves by jumping off the sofa. The Roc, though every bit as brave as the bigger boys, was not as agile, and he had fallen and "hurt his neck"--a phrase to send any parent into a panic attack.

But it seemed like our panic was premature; The Roc had already stopped crying, and he made it clear that it was actually his right arm, not his neck, that hurt. After establishing that he was not bleeding, disoriented, or paralyzed, we gave him lots of cuddles and cookies, and he went about his business as if nothing had happened, albeit with heavy parental supervision.

The next morning, I checked him for scrapes, bruises, or swelling, and he still seemed fine; he only complained that his arm hurt when I tried to pick him up. I switched to picking him up under one arm and one butt cheek, an awkward but effective solution. I also noticed that he was favoring his left hand, even though he's usually mostly right-handed. The Roc was already scheduled to go in for his seasonal flu shot later that week, so I called his pediatrician and asked her to examine his arm/shoulder/neck at the same time.

By the time the flu shot rolled around, The Roc's mobility was much improved, to the point that I almost canceled the consultation. The flu shot was administered in The Roc's chubby little thigh, mercifully out of his (and my) sight. I held him and sang him the Thomas the Tank Engine song that has been stuck in my head all week while the nurse did her thing. The Roc's face contorted into a wail, but before he could let it out, it was all over. And he didn't even know what had happened. The only protest he could make was: "Mommy, she did something to me!"

Then the pediatrician came in to check out The Roc's sore arm/shoulder/neck. He didn't seem to mind her poking and prodding, but she suggested getting an x-ray anyhow, just to rule out any broken bones.

Now, I once broke my arm ice-skating in Scotland. It was a hairline crack, hardly visible on an x-ray, yet I was in so much pain that I couldn't sleep or move my fingers for a full week. I figured if The Roc had broken anything, he would have been screaming in agony. So it was with absolutely no trepidation that we proceeded across town to the radiology lab.

By this time, it was nearly three. The Roc usually goes down for his nap at two. The lab closed at four. Sleep would have to wait. I pumped him full of sugary juice and did my best to keep him distracted while we waited to see the radiologist.

Twenty long minutes later, it was our turn. The Roc was ushered into the lab to "get his picture taken." I think he was expecting a big white room full of toys, like at Picture People. His sense of betrayal was palpable. The Roc had been holding it together until this point, but the combination of sleep deprivation, bare torso, cold metal table, lead blanket, and sinister-looking x-ray machine pushed him over the edge. He completely lost it, and no amount of Thomas the Tank Engine songs would calm him down. In half the x-rays, you could see my arms pinning him to the table.

Despite his squirming, we finally got a perfectly clear x-ray. You didn't need to be a licensed radiologist to figure out that The Roc had a broken collarbone, or "fractured clavicle" in labspeak.

And that's when I lost it.

Clearly, The Roc is going to grow up to be one of those kids who breaks his ankle playing football but finishes the game before heading to the hospital--on foot. Apart from being tired and cold and cranky, he wasn't the least bit perturbed by his injury. In fact, he stopped crying and perked up considerably when he saw his "picture." But I was literally nauseous at the thought that my precious little baby was broken. And not only had I failed to prevent it, I had failed even to notice it.

We were sent back across town to the pediatrician, who couldn't do anything but give The Roc some Tylenol and a tiny little sling for his arm and wish me luck in getting him to wear it. (Exactly the same treatment I'd received from the NHS for my exponentially-more-painful broken arm, by the way; don't get me started on the perils of socialized medicine.)

Four hours and three waiting rooms later, we were back home. The Roc finally got his nap. I found a miniature bottle of rum buried in the pantry, mixed it with the contents of a juice box, and christened it the Fractured Clavicle.

Since then, several people have expressed sympathy and/or horror upon seeing The Roc's sling. But he's fine. He'll be the first to tell you he doesn't need any cotton-pickin' "swing," as he calls it. In six to eight weeks, he'll make a full recovery. And as for me, now that the shock has worn off, I'm just really, really grateful that he didn't break his neck.

I know parents of boys who are on a first-name basis with the nurses in the ER, and I was fully prepared to join their ranks when The Roc was born. But in his two years and four months, The Roc has never had any stitches, serious illnesses, or broken bones, until now. He's never even thrown up (obviously having inherited Mommy's iron stomach, not Daddy's hypersensitive gag reflex). It's not for lack of trying or quality of parenting that The Roc has managed to avoid the ER thus far, and I don't expect that his streak will last forever. But in that context, a broken collarbone looks like a best-case scenario, and maybe even a gift from God. And it's pretty hard for a toddler to climb up onto a sofa with his arm in a sling.

Yummy, Yummy Mothballs

I'm used to getting some pretty strange dietary requests from The Roc: popsicles for breakfast, uncooked spaghetti, crystal ginger, frozen peas, coffee, obscure British candy bars, "puzzles." But I was genuinely stumped when, tonight after dinner, he asked me for "mothballs."

Earlier today at Whole Foods--or "Trash Store," as The Roc admiringly calls it, because of the rainbow of recycling bins lined up outside--we'd bought some perlini mozzarella balls to put in a salad. Aha! I thought. Moth-zarella balls.

I went to the fridge and smugly proffered the plastic tub of mozzarella balls. I'm pretty sure The Roc rolled his eyes before he shook his head and pointed to the freezer. I opened it, still clueless. Inside, there was a box of Whole Foods' finest frozen Organic Vanilla Mini Waffles.

Lego My Milk

This week, The Roc and I took a road trip to visit his Uncle Dave and Auntie Anna. Their house has a balcony, a staircase, a large, excitable dog, and an unfenced train track in the vicinity, among other toddler death traps. But it also happens to be mere minutes from Legoland, which puts it at the top of The Roc's must-see list.

Legoland is the paradise of toddlers, the purgatory of their parents, and the hell of any other adult unfortunate enough to get dragged along for the ride, as Uncle Dave can now attest.

"I just don't have any patience for kids who run wild and whine and misbehave," Uncle Dave admitted as we left. "Especially at Legoland. In some parts of the world, they'd be working in salt mines."

"Don't worry, when you have your own kids, you'll feel exactly the same," I assured him.

As if Legoland itself was not exhausting enough, I had to share the guest futon with The Roc, who is used to sleeping in a crib with four padded walls where he can bounce around like a somnambulant pinball all night. On several occasions, I awoke to the rhythmic sound of tiny, footsie-pajama-clad feet kicking me in my face, my stomach, the small of my back. Once, I heard a rumbling noise coming from somewhere under the futon; it was The Roc, who was snoring with his legs on the mattress and his torso hanging upside-down over the side.

In the middle of the night, The Roc woke me up for the 67th time and whispered in his scariest Gollum voice: "I want milk. I want milk. I want milk"

Trying not to wake the dog, I tiptoed to the kitchen and returned a minute later with a nice, cold glass of milk. The Roc grabbed it but stubbornly remained in a supine position.

"Sit up, Sugarplum," I told him, holding on to the glass.

Wrong thing to say to a thirsty, half-asleep two-year-old.

"I NEEEEEEEED IT!" The Roc screamed, loud enough to drown out the roar of the freight train passing in the night.

Great Moments in Aviation History

Today, The Roc and I checked out the Air and Space Gallery at the California Science Center. We sat in a police helicopter, played in a wind tunnel, and launched model gliders from a surprisingly oomphy catapult.

As we left, The Roc announced: "I like that."

"What was your favorite part?" I asked him, very proud of myself for planning such an entertaining (and educational!) outing.

"The dinosaurs."

The Air and Space Gallery has a full-sized United Airlines DC-8, the actual Gemini 11 capsule, and a rare surviving F-20 Tigershark prototype, but not one dinosaur.

"Where were the dinosaurs, Honey?"

"Hiding somewhere."

Mommy Smells Like Dreft

It's 2:57 pm and The Roc is already on his fifth outfit of the day, not including the jammies he woke up in. Look #1, an orange and white striped polo shirt and khaki shorts, fell victim to raspberry stains at breakfast. Look #2, a pale blue shirt with a brown stripe and brown shorts, got soaked when I let The Roc water the tomato patch. Look #3, a blue and green striped polo shirt and navy blue shorts, ended up covered in flour after we baked cookies. A popsicle melted all over Look #4, an olive green T-shirt and his OTHER pair of khaki shorts. He's now napping in Look #5, a yellow crocodile shirt and brown plaid shorts; I expect that one will stay clean for at least the next hour and a half, while I do some laundry. But you never know. The Roc hasn't changed clothes this many times in one day since he was two months old and in his projectile-pooping phase. One finger-painting project, squirt gun battle, or spaghetti dinner and we may be looking at a new record.

These Are Not the Balloons You're Looking For

Now that he's mastered talking, The Roc has begun to experiment with whispering. It may sound cute, but it's like living with Gollum.

I was changing his diaper on the changing table the other day and suddenly I heard an eerie, barely audible hiss: "Put me down. Put me down. Put me down."

This morning, when I took him out of his crib, he stared into my eyes and whispered: "Yogurt. Yogurt. Yogurt."

And later, waiting in line at Trader Joe's, I heard: "I want a balloon. I want a balloon. I want a balloon."

Is The Roc playing Jedi mind tricks?

What Little Boys Like

I took The Roc shopping for a gift for a friend who just had a baby boy.

"What do little boys like?" I asked him, expecting an answer involving trucks.

Without hesitating, The Roc replied: "They like poop."

I Need Some Manners

Now that The Roc has mastered complete sentences, we're trying to teach him some social graces, like "please" and "thank you." It's not going well.

"Mommy, I want a pretzel."

"Try 'Mommy, I would like a pretzel please.'"

"Mommy, I would like a pretzel."

"What else do you say?"

"Mommy, I neeeeeeeeed a pretzel!"

Not only is The Roc not getting it, but he's dragging Daddy down with him.

"Honey, I neeeeeeeeed a beer."

"There's a new Dan Brown novel coming out. I neeeeeeeeed it."

"I don't neeeeeeeeed to iron this shirt; it's wrinkle-resistant."

The Roc's nose-picking has become so blatant that I finally staged an intervention.

"Honeybun, why do you keep picking your nose?"

"There are boooodies inside.

"You mean boogers?" I asked, wondering where he'd picked up that particular word.

"No, boooodies. Tweet, tweet, tweet!"

"There are birdies in your nose? How did they get there?"

"Flap, flap, flap!" He flapped his arms enthusiastically.

I neeeeeeeeed a margarita.

Kitty Smells Like Butter

In retrospect, I can understand why The Roc thought the cat needed a coating of hairspray. Leroy has a lot of hair. Unfortunately, The Roc used Pam.

Hueles A Caca, Mamá

While we're on the subject of egregious toy store transgressions, I would like to make a public apology to our gardeners. Every Monday morning, whatever the weather, a hardworking crew of Mexican guys shows up to mow and groom our lawns. And every week, while they are trying to do their jobs, The Roc grabs his battery-operated toy lawn mower and toy leaf blower (yes, that's right, toy leaf blower) and noisily pretends to be a gardener.

First of all, I want to point out that I did NOT buy the lawn mower or the leaf blower for The Roc. They were gifts. I'm just thankful no one has bought him the matching weed whacker or hedge trimmer. Yet.

Second of all, The Roc is not mocking you. He thinks you're fantastic. You are his heroes. From his perspective, you guys, the mailman, and the garbage man are the only people who ever do anything worthwhile around here.

Of course, while I am full of white guilt over the leaf blower, I have no similar compunctions about The Roc's toy medical kit or toy cash register. Maybe I should. Maybe if he took the cash register to the grocery store and pretended to ring stuff up, or tried to listen to his pediatrician's heartbeat on his plastic stethoscope, I'd mind. Especially if they made loud rumbling sounds.

Tiger Woods Has a LOT to Answer For

After Daddy and Granddaddy's birthday party, we all passed out in front of the television in a sugar-induced haze. The PGA Championship was on, and, to no one's surprise, Tiger Woods was ahead by 3 strokes. You'd have to be living under an actual rock not to know that by the time Tiger was The Roc's age, he was already hitting perfect drives with a toddler-sized golf club his coach/daddy made for him by sawing off an adult-sized golf club. An inspiring story, but one with somewhat ironic long-term consequences: wander into any major toy store these days and you will find an entire aisle dedicated to kiddie golf gear, for toddlers on up. Either we are raising a generation of champion golfers, or someone is making a Tiger-sized fortune convincing us that we are.

Cheers, Granddaddy!

This weekend, we are throwing a family birthday party for Daddy and Granddaddy, who are turning a combined 104 years old this month. Today, Granddaddy asked The Roc what he got Daddy for his birthday. The Roc must have finally grasped that Daddy's birthday present is supposed to be a Big Big Secret, because he replied: "We got YOU wine."

U Smell Like Poop LOL

It's been quite a summer for me and The Roc. So far, highlights have included a 20-mile bike ride (towing The Roc in a trailer, which was a lot like towing an actual rock in a trailer), sneaking into Legoland (inadvertently! how was I to know they recently changed their free-admission-after-7 policy?), getting knocked over by a rogue wave at the beach, and seeing some adorable baby cheetahs. Also, The Roc has turned into a human Twitter feed, keeping up a running narrative of his own eventful life. For example:

"The wave knocked me over."

"I am all wet."

"Mommy is all wet."

"I have sand in my diaper."

"Mommy is changing my diaper."

"My legs are up."

"My diaper is off."

"Mommy is wiping me."

"I have a new diaper."

"My legs are down."

"I pick you up, Mommy."

Occasionally, The Roc has trouble with his personal nouns. He also has trouble keeping his mouth shut. I should have known, given his penchant for verbiage and the recent incident at the donut shop, that The Roc was going to spill the beans about our shopping trip for Daddy's birthday present, even though I explicitly told him that it was a Big Big Secret.

"Don't tell Daddy," I said, and I made him repeat it, just to be safe.

The ink on the credit card receipt was hardly dry when The Roc announced, in Daddy's hearing:

"I want to play with the helicopter."

"Which helicopter?" I asked, genuinely puzzled. We have a lot of helicopters around here.

"The helicopter in the box!" he replied.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said evenly, motioning for him to shush when Daddy wasn't looking.

"The helicopter in the box in Mommy's car!" The Roc insisted, loudly.

"There's no helicopter in Mommy's car, silly."

By this time, Daddy was beginning to catch on.

"What color is the helicopter?"

"Yellow!"

"Is it a big helicopter?"

The Roc looked at me, then looked at Daddy, and said:

"Don't tell Daddy!"

Mommy Likes Donuts

Sometimes The Roc will casually drop words into conversation that we have no idea how he learned. Words like baseball bat, McDonalds, and Spiderman. Yesterday, he and Daddy went to pick up a prescription at our local drug store, which is right next door to our local donut shop.

"Mommy likes donuts!" The Roc told Daddy.

"Mommy doesn't like donuts," Daddy replied. "Donuts aren't good for you."

Later, Daddy wondered aloud how The Roc knows what a donut is, since Mommy would never, ever take The Roc to the donut shop.

Busted! No more donuts for you, you little traitor.

Mmmm...Puzzles

Today, at a play date, The Roc started demanding "more puzzles." We have a couple of puzzles, but he's never shown much interest in them before, and there certainly weren't any around at the moment. So why the sudden attraction? The Roc took me firmly by the hand and led me to the dining table, where a bowl of--aha!--pretzels awaited. I suppose a pretzel is a kind of puzzle: a mystery wrapped in an enigma, covered in salt. Yummy!

This Cow Has a Tail

Like all two-year-olds, The Roc is obsessed with poop. Animal poop, people poop, imaginary poop--yes, The Roc hallucinates poop. Mostly literary poop. For example, he is convinced that this pig in his Peekaboo, Bunny! book is pooping in the laundry hamper:

And this sheep in Sheep in a Jeep:





(Sheep in a Jeep is probably my favorite of all board books, by the way. As the Library of Congress catalogue summary explains: "Records the misadventures of a group of sheep that go riding in a jeep." And it rhymes!)



And then there's this cow on the inside cover of The Little Engine That Could:





No matter how many times I explain that the cow has a TAIL, The Roc thinks it's pooping. As a result, I can recommend some excellent resources for parents of poop-loving toddlers. At Noah's Ark at the Skirball Center, kids can sweep up highly realistic lumps of plastic animal poop. (Bravo to the Skirball for anticipating the inevitable questions about all the poop on Noah's Ark.) And thanks to Uncle Dave for introducing us to the anatomically correct, animated quiz at www.whopooped.org, where The Roc got all the answers right on the first try and earned himself a well-deserved, full-color "Poop Expert" certificate, now hanging above his changing table.

And then there's this:

This book won't be released in the US until October, but I saw the British version (subtitled "What's in Your Nappy?") on a recent trip to London and I was genuinely horrified. On the plus side, it has flaps you can lift, realistic animal poop pictures, and a none-too-subtle pro-potty-training message. On the downside, it is a story about a mouse who goes around peeking in other animals' poopy diapers. Ew.

Because We Can't Survive Even One Single Day Without a Diaper Bag

The Secret Ingredient is Paper

Ever since the recession put the whole $4 gourmet cupcake trend into perspective for me, I've been looking for a good recipe for homemade cupcakes, by which I mean one that won't require me to make a special trip to the grocery store. When one showed up in my e-mail inbox this morning, I decided to try it out, with The Roc acting as my sous-chef. I ended up having to make a special trip to the store anyway, for cupcake liners. I got the mini kind, thinking to myself, "The Roc probably shouldn't eat a whole cupcake." I should have been thinking: "Or a whole cupcake liner." He was on his third mini cupcake before I realized that he hadn't bothered to remove them from the liners; he just ate them, paper and all.

This Fish Has a Tail

It's very exciting when your toddler starts talking in complete sentences, even when those sentences include sentiments like: "Mommy smells like poop." (In my defense, he had just pooped on me, so technically we both smelled like poop.)

I recently took The Roc in for his two-year checkup. I dread these checkups, not because I can't stand to see my darling child getting poked with long needles, but because The Roc's pediatrician's waiting room has an aquarium with seven or eight tropical fish in it.

Now, I suffer from pretty severe ichthyophobia (fear of fish). Ever since I can remember, I've been nauseated, panicked, and downright petrified in the presence of these scaly, slippery, cold-blooded monsters. I don't want to catch them, eat them, get in the water with them, or look at them. I even get a little queasy reading One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish to The Roc. (Don't get me started on The Cat in the Hat. Will someone please get that fish out of the teapot???!!!)

Toddlers loooove fish. It's possible that even I loved fish when I was a toddler. But I definitely don't love them now. At the pediatrician's office, I want to stay as far away from that aquarium as possible--in the opposite corner of the waiting room, by the magazine rack, or, preferably, in the parking lot, locked in my car.

But we all find ourselves doing things we don't want to for the sake of our children. It's God's way of reminding us that we really do love them, even when they poop on us. I know I love The Roc more than I love myself, because I take him to a doctor with a fish tank in her waiting room, and I will even sit within arm's reach while he bangs on the glass, practically daring those finned fiends to leap out of their tank and destroy us.

On this visit, I was rewarded for my courage with The Roc's first complete sentence. He stared at the tank (which, as I've said, was chock full of terrifying tropical fish) for a long, long time. Then, he raised a chubby little finger, pointed at a giant yellow brute, and announced: "This fish has a tail."

I, Kitty

We have an indoor kitty, whom I'll call Leroy. At least once a day, Leroy inexplicably attempts to escape the air-conditioned, cat-food-stocked comfort of our lovely home. Occasionally, he succeeds. But instead of running for the hills, he always makes a beeline for the tall grass by the tomato patch. (Which reminds me, can I interest anyone in a couple of tons of fresh homegrown tomatoes? We are looking at a record harvest.) We'll find him there hours later, happily munching grass.

The Roc looooves Leroy. Which is the only explanation I can come up with for what happened today.

The Roc and I are outside, playing in the backyard. The Roc apparently tires of walking on his feet, bends over, plants his hands on the grass, and starts walking on all fours.

"What are you doing, sugarplum?"

"I KITTY!" he shouts.

What a little genius The Roc is, I think to myself. I wonder if he's old enough to take an IQ test. And so agile, too. And so--wait a second! Is my child eating grass?!?

He's still propped up on his hands and feet, but his face is buried in the grass. I run over and pick him up. Sure enough, there are tiny blades of grass all over his mouth, and--ick--inside his mouth, stuck to his little teeth.

"No, no, honey! Don't eat the grass! It will make you--"

The Roc barfs all over me.

R.I.P. Diapoo Bag