The Picky Eater

The strangest thing has happened.

Out of nowhere, my seventeen-month-old son has become a picky eater.

Coincidentally, the changes to my toddler's food preferences occurred on the same day as my older kids' school Valentine's Day parties.

"I need you to play with him for a minute," I told my kindergartners, plopping their brother at their feet. I was making lunch. Kellen and Cortlen were counting, sorting, and decontaminating valentines received from their classmates. Any card decorated with a Barbie or without a package of candy attached was tossed into a pile appropriately labeled 'toxic dump.'

"Oh no!" I yelped thirty seconds later. "What happened?" The baby was sitting on top of 50 valentines. He was bleeding profusely from his mouth.

My older sons giggled and ran away. When I tried to wipe the blood off my baby's face, I noticed that it was sticky and smelled like high fructose corn syrup.

"Please don't give the baby any more candy," I told the boys. "It's not good for him."

Kellen shrugged his shoulders and asked if I wanted a red lollipop. I accepted.

The next morning, I went in to the baby's room to find that he had eaten an entire package of Nerds, as well as the box that they came in.

"Who gave him this?" I asked, holding up what was left of the wrapper.

My daughter told me that Cameron had spoken to her in a dream. In it, he specifically asked for grape flavor.

Later that afternoon, Kellen found a piece of chocolate underneath the sofa. He left it on the seat cushion while he went to the bathroom. When he returned, it was gone.

"That was mine!" barked Kellen, shaking his finger at his brother.

I scooped up the baby and put him in his high chair. "Time for dinner!" I announced. Shockingly, Cameron batted away the food I put in front of him and looked longingly at the three white paper bags that were on top of the refrigerator. The ones decorated with heart doilies and red and pink heart stamps.

He's no dummy. Why fill up on broccoli when you can hold out and get a handful of sweet tarts?

The Alternative Family

Last week, I received two AMAZING invitations. The first was extended by the producer of a national talk show. Think seventeen notches down from Oprah.

"We're doing a makeover show and think you'd be perfect!!!!!" the producer chirped over the phone.

Already I was offended.

My self esteem officially went down the crapper when she asked me how long I had worn 'mom jeans' and why I wouldn't give them up.

"I think you have the wrong number," I told her and hung up.

The second invitation came from the producer of a new reality television series. She found my blog through a friend of a friend of a friend and "LOVED loved LOVED" my "unique perspective on parenting and positive views on life."

That's when I knew that she had never read my blog.

This producer told me that if it was all right with me, a camera crew and fifteen million people would come to my house and follow me and my kids around for a week.

The prospect of such awesomeness underwhelmed me.

When I didn't respond right away, the producer added that yours truly wouldn't be the main attraction. The series is going to feature a number of alternative families from all across the country.

"Alternative?" I asked. Her choice of words confused me.

That's when she told me that one of the other young families that she is working with vacations at nudist colonies. Another set of parents pierced their toddlers' noses and eyebrows and let their six-year-old get a snake tattoo.

As much as I had felt like I had found my home, I declined the very generous and heartwarming offer to join the freak show.

It's been a week, and I'm starting to worry that I made the wrong choice.

Not.

Drinks on Me

My husband was out of town all weekend. In an attempt to fill the waking hours with something other than animated movies, I took my kids to the pawn shop, Chuck-E-Cheese, and the garden center at Home Depot.

"You can sit on every riding lawnmower except that one," I said, pointing to the $7,000 convertible.

By 3pm on Saturday, I was making paper chains out of construction paper.

"What is that?" my son asked.

"The number of hours until you go to bed," I replied, ripping off a link.

"Let's take our kids out to dinner," I suggested to my friends Becky and James. "You pick the place."

It went without saying that said restaurant must be equipped with booster chairs, plastic tablecloths, and waitresses who look the other way.

An hour later, I found myself at a fifties diner. Two minutes after that, I was forced to confiscate the salt and pepper shakers from the table next to mine. Thirty seconds later, I was back for the packets of Splenda.

The hyenas lost interest in the sugar substitute when their drinks arrived...in mason jars.

"AHHHHH!" yelled Kellen, barely able to contain himself. The simple pleasures in life.

"Be careful with that cup," I warned.

By the time that the food was brought out, Kellen and Camber had spilled their drinks. After round two, the waitress left me with a roll of paper towels.

"It's your turn Cortlen," I said flatly. The last one standing giggled and covered his hands with his mouth.

"I'm joking," I said.

Trials are not without tender mercies.

My son waited until after I had consumed almost half of my meal before knocking eight ounces of soda into his lap.

*****
Any awesome restaurant stories out there?

Our New Pet

My kids have been saving up for a Chihuahua. They would also accept a Great Dane or any type of dog in between.

After pooling the money they've collected from the Tooth Fairy and pilfered from my purse, they have a whopping $43.00.

"This is definitely enough for something at the animal shelter," my daughter said to me this morning, fanning a wad of dollar bills across the kitchen table.

We are frequent fliers at all of the animal rescue centers in town. Petsmart= petting zoo.

"I can barely take care of the living things already in this house," I replied. "We can't get a dog right now."

Cortlen threw himself off the sofa when he heard the bad news. Kellen took the setback in stride. He chucked a library book at the wall and won a free trip to time out.

Just as I was tuning my violin in preparation for the pity party, a furry beast bounded across my deck and jumped onto a patio chair.

"A gift from the gods!" I shouted to my offspring. "Come look!"

My children stopped hating me long enough to look out the window.

"That's a squirrel," my daughter said flatly.

"It's your new pet!" I corrected.

Kellen liked my idea so much that he threw another book.

All was not in vain. After a half hour or so, my children warmed up to the idea of claiming ownership of all of the wild animals in our subdivision.

"Let's call him Squirrely," chirped Cortlen.

It's my sincerest hope that my son didn't have to dig too deep to come up with that name.

*****
Super cool! A couple weeks back, the super smart ladies at Segullah and I had a little chat. You can read the interview HERE.

Mama Bird

This afternoon, I took my daughter to the pediatrician for a check-up. While I was checking in, Cameron started crying. In an attempt to pacify the seventeen-month-old long enough for the receptionist to photocopy my insurance card, I tossed the toddler's sippy cup to my six-year-old twin sons.

"Give the baby a drink please," I told them.

I should have been more specific.

When I turned around, all three of my sons were at the drinking fountain. Cortlen and Kellen were taking turns filling their own mouths full of water...and then spitting the liquid into Cameron's.

I wanted to die.

One of the other mothers in the waiting room was so kind as to point out that the scene reminded her of a mother bird feeding her young.

In a demented sort of way, I guess she's right.