Motherhood Uncensored

Cooking for a Toddler 101

Are you giggling yet? I mean "Cooking for a Toddler" is practically oxymoronic. Sort of like "Cooking for a pack of hungry gorillas who will eat nothing but bananas." Like really, who cooks for a toddler? I like to think of it more like "Guess which food will not come out as a chewed up ball of grossness."

As a baby, my daughter ate anything that came out of a jar. As long as it was soft and mushy, she would eat it. Actual solid foods were a bit of a harder sell. I imagine chomping on a piece of chicken with 8 teeth is somewhat disconcerting, however, I was a little scared that she was going to turn into a rice puff.

Now a blossoming toddler, she has a decent appetite and for the most part, will eat anything in pasta, cheese, potato, or soft meat form. Basically, the opposite of Oprah's diet - white and fatty, down the gullet it goes. Aside from the lovely canned green bean (or boiled to an almost mushy pulp) and the V-8 Fusion juice that has veggies and fruit juice (and no high fructose blabla or sugar), veggies are a hard sell. Like selling a toothbrush to someone with no teeth hard.

Similar to about 14,000 other things related to motherhood, no one tells you about this stuff. I figured out how to hide spinach in the mac n' cheese, mix avocado in the mashed potatoes, and make a mean "throw as many veggies into a cream of mushroom soup" casserole that goes over reasonably well. But other than that, a rabbit we do not have.

Considering my dilemma, I've enlisted the help of my pal Becki - you know, the Cooking with Whine goddess and recipe extraordinaire. It seems she has some great ways to get kids to eat their veggies plus a fun salad recipe that kids actually eat. Yes. She's tested it. Her kids eat it. For real.

So, hop on over there and check them out. And while you're there, I suggest checking out her archives. I think I saw cappachino muffins and some crazy yummy sounding cocktail that I might just have to whip up. And if you are motivating me to cook something, you know it's got to be good. Plus, if I have to look at another chewed up wad of broccoli, I'm going to need to drink something stiffer than a glass of ice water with lemon.

Cheers!

And if you have any great ways to sneak in the veggies, let me know!

All Access, All the Time

I didn't really get the concept of childproofing. I figured that my daughter seemed pretty content buckled into her Fisher Price vibrating bouncy crack chair, so why bother with all the electrical plugs stoppers, baby gates, and annoying cabinet hooks? Even when she was crawling, the whole safety thing didn't seem to be that big of an issue. I moved stuff out of the way, shoved it in a cabinet, and she was as happy as a pig in a pen of Chinese sweatshop-made toys.

But it seems that as of exactly 5.4 days ago (and yes, I have been counting), nothing is out of reach for her.

Absolutely nothing.

And so I ask myself, what the hell happened that all of a sudden the world is her oyster, particularly my bra drawer, the cabinet under the sink that happens to have a hooky thing on it, and the dog food container (that has a tightly shut lid)?

There was a time, even just 2 weeks ago, where I could flip on Sesame Street, enjoy a peaceful rendezvous with the porcelain goddess, and all would be fine and well with my world. But a few days ago, I walk out to find an art gallery of "scribble pencil on wall" along with 14,000 pieces of shredded computer paper strewn in a hypnotic circle-in-the-fields type pattern on my recently vacuumed carpet.

ACK.

And then, just yesterday I was folding laundry in my bedroom and she walks in from a brief excursion to the kitchen bearing gifts of spray carpet cleaner, 2 plastic bags, and all of the contents from my wallet in her purse. And I'm pretty sure I found 2 screws and a washer in one of the plastic bags.

It seems that nothing, including my dirty green underwear that she decided looked pretty nice as a sash, is off limits anymore. Nothing is sacred, and everything is a toy, drawing instrument, or weapon of massive destruction.

Lest you think we are the most careless individuals on this side of the Mississippi (oh wait, we are IN Mississippi so I'm not sure where that puts us), we are generally very careful about putting stuff away. And in fact, everything that she finds, she has to open, climb to, or UNLOCK something in order to get it.

So, we've decided not to take anymore risks, and train her good and right.

Hey. At least I won't have to worry about any broken bones.

Looks Like We Made It

I admit to enjoying a hearty laugh from some of your tales of mommy misfortune. You know, lipstick wall art, tupperware excavating, and my favorite, the ever popular bathtub poopy. But if there's anything I should have learned from my luck as of late, it's best to keep the lips zipped and the laughing to the idiots on America's Funniest Home Videos. Because you never know when you're going to be fishing poop out of a tub chock full of plastic toys and foam alphabet letters.

And so, there it was. The husband called to me from the bathroom.

"Hey hon, you've got to see this. She's farting in the tub and bubbles are coming out of her ass."

Nice. But wait. My baby's blowing ass bubbles and I wasn't about to miss it.

But then. I heard it.

"Oh no. She's pooping. Damnit."

I'm not sure why I kept running towards the tub, but I figured I could at least fish her out so that I avoid the other fishing.

It was pretty bad. Turds floating amidst weird word combinations like "cmfarn" and "dijsog." I slapped her on the toilet and he donned a makeshift glove formed out of a plastic shopping bag, grabbing turds as quickly as he could.

After a few chuckles, we figured it was almost inevitable. Like sleepless nights, and sore breasts, pooping in the tub was just par for the course. We had made it. Another parenting rite of passage to check off the list.

And hey, you have to admit, it definitely beats the shit *ahem* out of bobbing for apples.

Kids Make Moms Do the Darndest Things

Yes. That is a Hulk Hogan figure circa 1987.

And apparently all that wrestling and wearing of tight yellow underpants for way longer than any human should has caused some bladder control issues. Plus, he is like 62 now, isn't he?

Damn those steroids.

Kids Will Be Kids... And Rabid Dogs if You're Not Careful

I am a fairly typical first-time mother. I'm tired, easily frustrated, and relatively clueless.

Oh, and I'm a hawk.

Yes, you know. A hyper vigilant and reasonably over-protective basketcase.

I don't necessarily blame it on the two sets of broken bones in the last three months. Admittedly, that did not help my mother hawk status. And it's not that I fear for the life of my sweet, mild mannered daughter.

Quite frankly, it's because kids are flaming lunatics and their parents don't seem to give a shit.

"Whoa lady," you say. "Aren't you getting a little judgy here?"

Absolutely. And I'm not talking about little kids grabbing toys out of the hands of wee babes. Or accidentally knocking them over. Or even giving them a good old wack-ola for no apparent reason.

Fine. Kids do all that shit. Whatever.

But, when no one says a bloody thing to them about it or the other 147 nasty things that kids can and will do, then I get pissed. And when they try to tell me that "kids will be kids," or even better "boys will be boys," well, the talons come out.

What the hell is that supposed to excuse?  That your kid just hit mine over the head with a plastic hammer and that's just how they are. Or that being a little bratty boy who climbs all over my furniture, knocking down and breaking my thought-to-be-child-safe knick knacks is just in his DNA. How sexist. How perpetuating of gender stereotypes.

Please. Spare me.

I watch my daughter. And while she is quiet and very friendly with other children, she is still learning to share and find her way in the social patterns of life, and has, on occasion, required some guidance. She is not permitted to hit, or take toys from other children. And if she does. She apologizes.

And if she was playing with something and someone else takes it, or hits her on the head and then takes it, I tell her to say something - and not just stand there and cry. Look. I'm an interventionist but also a realist. I'm not going to be there to save her ass and she needs to take care of herself.

But what really gets me, is when parents just stand there, watch it all go down, and do absolutely nothing. NOT A THING. Seriously. Get off your lazy ass and do something about your kid. I'm not talking about curtailing a screaming tantrum or punishing them for pissing on the floor. I'm talking about rude behavior that is socially unacceptable.

I have no qualms about saying something to the kid if the parent doesn't intervene. No punishment, no forced apology - just a "that wasn't very nice" and a mean glare at the parent. I'm good at those.

If it's one thing that's changed since becoming a mother it's that I grew balls. Either that or they sewed them on post-delivery. But however they got there, they're big ones. Big invisible hairy gonads that really don't give a shit if I ever see that parent again or offend them so much they think I'm a big flaming bitch. Honestly.

Because while kids will be kids, that doesn't give you permission slack off on your duty to shape them into responsible adults.