Mommy: "What do you want for dinner?"
The Roc: "Veggie Tales."
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Stupid Toddler Tricks
Toddlers are like puppies. They have a ton of energy. They're messy eaters. They're not reliably potty trained. They wreck your stuff, but they're so darned cute that you forgive them every time. And, if you're lucky, you get a smart one who can learn tricks and perform them on command.
It's true that toddlers are little sponges. The Roc learned the F-word after hearing it come out of Daddy's mouth just once. (Not wanting to be a bad influence, I always try to swear in German. Meaning my kid can now swear in two languages.) Once they've mastered "please" and "thank you," it's hard to resist teaching them more advanced forms of verbal communication, like Cockney rhyming slang and Snoop Dogg lyrics. From high fives and handshakes, it's a slippery slope to gang signs and exploding fist bumps. You know you've gone too far when your child, unprompted, greets a room full of grown-ups with a truffle shuffle and a cheerful: "What up, peeps?"
It's true that toddlers are little sponges. The Roc learned the F-word after hearing it come out of Daddy's mouth just once. (Not wanting to be a bad influence, I always try to swear in German. Meaning my kid can now swear in two languages.) Once they've mastered "please" and "thank you," it's hard to resist teaching them more advanced forms of verbal communication, like Cockney rhyming slang and Snoop Dogg lyrics. From high fives and handshakes, it's a slippery slope to gang signs and exploding fist bumps. You know you've gone too far when your child, unprompted, greets a room full of grown-ups with a truffle shuffle and a cheerful: "What up, peeps?"
Miracle Products
"Miracle product" is not a phrase I use lightly. Oh, who am I kidding? I totally do. If I weren't blogging around my cute kid, I'd probably be blogging about all the miracle products that make my life happier and easier. Blackout curtains. Flushable kitty litter. Nutella. That German shampoo I love. Wrinkle-resistant shirts. Grillable cheese. Cream eyeshadow. Dental floss picks. Cordless speakers. I am easily impressed.
Three servings of fruit and vegetables in each chocolate-flavored scoop! I think I might try to sneak some into my husband's oatmeal, too.
So when a mommy friend recommended this, I ran right out to Trash Store to buy some:
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
A Horse is a Horse
The Roc is beginning to display a pronounced lack of imagination that is either a stage he's going through or a harbinger of a lucrative career in engineering someday. Recently, while digging through the ten cent bin at the church fundraiser, I scored The Roc a couple of small, plastic horses.
"What are you going to name them?" I asked.
He thought for a moment.
"This one's name is Horsie, and this one's Horsie, too."
"Horsie Two?"
"No, just Horsie."
"What are you going to name them?" I asked.
He thought for a moment.
"This one's name is Horsie, and this one's Horsie, too."
"Horsie Two?"
"No, just Horsie."
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Happy 3rd Birthday to The Roc!
Friday, June 4, 2010
The G-Word
I was not surprised to read in a recent interview with Ivana Trump that she makes her grandchildren call her "Glamma." What shocked me was that she admitted to having grandchildren at all. I know several grandmothers--mothers of my mommy friends--who detest "the G-word" and, far from bragging about their grandchildren or shoving baby photos in your face, would prefer to pretend that they didn't exist, at least publicly. Their grandchildren call them by their first names or cute-but-nonagenarian nicknames. These are busy, active women with jobs, graduate degrees, home gyms, facelifts, highlights, bifocal contacts, and more social and volunteer commitments than they can store in their iPhones.
They're not evil; we live in an ageist society, and the traditional stereotype of the home-bound, cookie-baking, sweater-knitting, elderly, wrinkled, blue-haired grandmother is in dire need of updating. Maybe it never existed at all; even in her eighties, my late, blue-haired grandmother preferred watching college football and doing water aerobics to baking cookies. My other grandmother, also in her eighties and not a blue (or gray) hair in sight, loves baking cookies, although it's hard for her to find the time in her busy schedule of shopping, traveling, instant messaging, and going to Broadway shows.
Fortunately for The Roc, both of his grandmothers embrace their role--and the title that comes with it--gracefully. They may have jobs and home gyms, but they always have time for baking cookies.
They're not evil; we live in an ageist society, and the traditional stereotype of the home-bound, cookie-baking, sweater-knitting, elderly, wrinkled, blue-haired grandmother is in dire need of updating. Maybe it never existed at all; even in her eighties, my late, blue-haired grandmother preferred watching college football and doing water aerobics to baking cookies. My other grandmother, also in her eighties and not a blue (or gray) hair in sight, loves baking cookies, although it's hard for her to find the time in her busy schedule of shopping, traveling, instant messaging, and going to Broadway shows.
Fortunately for The Roc, both of his grandmothers embrace their role--and the title that comes with it--gracefully. They may have jobs and home gyms, but they always have time for baking cookies.
Wetter T-Shirt
Normally I avoid American Apparel like the plague. The chain's commitment to sweatshop-free, made-in-the-USA merchandise is completely negated by its pervy ad campaigns and beyond-repulsive, not-even-American CEO.
But when The Roc spotted this cute T-shirt across a crowded mall, I gave in and bought it for him.
He's learning his letters (or "wetters," as he calls them), and while I'd never dress him in something with his whole name on it--parenting experts liken this to hanging a "kidnap me" sign on your child's back--one letter does not an Amber Alert make, right?
But when The Roc spotted this cute T-shirt across a crowded mall, I gave in and bought it for him.
He's learning his letters (or "wetters," as he calls them), and while I'd never dress him in something with his whole name on it--parenting experts liken this to hanging a "kidnap me" sign on your child's back--one letter does not an Amber Alert make, right?
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