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!

Sunday, December 19, 2010

What's in a name?

I know now after reading countless articles on raising children that it's best to teach children to refer to their body parts by the correct biological name and not to "nickname" body parts. This will only cause confusion for the child later in life and should be avoided at all costs.


Unfortunately I didn't pick up on that until we'd already renamed several of his body parts. Jon didn't know that toes were indeed called toes until he heard the song "Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes." He has spent the majority of his life thinking those things on the ends of his feet were called pigs.
Button=Belly button (He also thinks his nipples are "buttons" there's no convincing him otherwise)
And then of course there's his willy. Now I know I'm not the only parent who does not refer to their child's private parts by their biological names. Give me a break, every family has their own name for "penis" because it's just too weird to hear your child say it. He casually refers to it now and then but over all there's not a whole lot of willy-talk. And it's really not a big deal, I mean how often are you talking about it with your three year old unless there's a trip to the bathroom involved?

Well, if your part of our family your talking about it a lot lately.

Because it just so happens that Jon's allergist is named, and I kid you not, Dr. Willey.

My heart sank when we were at the pediatrician's office and he gave me a list of allergists and said the one on the top was the best in town. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

I set up the appointment and just decided I'd play it cool and not mention the new doctor's name out loud around Jon.

Appointment day rolled around and we strolled into the office and I very quietly tell the receptionist that we were there to see Dr. Wiley hoping that she wasn't going to correct me and say "Willey." She didn't. Whew.

So the nurse took us back to the exam room and checked us in and said, "The doctor will be in shortly." Excellent! Dodged another "Willey" bullet!

And theeeennnnn, Dr. Willey came in.

Jon was laying under my chair looking at a book.

"Hi," he stuck his hand out to shake mine, and then it came out, "I'm Dr. Willey"

And I just froze.

Jon shot out from under my chair, all grins and giggles.

"UH, MOM?!" He started with the sideways thumb point, and I was sure his head was going to explode at hearing another adult not just say the word"willy" but to be named that.

And then THANK GOD my phone rang and I got to be embarrassed by that, and not my kid going into hysterics over the unfortunately named doctor.

I'd get that changed if it were me.

Fortunately the good doctor was patient with my phone call since it was my husband asking about the appointment, and Jon's attention span is pretty nonexistent so he was trying to dismantle the exam table by the time I was off the phone and had forgotten all about Dr. Willey's name being willy.

We left with an Epi-pen and a sucker and without offending the doctor. It really ended a lot better than I thought it would.

Saturday, December 18, 2010

Your Frickin' Voilet

I am a terrible plant person. I try to grow them and I can't. In a pot, in the ground, it's no matter I WILL kill it. I got a basket of tiny potted plants a while back and they are of great interest to Jon, we've never had plants in the house since he's been around.

Every couple of days I check the basket for casualties, and they've actually been doing pretty well considering that I'm the one caring for them. About once a week I stew about them: Do they need plant food? I thought they made their own food. Should I put them in different pots? People always talk about re-potting. Do they need more sun? Less sun?

It's clear I don't know what the hell I'm doing.

Jon's always pretty fired up on plant care day.
"Those guys need drinks, Mom."
"Your plants are beautiful today"
"You got seaweeds in that basket?"

I checked the basket today, and to my dismay it was filled with soggy oyster crackers. With no doubts in my mind about the responsible party I tracked Jon down and asked him in not so many words what the hell the crackers were doing in the plants.

"I gived those guys some plant food, Mom. They like crackers. Tomorrow I give them pineapple."

I patiently explained that plants don't eat people food and thanked him for his concern.

"I can pull those seaweeds if you want."

I patiently explained that there were no weeds of any kind in the basket and we didn't need to pull ANYTHING out of it.

"What kinds of plants those are then?"

I don't know the names of the plant-type plants but there is a teeny pot of flowers that I'm pretty sure are African violets.

When I told this to Jon his response was: "I LOVE your frickin' violet, Mom! It's beautiful!"

AFrican violet.
AFRICAN violet.
Not FRICKIN' violet, kiddo.

Saturday, October 23, 2010


I try to maintain a regular bedtime routine for my kid. I hear that's what good moms do, so most of the time we get pajamas on, read a few books, throw back some 2% milk, say some prayers and off we go to sleepy town.

I have never been one of those singing moms. Not a big lullaby singer, not a huge fan of "Wheels on the Bus", that's just not my bag. But lately Jon has been wanting me to sing to him. And how can I say no?

So we sing in the bath tub and we sing in the car and, yes, lately we have been singing at bedtime. Usually his requests involve some sort of sheep song: Baa Baa Black Sheep, Mary Had a Little Lamb, Old McDonald, etc. "Baa songs," he calls them.

Until tonight.

Tonight, he decides he wants to hear his favorite song at bedtime. His "rocking song". And by rocking I don't mean in a chair, before bedtime with the lights down low. I mean rocking with drums and an electric guitar.

His new favorite song is "We Will Rock You" by Queen.

He plays the air guitar, I play the air drums as instructed by my tiny rock star: "There's your rocking drums, Mom! You play 'em! You're good at those drums!" Let me just tell you, playing air drums is no small feat when you're trying to drive, which is usually what I am doing when we are listening to the "We Will Song".

So there I am, very softly singing, "Buddy you're a boy make a big noise playin' in the street gonna be a big man someday..." while Jon plays his stuffed sheep like a guitar in the dark. And yes, I had to do the drums.

I can't imagine stuff like this happens at other people's houses.

Friday, July 30, 2010

We put the "fun" in funeral.

I had to attend a funeral recently. As with most funerals, it came up unexpectedly and I didn't have time to find a babysitter. So we had to take the little guy with us.

I'm sure you already know it didn't go well.

We headed in to the funeral home and request a seat near a door, in case we needed to make a quick escape. The usher guy was nice, he told us all about his grand kids and was happy to seat us in the very back by a door.

People started rolling in. There were old people galore, (old people love funerals) Jon was being charming and waving to people and saying cute things like, "That grandpa up there has glasses on." And, "That nice lady has WHITE HAIR. Really, really white and poufy."

I was beginning to think it was going to be OK. Because even though he was running his yap like crazy, most of the people around us were half deaf so they couldn't hear him chirping his observations.

Then my boss walks in and sits in the pew in front of us. Jon starts getting antsy and trying to climb all over the place and my boss turns around and asks Jon if he wants to come up and sit in the pew with him. I'm sure he offered fully expecting Jon get shy all of a sudden and cling to his mom, like most 2 year-olds do when a semi-stranger tries to have a conversation with them.

Boy was he surprised.

Jon couldn't get over that pew fast enough! In his head I'm sure he was thinking "Hell yes I'll come up there and sit with you, you look a lot nicer than my mom!"
He was actually pretty good for a little while. He sat politely in his seat and answered questions quietly while my boss quizzed him on what sounds farm animals make.

The organ music started and it was time for the family of the deceased to come in . Jon's been to church enough times that he knows when organ music starts it's time for the chit-chat to stop. He let my boss know. "Quiet now. Music's starting."

The family starts filing in, it's a very somber moment, until Jon turns around and very excitedly blurts out "MOM I SEE KINZIE! HER IS UP THERE! I GO SEE HER? I SIT WITH KINZIE IN THIS CHURCH?" Kinzie sometimes babysits Jon, she is the daughter of some good friends of ours. It was Kinzie's Grandpa's funeral.

Jon did not get to go sit with her in this church.

Instead, he migrated from sitting in the pew like a big guy into my boss's lap, and began very quietly chatting about various objects in the room. "whoa, big lamp. you see that swishy red curtain? nice flowers up there, pretty ones."

And you know all the old people I mentioned earlier? One of them needed to adjust their hearing aid, it was whistling like crazy...
"I hear whistlin', " Jon informs me over my boss's shoulder. "You hear that? It goes wooooooo. It's a song. You hear that song?"
Luckily the old people couldn't hear him because they were either old and mostly deaf, or old and mostly deaf with messed up hearing aids.
I told him it was a church song and he needed to be quiet so other people could hear it and that it was time to come sit with me again. So he climbed on over and went back to naming off every single thing in the room. That's when he discovered the smoke detectors on the ceiling.

That's when things went downhill.

A few weeks earlier I had an incident in my oven involving a boiled over pie, lots of billowing smoke and a smoke alarm going off. Jon had never heard the smoke alarm before and it scared the bajeebers out of him. I explained to him that the smoke detectors would help save us if there was ever a fire and that they weren't scary. And THAT just sent him into fireman fever. Everywhere we went after that he was on the look out for smoke detectors, fire extinguishers and was just plain nuts about fires and firemen. We had pretend fires in the bathtub and sprayed them with water, pretend cats got stuck in pretend trees and we had to drive pretend fire engines to save them, it was nonstop fire and "rex-cue" action from then on.

So we're at the funeral and he spots the smoke detector and goes into full fireman mode.

First he gasps.
And people look.

Then, abandoning the quiet church voice he had returned to using after the Kinzie-spotting, he blares, "SMOKE DETECTOR! EVERYBODY PANIC!"

At that point I was thinking it was very appropriate that we were in a funeral home because I was pretty sure I was going to have a heart attack and die right there.

But I didn't die. I did however get him the hell out of there through the handy side door by which we were so conveniently seated, leaving his dad sitting there with his mouth hanging open and a sippy cup in his hand.

Jon and I spent the rest of the funeral in the bathroom.

Fortunately most people were paying attention to the minister, and the people who were in the seats near us were familiar with smoke detectors and their functions and did not panic as instructed. They were mostly amused by the whole show and told me so afterward.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Second breakfast

So I got a job. Man that sucks. Well, sort of. I miss hanging out with Jon all day. He, however, LOVES when I go to work because he gets to go to daycare.

Daycare is great. Daycare has other kids...and cool toys...and second breakfast. Wait, what?

"Go daycare this day, Mom?"
"Yes, Mom's working today."
"What are you talking about?"
"I have more breakfast! One breakfast here, one breakfast daycare. I have two."

OK, so I'm thinking he likes to go to daycare and make pretend breakfast in the little play kitchen. But just to clarify I ask his teacher what he is talking about.
And theeeen it all comes out...

Apparently, the morning he started daycare he saw that breakfast was served and convinced his teacher that he was about to whither away from starvation because his mom didn't give him any breakfast.

He's a little breakfast con artist! The kid is CRAZY about breakfast food, and he will clearly do anything to get it! I had to laugh.

I assured his teacher that he did indeed get breakfast everyday before we left the house, but he could certainly belly up and have "second breakfast" if he wanted to.

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

The Office

If you don't watch The Office, this post isn't for you.

I love The Office. I watch it any chance I get. I don't even care that every episode on TBS is a rerun, I watch every Tuesday night. So of course Jon watches a lot of The Office, too.

This morning he woke up with terrible cough and when he talked it sounded like he's been a pack of Camels a day kind of guy for about 20 years. Mama called the doctor and the doctor said Jon should come in for an appointment, obviously. What else would they say? "Please, stay home. We'll come to you!"

So we get ready to go to the appointment and Jon asks where we're going.

"Goin' Mom?"

"Doctor. You're sick"

"Jon has cough. (fake cough) Go doctor's house?"

"No, we're going to the doctor's office."

"Micheal's office?" (In my head I'm asking "Who the hell is Michael?")

"No, honey. DOCTOR'S office."

"No. MICHEAL'S office"

"Jon who is Michael? Your doctor is Dr. Spinelli. His name's not Micheal."

"No mom. Micheal Scott, Scranton Branch."

Then I had to explain that we didn't have time to drive all the way to Scranton and we would go to Micheal Scott's office another day.

He was cool with that.

Monday, March 15, 2010

Turkey sandwich-hold the turkey.

Today when I asked Jon what he wanted to eat for lunch today he told me he wanted to "Eat Fresh" which not only made me chuckle but also convinced me that he watches enitirely too much television. After making a mental note to cut out a large chunk of his t.v watching time, we headed over to Subway. The conversation on the ride over went something like this:

"Eat Fresh, Mom?" Most of his sentences come out as questions.
"Yes, Jon. Eat Fresh"
"Jon eat Subway, Mom?"
"Yes, we will eat at Subway. Mom is driving there."
"Jon eat hangaburg?" That's his word for hamburger.
"No, they don't have hamburgers at Subway. "
"Jon Eat Fresh?"
"Yes Jon. Eat fresh."
"Jon eat fresh hangaburg?"

Every sentence he spoke on the ride there had either the words "eat fresh" or "hangaburg" in it.
It sort of felt like he was trying to do that "Who's on first" thing by the time we got there, I was not sorry the ride was over. Luckily the Subway sign stunned him into silence and he whispered in awe "SUBWAY, MOM" like he had really had no idea that's where we were going to end up.

So we go in and Jon gets kid's meal with a little sandwich and some apple slices and a juice box in it and we have a seat. I was feeling pretty good about our lunch, because even though we were eating out it was a fairly healthy meal, so yay, GoodMom points for me. Then he looks at me and pretends to gag (yes, he can fake-gag at age two) and says "YUCK! Sandwich yucky!" and then starts to dismantle his sub. In an effort to avoid a scene in the middle of a super-packed Subway I pull off the offending parts of his sandwich and he ends up eating a pickle and mustard sub. Which made me want to real-gag just looking at it. I hate both pickles AND mustard.

Then he remembered that there was a fresh juice box with his name on it that hadn't been tapped yet, and we had to deal with that. Let me just tell you how much I hate juice boxes: A LOT. Who invented those hunks of crap?! First of all, I never get a pointy enough straw to get a good puncture on the first run so there's the repeated jabbing trying to get the damn thing in there. And they always leak everywhere. AND for all the trouble that they are, they never really taste that good. They're all watery. But having kids=having juice boxes in your life so this is something I'm going to have to deal with. So back to our story...Jon gets his giant toddler paws on the juice box (which I have already battled and put the straw into) and of course gives it a squeeze.
Because that's what kids do with juice boxes.
They squeeze them.
And then then a fruit punch geyser drenches everyone within 5 feet of said juice box.

You know, when you're really thirsty, and you have a 4-oz juice box, it doesn't really seem like there's a lot of fluid there. But when it's spraying all over you, your child, and the old couple in the booth next to you, it's like a freaking tidal wave. It just doesn't stop. The juice shot out of the juice box, across Jon's lap, across the front of my shirt and on to the coat of the lady sitting at the next table. (And into her purse a little. I don't think she knew that part at the time. I'm sure she does by now.)

Jon was of course devastated by the loss of juice, I was humiliated and a little damp in the armpit area, and the old people thought it was cute when Jon yelled "OH NO MOM!! JON'S JUICE!!!"
The old lady wiped off her coat, the old man bought Jon more juice and I smiled politely while silently cursing the inventor of the juice box.

Then we got the hell out of there before Jon found a way to offend the other patrons with his apple slices. He ate them in the truck on the way home.

We should probably stop going out to eat.

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

If you fart in the elevator, you deserve what you get.

Children are enamored with farts. They have been since the dawn of time. I think girls get over it by age 8 or 9, but boys think farts are great until about age 20. Or if you're my husband, age 43.

Farts are funny.
Farts are gross.
Farts cause riots on the school bus.

A fart will never go unnoticed in the presence of a child. Nor will anything resembling a fart, for that matter. Squeaky floorboards, smelly egg salad sandwiches and growling stomachs have all invoked accusations of the beloved gastrointestinal phenomenon, usually aimed at the heaviest kid in the room. To be answered, of course, by cries of "No I didn't! It wasn't me!! Shut up you guys!!"

At two years old my son has already developed a fart infatuation, most kids have by this age I think. So of course when we were in the elevator at the mall and the guy standing next to Jon let one loose, we were all notified immediately.

It started with a very audible sniffing, like he really had to inhale to get the full effect. And then...the shaming.

"Pew, mom. Stinky."
I thought maybe if i ignored the whole situation he would let it drop. No such luck.

"Peeeeee- YOOOOOOO! Niff it, Mom, stinky! Jon smells it! Stinky!"
The guy and I both shift uncomfortably, pretending we don't know what Jon is talking about.

"Blech! Go away! Shoo! Stinky! Smells like SKUNK!"
And then he starts fanning his nose with one hand and waving the other at the guy.

Really I just wanted to die.
But probably not as bad as Stinky Pants did. But what did he expect was going to happen when he farted two feet away from a kid? Whose face was at ass-level by the way. I mean REALLY. Was he home schooled? Has he never been around children? How does one get to be an adult and not know how kids react to flatulence?

It was a harrowing experience for all of us. I was mortified by my child's antics, Stinky Pants got called out on his silent fart, and Jon thought that guy had a skunk somewhere on his person. It was the longest 45 seconds of my life.

Monday, February 15, 2010

My son, the clepto.

A few months ago we accidently left a toy from the diaper bag at a local restaurant. We went back last week and low and behold, there on the table where the crayons and coloring books are kept was the toy. It is be no means a special toy, in fact I think it's just from a Happy Meal or something. It cheap and cheesy and I hadn't even noticed it was gone. Jon however was delighted to see his long lost treasure and was even more excited to see that his name was still on the back and everything. So we ate and Jon had a grand time catching up with his long lost pal. when go home time rolled around I was a little conflicted as to what to do with our newly reclaimed toy. It was originally Jon's, but I wasn't really sure I wanted to be seen taking a toy out that nobody saw us bring in. But it was Jon's. "JON'S MOM!" There was no leaving it behind this time. So instead of having Jon carry it out and look like we were stealing reastaurant toys I discreetly put it in my purse until we got to the truck.
Problem solved.
However there was a new problem when we were at church the next day. Jon decided he needed to take home one of the trucks from the nursery. I went to put his coat on him and he thrust the truck into my hands and whispered (in that very loud kid-whisper) "Mom! Put it in purse! Jon have it outside!"