Children are like Taxes, it may not be something you want to pay for but it is better to handle the hard stuff now before you end up a criminal. There are ups and there are downs with every child, if you don’t realize that yet, please don’t have children. This is one story about my little downer. It isn’t hard to understand when you have a real problem child on your hands. At 19 months this little fire ball can talk, walk and accurately toss food at you from across the room. He is sensitive and sweet, but only when his fangs aren’t showing. I like to think that this propensity towards violence has a purpose, perhaps he will grow up to be a hostage negotiator, since he understands the concepts so well. When I was picking out this childs name, the third and final time I would ever go through the process, I wanted something strong and independent. A name fit for a little king. We chose Michael to honor his grandfather and to provide him with a grounded name and a solid personality. I wish I would have named him sally, I think he might have been a little easier to handle. Yesterday the entire house was struck with a case of food poisoning. Lunch with grandpa included a buffet with less than cooked sausage, of which we all consumed. No one was feeling well yesterday so we spent our time laying around the house and taking turns moaning on the bathroom floor. Mike was exceptionally sweet and subdued, something he does every once in a while to make sure we still love him enough to not dress him in pink and stick him on someone else’s porch. He wasn’t feeling well, no one was, and he wasn’t quite sure how to tell us about it. After a solid twelve hours of laying around the house and fighting over the giant bean bag, everyone was starting to feel better. It wasn’t until baby daddy turned to Michael and asked if he was feeling better. Michael stood atop the back of the couch like some ill intentioned spider man and proclaimed to the entire room for the first time: “Fuck Yeah, dad.” A wide grin spreading across his beautiful little face as he steadied himself for the shock wave he was certain was coming. My jaw drops to the floor. I snort in disbelief as I begin to reconstruct my brain into understanding that the tiny mouth that lovingly tells me such glowing sentiments like “wuv you” and “go bye bye?” had suddenly gotten around to using the F word. You know my stance on cursing. Don’t do it unless you can do it right. I glance to baby daddy who is staring wide eyed at the little boy who is the last in line to carry his name into the future, the hope of his namesake, the little king with a cursing problem. Sigh. ‘What are we going to do?’ I mouth in his direction, silent exasperation for the situation. I shrug my shoulders in desperation. I throw my hands up in disgust as Michael crumbles in laughter and swan dives into the couch. His grace is always a little startling, perhaps I should have named him Grace. Without skipping a beat, Baby Daddy turns to me and says “I guess we have to homeschool this one.” I agree.

© 2009, AntiSoccermom. All rights reserved to the original author unless stated otherwise.

There I was washing the food gunk off the high chair from dinner when it happened. Now don’t get me wrong, I trust Baby Daddy with his own child, I really do. It’s just that when the baby is in the bathtub and I can hear him talking on the phone, I kind of get that feeling that he isnt paying AS close of attention as I might be. So there I am, standing at the sink when I hear it happen. It starts with some slight murmurring, thats dad on the phone, and then splashing, which is Weasel in the tub. The entire house goes dead quiet and for a minute, I panic. I immediately have mommy-vision which always includes the death of my child in some impossibly illogical manner. So dead silence, mommy-vision of the baby drowning in the tub, and then I hear giggling. My son is giggling in the bathtub. This can only mean one thing. I listen intently, to accurately gauge where the rest of my family is located in the house. I suppose this has something to do with that sixth sense that all moms have, the same reason your mother always knew what was going on behind her back. My super low-tech sonography pays off, and I hear dad in the hallway pacing back and forth. I also hear him enter the bathroom doorway and scream. He screamed, literally, like a woman. All high pitched like he’d been kicked in the junk. Ours is a happy baby, but bowel movements make him ESPECIALLY happy. My child, like some zoo bound APE took it upon himself to crap in the bathtub. Oh no friends, this isnt the end of this story. He not only crapped in the tub, he then picked it up, with the same fingers I so lovingly kissed mere moments before, and he threw it at his father. My child threw feces at his father. The screaming subsided, and pleas of “GET ME SOME BLEACH” were made. Though when I rounded the corner to see this amazing display of father/son drama unfolding, I wasn’t holding bleach. I was holding the video camera. The resulting video is mainly of me giggling, and the camera being pointed directly at the floor while my life was being threatened. Don’t judge, I would have done the SAME thing had I been the one to take human feces to the shoe(the kid isnt a very good aim, thank god.) I was told I could never air the video(fingers crossed!) and I swore that I wouldn’t (watch my youtube feed) ever put it up on the internet.(still searching for that loophole.) Not a whole lot can shock me. This is why I blog, mostly because I am totally shameless. But this, this one is a little unnerving. Maybe we change Weasel’s nickname?

© 2009, AntiSoccermom. All rights reserved to the original author unless stated otherwise.