Noodle Boy is a nickname my son had when he was a tiny guy and I started this blog. His nickname changes all the time. (Don't worry, we keep his real name the same.) He is completely awesome. Read on and see for yourself!

Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Why is that kid yelling at me?

That Diego kid on TV is pretty freakin' rude if you ask me. He's on Nick Jr. and I think he's a cousin/friend/spin-off of Dora The (also rude) Explorer. They're very loud. And bossy.
Usually when a TV character wants the audience to join in and play along with whatever they are doing it feels like an invitation to do something fun. When those mouthy Hispanic kids want to play, it's an order! They yell EVERYTHING!

"SING!"

"LOUDER!"

"VAMANOS!"

They're like tiny little drill sergeants.
With talking animal companions.
They probably can't get other cartoon kids to play with them because they are too mean.

Sunday, September 13, 2009

The Boy Who Cried "Poop!"

I've been absent, I know.

Jon decided about a month and a half ago that he wanted to start using the toilet like a big guy and our lives have spiralled out of my control a little more everyday since.

We got a little potty chair but Jon has what we call in my family "Aunt Bonnie Butt" and he really can't take care of all of his business using the teeny little seat on the chair. So when it's time for The Big Poop of the day we get out a little froggy and ladybug embellished seat that goes on the Big Guy Toilet and we prop him up there. Get out the frog seat, put it on the toilet, get out the step stool, climb up, turn around, it's quite an undertaking. It has really become a source of amusment for him. So much so that he has to poop about four times a day.

Or so he claims.

Bored with the blocks? "Poop, mom."

Lunch not so appetizing? "Mama! Poop! Hurry!"

Bedtime rolls around too soon? "NOOOO! POOOOOOOP!"

But he's really not pooping. He's just yanking my chain! And he knows he's got me, because I'm not going to not take him and then have it really be the time he needs to go. What a little coniver! He's like the boy who cried "Wolf!"

Monday, July 13, 2009

Bubble Trouble

My son was traumatized by a bubble bath tonight. He has super-sensitive skin so when he was a just a little peanut we started using hypoallergenic-no-smell-no-color-no-fun baby wash to keep him from getting all rashy and skipping the bubbly stuff because most of it smells good and good smells=bad rashes on this kid.
Then wonder of wonders! Last week I discovered hypoallergenic-no-smell-no-color BUBBLE BATH! Wheeee!

He hates it.

Evidently we missed our opportunity in his early days to introduce him to the joys of a bubbly tub.
He wouldn't sit down! He screamed until I cleared the bubbles away so he could see his feet. I think he thought they disapeared forever. "FEET MAMA! FEEEEEEEEET!!!!!" He calmed down a little when he got his feet back, but then I made the mistake of putting some bubbles on his hand. "Mess.MESS. MESS!!!" He turned his head away and held his hand out as far as he could until I wiped the suds off. After thorough inspection he accepted the hand as part of his body again and tried to bail out of the tub which resulted in a splash down and his entire body covered in the offensive fluff.
*hysteria ensues*
I opened the drain and started the faucet in an effort to wash the bubbles down, while trying to rinse Jon with the cup part of the toothbrush holder. This only created more bubbles/hysteria. Finally in desperation to stop the tears and get rid of the horror that is bubble bath I scooped arm-fulls of bubbles into the toilet, which delighted Jon to no end. Imagine a bathtub's worth of bubbles towering out of a toilet. At this point how can I not laugh right along with him? He was finally able to stand at the very back of the tub and not touch any bubbles I got him rinsed clean. He has fully recovered from the incident, however he does give the toilet a sideways glance when he walks past...

And if anyone would like a barely-used bottle of hypoallergenic-no-smell-no-color bubble bath I have one.

Monday, July 6, 2009

ats.


Lately Jon has enjoyed putting things on his head that are clearly not hats and pretending that they are. It was really cute for a while, especially since he can't pronounce the letter "h" at the beginning of a word. "At, mama, at." Shoes were "ats", toys were "ats", pillows were "ats". Then he started doing it at the table and the cuteness screeched to a halt when he thought spaghetti was a "at". So we had a talk about how food and silverware were not "ats" and they belonged on a plate or in his mouth, not on his head. Food and silverware are not "ats".
With exception of tacos, evidently.
We were out to eat at our favorite Mexican restaurant and Jon was being the Mr. Hyde version of himself that always seems to make its way out when we're in public. After throwing all the silverware on the floor, dumping a glass of water and loudly proclaiming "MINE!!!!" when the waitress tried to take the menus back, our food arrived. Jon's was only luke warm, not "ot" so he got to dig right in. They always make his first so it cools and he can eat it right away. I think they do that so we can feed our demon spawn and get the hell out of there faster.
After about two bites he decided that maybe eating a taco was too last season and thought it would be more fashionable to try it as a hat. Orange grease was everywhere! Running down his arms and the sides of his head, ground beef crumbling down on his shoulders. I could have killed him. But being the super in-control mom that I am I kept it together and calmy told him that he was getting food everywhere, that he was being gross and to knock it off. Yeah, like that worked. So I yanked the taco out of his hands and (in a not very motherly tone) said, "I don't care how many tacos you put on your head you're not getting another bath today!" There's a sentence I never thought I'd say. By this point people are staring, smiling uncomfortably at the horrible mother who not only lets her child substitute tacos for sombreros but also refuses to bathe him regularly. Nice. I'm sure they thought I was going to take him home and let the dog lick him off before I put him to bed with a sippy cup full of Diet Sprite.
We left. Jon got a bath. I ate a soggy reheated chimichanga after he went to bed.

Thursday, July 2, 2009

That kid

Jon has become "that kid". You know, that kid who is always yelling at the grocery store. That kid who manages to get out of the highchair at the restaurant and run through the place, terrorizing everyone in his path. That kid at the doctor's office who climbs up on the chair and pulls over lamp, knocking a bunch of magazines on the floor and then rolling it off the table onto some poor kid's head.

Yeah, that's him.

Monday, June 22, 2009

Celebrity Moms continued

Oh, and good news! There's another new reality show about a woman with a billion kids and TV cameras in her house! Awesome!

Celebrity Moms

Celebrity moms make me want to puke. That's really all I have to say today.

Thursday, June 4, 2009

wtf?

umm...did PBS look into George Carlin's work history before they hired him to narrarate Thomas the Tank Engine?

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

Farmer Crest

My son is a very good pretender. He likes to pretend to eat, he puffs his cheeks up with air and chomps his teeth together. He likes to pretend to sleep, he squints his eyes almost shut and fake-snores. He likes to pretend that an empty box of Crest toothpaste is a farmer.
I gave him the empty box as a distraction one morning while I was trying to get us dressed and out the door for church. Usually he just puts toys or crackers in the empty boxes I give him and carries them around. Not this time. This empty cardboard box had a greater destiny. This cardboard box was Farmer Crest. He took it, turned around and headed straight over to the tractor shed (Handy Manny card table), put it in the seat of the big green tractor and proceeded to farm the living room carpet for the next twenty minutes. The next day Farmer Crest was doing some chores around the kitchen in the little red tractor. Farmer Crest has been in one tractor or another for the last week, except for when there is a real farmer and tractor across the road. Then Farmer Crest is getting banged on the window with squeals of delight from Jon, as if he's saying "That's you Farmer Crest! In the tractor!"

Friday, April 3, 2009

Dramatic re-enactment.

Yesterday Jon was helping me put away groceries and he dropped a can on his toe. I'm sure it hurt very much, as it left a tiny black bruise under his tiny little nail on his big fat toe. There was lots of crying and pointing, it was very traumatic for him. So traumatic, in fact, that he had to re-enact the whole incident for his dad using an empty yogurt container for the can; a stuffed cat played the part of Jon.

Jon put the cat on the floor in the middle of the kitchen, paw exposed. Then walks up to the cat, slams the yogurt cup onto the paw while pointing to his own wounded toe and with wide eyes he says to his dad, "BOOM, " which is also what he said after the can hit his foot earlier.

I'm not sure if he was expecting an award for that performance or what but he did a fantasic job of telling the story. It was a very moving piece.

Monday, March 23, 2009

Cheetahs (Jon's 15-month well-child exam)

It's a quiet afternoon on the African plains and the mother cheetah and her cub are resting laziliy in the sun. (Jon is tossing magazines all over the floor of the waiting room.)
A redhaired hyaena approaches the cheetahs and lures them into a secluded area of the savannah with polite cackles and friendly grins. (A nurse in pink scrubs calls us back to the exam room.)
The cheetah cub plays quietly while his mother surveys their surroundings. She has a sense that something unexpected is about to happen, there was something unsettling about the redhaired hyaena that she just couldn't place yet. (The nurse hints that there might be some shots today that we weren't planning on.)
Another hyaena, a male, approaches the mother cheetah with more grinning and cackling, chattering and pawing at her cub. (The doctor enters, shakes my hand and gives Jon a high-five)
Her fur bristles as her cub resists the mangey creature's advances. (Jon is less than thrilled about the ear-nose-throat part of the exam and is embarassingly vocal about it.)
The redhaired hyaena has now put herself between the mother cheetah and cub, not a safe place for any creature. (It's time for the afore mentioned shots)
The hyaenas suddenly attack the cub, restaining his limbs and are now jabbing their claws into his chubby cub thighs! (Three shots, very quick, Snoopy band-aids.)
Not wasting a moment the mother cheetah springs forward, sinking her teeth into the back of red's neck and gives her a hearty shaking while she knocks the male through the air as if he were a mere insect being flicked off her paw! The mother cheetah spits out old red like a bad taste from her mouth and flees with her cub, who is relatively unscathed. (Jon quits crying before he even gets his pants back on and I don't really attack anybody. It's just more fun to pretend it was the cheetah version.)

Saturday, February 14, 2009

Sprinkler system

Due to a recent bout of diaper rash I have been sprinkling corn starch in my son's diaper when I change him. Which he thinks is absolutely fantastic. Cool, powdery, messy, what's not to love? Diaper time has been quite a challenge lately anyway because once the diaper is off so is he, like a rocket. On his feet, out the door and through the house in seconds flat, dimply butt cheeks jiggling all the way. So after I finally get him pinned down and get the diaper under him, I sprinkle the starch and we have another battle while I try to keep his hands out of the starched up diaper and get it fastened before the entire area is covered in white powder. At least one of us always ends up looking like we have a serious coke problem. There's got to be a way to get him starched and sealed without him getting his hands in there first. One that doesn't involve me pinning him down with my leg across his chest while he thrashes about, that just doesn't feel very motherly.