Observations of a Mother Pro-Tem

~It's terribly cute to watch your middle niece "mew" at the cats every time she sees one. It's not so cute when she won't eat breakfast because she's too busy looking for kitties and mewing.

~Teething is the bane of any sane adult's existence (any unsane adult, for that matter). Infant motrin becomes one's best friend.

~My twin nieces alternately love or are terrified of the cats. The "terrified" part usually comes when they're still kinda waking up at breakfast or are really tired and the kitty who was still suddenly moves, and it freaks them out.

~Mika, poor thing, should always be evacuated from any room prior to small children being introduced to the area.

~What works once to get a stubborn child to swallow a mouthful of food will not work a second time. There is no such thing as a consistent trick for dealing with a goober who will not swallow, not even an animal-cracker chaser. No matter what her uncle says.

~The one thing that Large Fry Niece will eat, and beg for more of, is pizza, which will make me go broke.

~At least half a dozen times a day, I am sure I never want children, am not cut out for motherhood in any way, shape or form, and I'm immensely glad that my four-footed children willingly eat what's in front of them, bathe themselves, are toilet-trained, and sleep when they feel the need.

~Perhaps someday I will once again eat three meals a day. Regularly. I don't think that's happened more than twice this week. On the plus side, I think I've lost weight.

~If I wasn't nuts before, I am now.

(6/25/08)

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Tonight's Award-Winning Conversation

Dinner has finished. Large Fry niece ate more grapes than she did radiatore pasta with meat sauce, Medium Fry (oldest of the twins) threw more on the floor than she ate, and Small Fry dropped so many radiatore pasta pieces in her bib that it looked like she had a choo-choo in the fold of the bib.

I informed Uncle Hubby that I cooked. He just sorta looked at me and said, "Soooo...what does that mean?"

"You clean up," I told him. Okay, he figured he could handle that. He wipes the urchins' hands and faces and sends them into the corral (living room and playroom). I am quickly beset upon by Medium and Small, who both want to be in my lap so they can play with my laptop too. I recall with a sigh the two full cups of juice they both drank when they got up from their naps, and strip them down and change diapers.

Then Large Fry walks into the living room, pushing her toy stroller with her dolly in it. Medium Fry immediately decides she MUST have Large's toy. (Medium Fry is the highly independent, strong-willed child.) The rule in my house is that you cannot steal your sister's toy when she had it first. Obviously, applying this rule is easier when it comes to Large Fry, who has a greater understanding of the English language and will actually respond in LF-English. Medium Fry, of course, has no respect for this rule. Her hand gets spanked twice. She still insists on grabbing it from her sister. I try distracting her with another toy. No soap. I am ready to go into the kitchen and trade places with Hubby. I take the wet clothes and diapers out to Hubby so he can pitch the nasty things and throw the clothes on the laundry room floor. I get back into the living room, and...

...Small Fry is grabbing the stroller from Large Fry!

I pull her little hands away and collapse on the couch, only to have her look at me as she reaches for the stroller again. I sharply tell Small Fry that she cannot have Large Fry's toy.

Meanwhile, Medium Fry is standing on the end table (it's pretty sturdy 2x4 construction). She jabbers a fairly recognizable repetition of what I just said to her sister.

"Small Fry," I say again, "you can't have that toy!"

Medium Fry offers a garbled repetition.

I look at her. "And you!" She grins at me. "Hush!"

"No!" she shouts, with impish glee.

"Yes! I'm the adult!"

"No!" Again, the impish glee.

"You're not an adult!" I can't help but grin, which is probably my undoing. "You're not even two!"

"No!" Ornery thing.

From the kitchen, Hubby calls, "Are you trying to argue with a 19-month-old?"

I look at Medium Fry, and shout back in my most petulant voice, "No!"