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I do have a good explanation…

My girls are in love with the little mini beanie babies that come with the McDonald’s happy meals right now (yes, I bought them a happy meal, calm down). Ellie got a pink elephant and promptly named him “Boo”.

At the closing party for the BlogHer14 conference I just attended in San Jose, CA, McDonald’s happened to be the sponsor – so guess what Mama brought home for the girls? You got it… beanie babies galore. (And I didn’t even have to consume a million happy meals to score all of the goodies!)

SO, because we really don’t have a need for 19 extra mini elephants… we decided to bring a bag-o-beanies to a friend’s bbq this week and share with the other kiddos we know. Ellie was SO excited to show everyone the swag… so to the first adult she saw when we arrived, she shouted,

“HEY! WE BROUGHT A TON OF BOOS FOR EVERYONE!”

Which, while still appropriate for our group of friends… probably not the best thing for my 3-year-old to be shouting.

 

Mom-Cast: A Morning at the Superhouse

I think that if I attached a microphone to my shirt and recorded everything I say from 7am-10am, on a weekend when I’m the only adult in the house with two munchkins… It would make a really good podcast. Hilarious probably. It’s just a constant stream of ridiculousness that comes out of my mouth.

“Gooooooooood mor— aw dang is that poop?”

 

“Please don’t pull your sister around by the neck of her shirt.”

 

“Purple? Or blue? Purple? Purple? Purple? Blue? Blue? Can you …please just pick some pants?”

 

“Nonoonono standing on the table. No walking on the table. No dancing on the table!!”

 

“Pancakes are not brushes. They go in your mouth. No. No. No. No it’s not a brush. No.”

 

“Don’t touch the remote controls. Don’t – NONO! No remotes! NONO!”

 

“Why is there yogurt in your hair?”

 

“Did you pee?”

 

“Don’t eat crayons. Crayons are not food. Don’t e–NO!”

 

“Do you want a juice? Red or green? We don’t have blue. Red or green. No blue. We don’t have blue. There is no blue. There’s no blue.”

 

“What is that on your pants? Chapstick? Where did you find Chapstick?”

 

“Ohmigosh DON’T STAND ON THAT!!”

 

“Ewwwwyuckyyuckyyuckyewwww nononono we don’t touch the plunger!”

 

“Why is there a book in the toilet?”

 

“Who gave the dog fruit snacks?”

 

“I’m not sure you need THAT much toilet paper, sweetie.”

 

“You can’t brush your hair if it’s in a ponytail.”

 

“Please don’t dance on the stairs, you’re scaring Mommy.”

 

“Don’t put that in your mou– NO NOT ‘mmmmm’ THAT’S A HAIR CLIPPY. No ‘mmmmm’. Yucky.”

 

“Why are you naked?”

 

“Did you get that out of the garbage? Ew.”

 

“How many cookies did you eat? 3? 4? 10? Did you count? Why didn’t you ask me first?”

 

“Can I please have that? That’s Mommy’s. We don’t play with those (Sharpie) markers, they’re Mommy Markers.”

 

“Play-doh is for playing. Don’t put it in your mou– yuck! YUCK! Spit it out! Spit!”

 

“HOT! THAT’S HOT! DON’T TOUCH THAT! HOT COFFEE!”

 

“Nononononononononono NONONONONONO JAMIE!!! Don’t touch the DVD player!”

 

“Yes you can jump on the couch.”

 

“Keep your mouth shut if you’re going to jump off the couch, you might bite your tongue.”

 

“Did you bite your tongue?”

 

“Did you hurt your foot? Does it hurt really bad? Should we cut it off?”

 

“Honey I was just kidding. I would never cut you. I promise. No, I will never cut off your foot. I PROMISE.”

 

“I promise I’ll never cut off Jamie’s foot either. I won’t cut anyone’s foot off, ever.”

 

“SINGALONG!!!! LET IT GOOOOO– oh, I’m not allowed to sing? Why? I’m too OLD?”

 

“Yes you can have some of my water. Just don’t squee– *sigh*… here’s a towel.”

 

“Please stop handing me your boogers. You know where the tissue is.”

 

“What is that? A booger? Why are you just standing there holding it?”

 

“Do I hear running water? Why is the tub running? WHY IS THE TUB RUNNING?”

 

“Are your panties on backward?”

 

“WHY IS THIS WET?”

 

“Is it naptime yet?”

 

And on and on and on… would you listen? If I could ever find the time to edit and publish a weekly recording like this, I feel like it might be a hit! 🙂

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Little Fish

I find it a little ironic that my little Jameson is such a water baby. I mean, I was sure she was a boy when I was pregnant. and our boy name is Fisher… and now I’m calling her my “Little Fish” anyway. Funny how that works out, huh? 😉

I CANNOT keep this girl away from water. Any water at all.

Bathtub? Well, that’s a given… she’s climbed in fully clothed on multiple occasions, just because she’s too impatient to wait threefreakingseconds for me to undress her.

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Sink? She’s almost tall enough now to stand on the stool and turn on the faucet… almost. For now though, she just stands on the stool and screams “TEEEEEEEEETH” at me until I turn on the water and hand her a toothbrush.

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Pool? Duh. And she has no fear – always trying to climb out of her floaty, and jumping in without a life vest on like it’s no big deal at all.

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Water bottle? Don’t even try to drink one around her. Don’t. Even.

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Dog dish? The most frustrating obsession of all. The word “no” has absolutely no effect on this child when it comes to the dog dishes. She wants to SWIM in Tali’s water.

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I kid you not, people… she just walked up to me AS I WAS WRITING THIS, threw an empty cup into my lap and yelled, “WAWA!!”!

My Little Fish. My cup runneth over. <3

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Growing into Angry Birds

The Angry Birds obsession has hit our household, and my girls are preeeeetty much in love with anything Angry Birds-related. I bought Ellie a swimsuit with the red bird on it, and a set of 5 pairs of socks. I had to buy myself the same socks, and now every morning when she wakes up she asks, “Mom what socks should we wear this morning?” – and then refuses to wear anything that doesn’t make our feet match (it makes my morning decisions just *that* much more difficult, having to remember that I MUST choose socks for which Ellie has a match). Anyhoo… at the store the other evening, I was treated to this lovely (and completely innocent) outburst:

Ellie: MOM! Angry Birds panties!!!

Me: Hmmm, well… These are just too big for you sweetie.

Ellie: Well when my ‘gina gets bigger can I get them?

(Most of the time I can stifle my laughter. This… was not one of those times.)

(AND she was still asking the same question like 5 minutes later in the milk aisle, and I finally had to be like “ummmm when your little booty gets bigger we can get them… Can we please talk about something else???”)

 

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Potty Time – Husbands vs. Toddlers (again)

I am continually flabbergasted by the amount of time my husband (and most men, I assume) spend in the bathroom. Seriously, is it just their “get away” time? Not that Ellie thinks any room in our house is private or anything (“I’ll be right back Mom, I’m gonna go watch Daddy poop“), but at least Adam knows I won’t bother him if he’s in the bathroom (ew). I just don’t get it – I mean, do ANY women out there (who don’t have like the flu or some other tummy-related illness) spend HOURS a day on the toilet? Because seriously, if I add up the amount of time my husband spends there in a 24-hr period, I can guarantee there are some days where it’s HOURS. PLURAL.

WHO HAS HOURS (PLURAL) A DAY TO SPEND ON THE JOHN?

Sometimes I can’t even find an extra 5 seconds to actually use toothpaste when I brush my teeth, but there are men out there who just have HOURS to spend on the toilet, playing Angry Birds or Words with Friends or shopping on Craigslist or whateverthehelltheydointhere.

So… now that I’ve ranted about that, here is your dose of SuperLaughter for the day:

Adam was getting Ellie ready for bed the other night, and he took her upstairs to “flush-n-brush” before books and prayers. Ellie had been on the toilet for MAYBE 45 seconds, claiming she needed to poop, when I heard Adam let out a frustrated sigh and say,

“Okay now, this is just getting ridiculous.”

And then I almost died laughing.

I laughed out loud for at least 10 minutes, and I still giggle every time I think about it. Does anyone remember the other potty-post I put up a while back? Let’s refresh our memories: click here.

Yes, let’s talk about ridiculous. 

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It just doesn’t look that inviting to me…

 

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Motherhood is a Cheeky Betch

That Motherhood… she is one cheeky bitch. The moment you even consider thinking about making a plan for something… her wheels start turning.

Like, if you think “Hmmm… after I put the kids to bed I’ll have a nice glass of wine and relax in a bubble bath”…. BAM. NO. Motherhood has decided that your baby will scream 2 minutes after you engulf yourself in bubbles.

Or, if you think “Hmmm… tomorrow morning I’ll put away the laundry and then start on cleaning the house so I can have everything presentable by noon”… BAM. NO. Motherhood has decided that your toddler will pee through her diaper, her nightgown, her blanket, her sheets and her bed and will wake you at 6:30am to deal with it. During the cleaning of this, this EXTRA chore you hadn’t planned on… your baby will wake and scream that it’s time to play RIGHT THIS SECOND OR ELSE.

And, if you think “Hmmm… maybe I will take a shower and enjoy coffee today”… BAM. NO. Motherhood thinks you should wear sweatpants until 2pm, clean up baby barf 17 times before 10am, mop up juice spills while your toddler cries and stomps her feet, and wonder what-in-the-living-hell-did-this-thing-eat while cloroxing the spot where the dog hacked up an unknown glob of digustingness.

And THAT… that is all in less than 24 hours of Motherhood’s glory.

She is SUCH a bitch.

 

(Buuuuuuuut, then there’s this…)

 

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Bruise-Free Bananas

I wouldn’t necessarily say I’m raising a picky eater… But… I’m raising a picky eater.

I mean, she eats all kinds of foods. It’s the QUALITY she’s picky about. Most recent prime example:

A few mornings ago I was getting the girls up and ready for the day. As I was changing Jamie, Ellie headed downstairs without me. I didn’t really pay attention to what she was doing because a.) usually she just grabs the iPad and sits on the couch, and b.) I was going to be down there in like 2 minutes.

A few minutes later, she met me halfway up the stairs with a completely peeled banana in her hands.

“Mommy! This one doesn’t have a bruise! I’m gonna eat it!”

I was pleased that she had gotten her own breakfast, because I was running semi-late.

Until I got downstairs and realized that there were THREE completely peeled bananas sitting on the couch. All with bruises.

Now I know what she meant by “this one doesn’t have a bruise“… Picky betch!

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