About this whole blog business: I often don't think about what I will write about before I sit down at my trusty laptop and let loose. Occasionally, I will write myself a note so as not to forget something I want to write about, but even so, sometimes I sit down and just start writing about something completely different. I know, I know, and it shows, right?
Today, I could sit down and blog about Karl Rove or John Roberts, assuming I'd been keeping up with all that, which I haven't, so it wouldn't be very interesting, and I'd just be stumbling along lamely, kind of like this sentence. Or I could snark about Tom Cruise or Jen and Ben or Bradjelina, if I gave a damn about their crazy asses.
But no, my friends (and I do think of you as my friends, or why bother?): today, it's all about my sweet puka shell, Viva.
First, the bad news.
Lately, Viva has embraced being two with gusto. She is not always terrible, but when she is, it is big, as in, "I Am Viva, The Great and Terrible! All must bow before me! The streets shall run red with the blood of the disbelievers! Hear my wrath and tremble!"
Here are some recent situations in which Viva has unleashed her wrath:
1. Out of habit, I pushed the "up" button for the elevator instead.of.letting.her.do.it.
2. While I was doing her hair this morning, I picked up one.tiny.butterfly.clip from the pile amassed in front of her.
3. After she finished using the potty, emptied the contents into the toilet, flushed and put the potty bowl back into the potty, I made the mistake of closing.the.lid.
In each of these situations, my child has morphed into a screaming meemie due to my arrogance. It is, how shall I say, destroying the enamel of my teeth, as I grind them in frustration and try to refrain from strangling her. I know other people have compared living with a toddler to living with a tiny drunk. Having lived with an alcoholic for many of my formative years, I'd like to say that at least Viva does not reek of vodka, although she does often reel around in only a T-shirt and Pull-up, so there is something vaguely familiar about it.
Still, she is so funny, even when she doesn't mean to be.
Sweet William works only ten minutes from home, and quite often, he comes home for lunch -- usually at least 4 days out of 5. Viva and I are generally out and about in the mornings, and usually get home at lunchtime, before Sweet Wills gets home. When we pull into the garage, Viva will look for Sweet Willie's Jeep, even though 9 times out of 10, he gets back after we do. Lately, when we pull into our parking space and Will's car isn't there, she has started doing this thing from an episode of Dora the Explorer. (Bear with me.) In this episode, Dora and Boots find a little blue bird that is lost, and when she cries because she misses her mama, tears squirt copiously out the sides of her eyes and she whimpers, "Peep peep peep," in a sad little voice.
So now, to indicate the depth of her anguish that her father isn't home, Viva screams, "Peep PEEP PEEP!" and will actually start to cry. It is funny and exasperating at the same time. She knows it is ridiculous, because she will start laughing if I laugh. Yes, I laugh when my child starts to cry. Don't you?
Yesterday, she came into the bathroom while I was peeing and clapped her hands. "What a big girl! I'm so proud of you!" she said, beaming. "Thanks," I said, pulling up my pants.
"Mommy? What you have?" she said, coming forward quickly and grabbing at my pants.
"What do I have on my pants?" I said, looking down, bewildered. "Snaps, and a zipper?"
"No, Mommy, what you have? You have Minnie Mouse?" she said, fingering the snaps.
"Minnie Mouse? No, I -- oh, you mean, these," I said, as she unsnapped my pants and pulled them back down. She is a persistent little critter, and that is why I was stuck in the bathroom showing off my Felix the Cat panties to my 2-year-old.
I guess it's only fair. And I have more to add, but I must now go pick up my sweet coconut at school. Toodles!
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