The Little Jobber’s new game.

Picking up any Cheerios that have fallen on the floor during breakfast (and, believe me, many Cheerios end up on the floor) with his toes. And then eating them.

I kid you not.

 

Guard the cheese!

I guess I need to keep a closer eye on the cream cheese, especially when it’s almost dinner time . . .

Yes, that’s a tub of cream cheese and, yes, those holes were made by the pointer finger of a hungry toddler.

 

Concoctions.

Why bother with cereal when you have goldfish crackers? I mean, really . . .

For the record, yes, he did eat it. With his hands. Because we’re all about messes around here.

 

It’s all about the frequency.

I guess we’re in the mischief phase now. That phase where the innocent boy morphs into one who looks for trouble at every turn. A boy who hunts for the most unsteady item on which to climb. And then stands — tippy toes — on said item while reaching for the one thing he is not supposed to touch.

A boy who has decided that the best thing about dinner is finding creative ways to eat his food, like using his sippy cup as a fork or his cracker as a spoon. A boy who, if given the chance, would head-butt everyone and everything. A boy who surreptitiously collects his mom’s or dad’s things (anything, doesn’t matter) and then hides them under, on or behind the sofa; in the trash can; on the basement stairs.

A boy who screams all the time. OK, scratch that: We’ve been there for a long time.

But the other stuff is fairly new or, at least, new in its frequency and delight. And it doesn’t stop. It’s all mischief, all the time around here. You may think I am kidding. I am not. You may think I am exaggerating. I am not.

OK, maybe just a little. But only a little.

And now a quick shift: We’re heading to Long Island this afternoon. With any luck, we’ll miss the bulk of the traffic and Conal will sleep for most of the trip. That’s what I’m hoping for. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

 

This week.

Monday. Lots of messy, oozy diapers. Worry: Is he sick? Is he teething? Grocery shopping. Post office. Laundry. Work. Ambitious dinner: Delicious tsatziki, not so great falafel.

Tuesday. More icky diapers. No fever. Diagnosis: Teething. Playdate. More laundry. Terrific run in the evening. Not-so-ambitious dinner: Farfalle with ham, capers, peas, scallions and fresh mozzarella.

Wednesday. Still more icky diapers. Wish: To be done with teething. Baby Bookworms. Errands. Sucky run in the afternoon. Volleyball game. Injury: Aunt Claire. Severely un-ambitious dinner: Subs.

Today. Unknown. Schedule: Playdate. Prepping for weekend guests.

I figured you were wondering. And if you weren’t, now you won’t have to.

 

Randomosity on your Friday.

• I can’t get this song out of my head:

• Now that the Yankees are out of the playoff race, Conal wants to wear his Yankees cap all the time.
• He has two big boy birthday parties to go this weekend. He will probably beg to wear his Yankees cap to both.
• Did you know it is International Talk Like a Pirate Day today? Aaaaar!
• I posted the Vegetarian 100 over at my other site, if you are interested.
• The screaming has not abated. If anything, it has picked up. In both volume and frequency.
• I’m hoping it’s, “Feed a cold, starve a fever” because Conal has been shoveling it in, Michael Phelps-style.
• Um, I have nothing else. So, we’re done. Have a nice weekend!

 

You might not want to try this at home.

Unless you have a cleaning service. And you are smart enough to remember to put a bib on your child. But I’ll leave that up to you.

What did I try? Self-feeding. With a spoon. Self spoon feeding, I guess you could call it.

Conal fed himself cottage cheese tonight. Around here, self-feeding has been reserved for finger foods — a category that cottage cheese doesn’t easily fit into. The results? Well, he ate the cottage cheese.

He also wore it:

I ended up wearing a bit of it, too.

 

Toys are overrated.

Who needs toys when you can spend hours (OK, half hours) pretending to drink ginger ale?

 

How can I say this nicely?

I would really like this flailing stuff to go. It just isn’t working for me.

It doesn’t happen all the time but, lately — like, yesterday and this morning — it has been happening a lot. Flailing accompanied by whining that quickly becomes crying. And it, well, it sucks. It is just too much.

Now, I am fully aware that I recently mistook the Little Jobber’s molar pain for the end of the world, which sent me spiraling down the tunnel of paranoia. So, I will not assume that he is flailing and whining and crying simply to drive me down that other tunnel, the tunnel of insanity. However. It could seem that way. On first glance. Or second glance, even.

On third glance, it appears that he is frustrated. He knows what he wants, but can’t tell me. Sure, he can walk over to the refrigerator and try to open it. And, I can gather he wants something from there. But, he can’t say, “Mom, I would like to have a piece of cheese and, perhaps, a dried apricot. And while we have the door open, can you please let me see what’s hiding in the back of the crisper? I’ve always wanted to know . . .”

Nope, he can’t say that. And so he becomes frustrated and then things go downhill from there.

Luckily, he bounces back well and the flailing accompanied by whining that quickly becomes crying usually subsides within a minute.

But that minute? I could do without it.

 

The party’s over.

And it was a success. At least I think so! Sure, it was 95 degrees and the sun was blazing. But, we had a sprinkler. And a bouncy-bounce. And the adults had beer. Hot fun!

Thanks to Aunt Candy, Conal had a taste of the chocolate cake (not just the carrot cupcake as planned). He seems a little unsure, huh?

And then we opened gifts. Conal’s many, many gifts. Conal wasn’t all that interested in the whole opening thing. But Maddie and Bella? Into it. Definitely into it.

Conal was, however, into the beach toys.

So, yeah. A fun party.