Mommy No No

Fiona's recent word acquisitions are a pretty good indication of how well things have been going here lately. She totters around yelling "Stop. Stop. Stop." and "Out. Out. Out." because, for some reason, I repeat these things three times before any child even flinches no matter how loud I am. My favorite, though, is this game: She reaches for something that she knows is forbidden, purses her little lips and sternly says, "Mommy No No." That's apparently my new nickname. It's shorter and much less annoying that Danny's new way of calling me, "Mommy, mommy, mommy, mom, mom, mama." And I swear Owen says "Maaaamaaa" when he's crying.

Some days I forget my real name.

When Danny first entered toddlerhood, I would redirect or correct him by saying sweetly "Not for Dan" and then patiently show him what was "for Dan." Fast forward two years and the only word I use more than my children's names is the very word I never wanted to hear coming from the lips of defiant little children: NO. And I'm usually growling or yelling it to prevent one of them from injuring themselves. Keeping them alive or at least not seriously injured is about the best I can do while I spend what seems like hours nursing and carrying around an infant, chasing a toddler and entertaining a 3 year old.

This week has been a bit rough with multiple bruise-making injuries and traumas. Danny has walked into the door frame a few times. Fiona randomly fell into the wall while she was drawing at the chalkboard.  The other day, my father walked in on a familiar scene:  Fiona standing on the office chair and Danny spinning it around. A second later, the chair and Fiona came crashing down. All parties involved came away with black eyes and lots of tears. At least once a day, I hurl the office chair out the side door in utter frustration.


Danny and Fiona conspire like wicked monkeys. They are into everything. They can now both open doors. Danny has gone out the front door a few times. Fiona has let herself into the kitchen. Danny goes around locking doors in the house. Consequently, I now walk around the house with a wooden skewer, a k a the universal key, tucked in my hair. One day, I fear he will lock me in his room since the door locks from the outside. (You know, as long as the baby is with me, that might not be a bad thing.)

They can now both reach and clear countertops and even Fiona can move a rather heavy chair over to the counter to reach whatever she wants. I may have to hang the knife block from the ceiling soon. Danny opens the fridge; Fiona hears it and comes running like Pavlov's dog. Today, Danny decided he was going to "work" in the kitchen while I sat and nursed Owen. A few minutes later I hear the whir of the blender (the base, not the actual blender, is on the counter) and a ear-piercing screams. Danny had turned it on and freaked himself out. Once we established that he was okay physically, I tried not to laugh. Really.

And it gets worse ... one hot day this week, I set up the pool in the backyard. Kids play happily and I feel like a somewhat competent and fun mom. An hour later, as Danny removes his swim suit in the living room, I spot what looks like poop and ask suspiciously "What is that, Danny?"
"It's leaves, it's just leaves," he says in a panic.

It was NOT leaves. It was poop. And I spent the next 10 minutes or so picking up bits of poop with by bare hands.

That is all.