The Measure of a Man

Okay, really guys?  Stop blinking rapidly and refreshing the webpage!  It’s really me!  I know that my posts for 2012 have been few and FAAAAAAARRRR between, but seeing as how we’ve discussed my various power moves as of late (promotion, anyone?), I trust that you all understand.

What’s funny is,  I’ve been a little skeptical lately as to how I would find time to get back into blogging, and if I would still have anything poignant to say, but truth be told, I’d forgotten how cathartic this practice is on a daily basis, so I imagine that I will be doing better to make time!

At any rate, with my new responsibilities and the annihilation of anything that even remotely resembles a structured daily schedule, it hasn’t only been me who’s had to adjust.  While my honey and the big Pack Kids have been supportive (who knew that after a thankless 10-hour work day, “the twins” would have warmed up left overs for themselves and run a load of dirty dishes without being asked to do so…the fact that the clean ones from the morning were still in the dishwasher is neither here nor there…), it’s been The Baby Child who’s antics have let me know how truly missed I’ve been between 8 and 6.  Whether it’s sitting up under me until bedtime, requiring that we act out the latest Dragonball Z fusion fight stances or helping me to sort his fruit juice splattered laundry, once I’ve crossed the threshold, the kid is basically not letting me out of his sight until bedtime.

The other night after I’d made him a fruit salad, The Baby Child insisted that he sit in my lap and share his fare with me.  This of course entailed serving each other all “Coming to America” style, sans the large ostrich feather fans and handmaidens.  When The Honey got home, it was all he could do not to burst into laughter.  Instead, he popped a grape and told The Baby Child that it was his job to feed me fruit and for me to sit in his lap because he was my man.  The Honey proceeded to shake his head at me, chuckle and change out of his work attire into his sweats.

After our palettes were thoroughly satiated, I convinced The Baby Child of what great quality time he could spend with me before bed by helping me to sort some white laundry (don’t judge me).  After getting half of the clothes in the washing machine, I caught sight of him intently inspecting, then snatching up a shirt and gleefully running up to his room.  Days later when I got home from work, The Baby Child greeted me at the door with kisses, an inquiry into what was for dinner and fully dressed in his “good clothes” from head to toe, but with that missing white undershirt billowing over his own toddler wear.  Taking the bait, I asked him why in the world he was wearing his father’s beater.

“Because mommy, I’m a MAN and I’m gonna get all the girlfriends.”

Uh, whaaat?

So, clearly I am not sure at what point my baby opted not to fill his father’s shoes but instead his undershirt, and in doing so, equated that with being “a man”; or even in being “a man”, that meant being imparted with girlfriends, but it is apparent that although this child is extra times ten, I must say, at least he has modeled his mini-manly self after a pretty wonderful prototype.

Now, if I could just get them both to put the seat down!

Babychild Chronicles: Get the Anti-Venom

I always find it amazing whenever I see my children’s personalities develop right before my eyes. Like today, when I came to the realization that my child’s imagination was greater than my will to work overtime.

Well into Day 2 of my “time and a half sure would be good right about now” take-home work session, the Babychild meandered into my den to determine exactly why he had not had my full and undivided attention in more than two hours.  But before he could engage me in a lengthy chat about his racing cars and The Backyardigans, I noticed some gnarly little marks on his neck.  When I asked him what happened, he looked at me rather dumfounded.  But it was when he ran down the hall to the bathroom mirror to see what I was talking about, that all hell broke loose.

 “Momm-ma! Momm-ma! Look at my owies!! I know what happened!”

I could already tell by his hyper declaration that this one was going to be a doozy, but I got up, headed to the bathroom and entertained his deduction.

 “A snake bit me…a snake with nun chucks!”

Stifling a snicker, I asked him what became of the snake.

 “He got snaked by another snake, and then I destroyed it with my karate moves!”

Silly me, surely I had to know that snakes were no match for Babychild martial arts.  Now there was the matter of the bites.

 “Ooooh. My neck really hurts momm-ma. But don’t worry. I think the brownies in the kitchen will make me feel all better.”

And just like that, my work was effectively put on hold this evening, as I had to administer medicine, of the confectionery variety to my little snake bite victim.

I swear, there is never a dull moment when it comes to The Babychild and his siblings! But maybe it’s these animated moments that are to be my salvation.  Perhaps I need to quit my job (with all of its after-hour work trappings) and pitch a Pack Kids reality series to TLC!

 

Babychild Chronicles: So Mom, How Do I Look?

At the risk of incriminating myself as a mildly negligent parent, here is another tale of when The Babychild gets out of my sight for more than two minutes.

As is usually my Saturday ritual, I found myself hauling in and putting away the groceries after an arduous couple of hours at the market.  While sorting my perishables, cans, boxes and spices, I was making some pretty good headway until my honey came into the kitchen with a smirk on his face, holding The Babychild’s hand.  Confused, I looked at him, awaiting an explanation.

“Look at his face,” he snorted.

Finally seeing the nicks, scratches and scrapes, I gasped and asked what in the world had happened to my child.

“I caught him in the bathroom shaving, Tiff!” my honey replied incredulously.

Examining his face more closely, sure enough he looked as though he’d gone 5 rounds with a Bic® and lost.  Of course, The Babychild’s initial concern was not where I’d place the Band-Aids, but instead if he was going to get a spanking or not.  After clarifying to him that three “owies” above his upper lip were punishment enough, he seemed to relax a bit.  Still, I had to know what would possess him to not only mutilate his cherub face so, but how in the world he even got access to a razor in the first place.

“Mom, I climbed on dad’s sink to get the shaver for my beard.”

Letting his dad explain to him that shaving was only for adults and going into our room and climbing on our bathroom vanity again would result in a butt-whooping, The Babychild seemed to finally grasp the reality of his situation.

“Oh no! Mom-ma, do you think my friends at school will laugh when they see my face?”

Toddler Vanity.

Spare the Rod, Rotten Toddler

I can always count on my mom and the Baby Child to humor me when I need it most.

Coming home from work yesterday, my mom peeked out from my kitchen and thanked me for finally coming home. “Your child was the worst today!” Snatching up her bag and cellphone, she fussed over her shoulder that he refused to take his nap and that he was sassing her all day.

I tried to express to my mom that the Baby Child always got away with murder with her because she refused to properly discipline him and she knew it.  Sputtering, she told me that she popped him regularly when he misbehaved, then she called in the Big Girl to confirm it.

After me and the Big Girl laughed at her attempt to convince us that she was a disciplinarian, my mom stomped her foot and huffed away.  A few moments later, the Baby Child came bounding into the kitchen (clearly at her cajoling) and prepared to set the record straight:

“Hi Mom-ma. Yayah spanked me 49 times today!”

I don’t know what’s worse; a fibbing toddler or the influence of his ridiculous grandmother!

The Devil Is Black? AND He Makes Cakes?

You can always count on the innocent inquiry of a child to hem you up, leave you utterly dumbfounded or make you rethink your position on an otherwise trivial matter.  That’s what happened to me this afternoon while The Babychild was playing Pastry Chef’s Apprentice to me in the kitchen.

With my kids officially ripping and running all over creation thanks to the annual free-for-all that is Spring Break, the rules in the Pack Household have become a little more lax (well, at least for the next five days).  Once such rule that is receiving a brief moratorium is the one referring to no sweets on weekdays.  Sympathizing with their sugar-deprived angst, I decided that I was going to bake them a “just because” cake today to enjoy during their vacation.  And seeing me getting my bake on, The Babychild decided that he just had to be all up in the batter as my helper and unofficial taste-tester.

That was, until he realized what I was making.  After adding, mixing and pouring my velvety cake ingredients into my baking pan, The Babychild eagerly awaited the spoon, bowl and mixer tong to lick.  It was evident that he clearly had no problem with the taste of the rich, dark concoction, and he happily let me know it.  When he asked me what kind of cake I was baking and I absently told him Devil’s Food Cake, things quickly changed.

“Mom-ma, the devil makes cakes and he is black like us!?”

Stricken…Panicked…Exasperated; adjectives that don’t even hold a candle to the look that was in that little boy’s face or the trepidation in his voice.  In my mind, all I could hear were damage control sirens shrieking and my inner voice screaming “Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap!”

How in the world was I going to explain to my toddler that although I’d often wondered what 18^th century European “genius” decided to associate “deviled” foods with “black”, and even rolled my eyes a time or two at my local grocer for aligning their Angel’s Food Cake mix on one shelf and their Devil’s Food Cake mix on a lower one, that there was no legitimate association between the naughty entity he had come to know as the devil and people of color.

Again, the expression on my child’s face let me know that he was extremely troubled by this potential discovery, so I had to forego the backstory altogether and simply explain to him that for years and years and years, that had been the name for the super chocolatey confection in our oven, and that the devil has never had anything to do with baked goods.  Pondering that for a moment, The Babychild laughed and told me how silly it all was, then proceeded to lick his sticky fingers.

WHEW! Mini-Crisis averted!

Still…a smoldering side-eye at Betty Crocker, Duncan Hines and those first culinary experts who caused my kid to fret over a deviled dessert!

Jesus and Monster Trucks

Although I grew up in a staunchly religious household with parental units who believed that attending church all.the.time and being members of every sort of church auxiliary was the thing to do, and swore an oath to myself that when I married and had children of my own I would not shove religion down their throats the way I felt that it was rammed down mine, I must admit that after ten years in the game, I do enjoy attending church regularly with my family and teaching my children the importance of a sound relationship with God.

And while they have all proven to be receptive to the “Kingdom Philosophy”, it is The Babychild who (for whatever reason) seems to view church and God as a holy extension to his regular playtime activities.  Take today for instance.  As difficult as it was for me to wake him up from his afternoon nap, once I mentioned that it was time for church school, he all but catapulted himself out of bed.  As I was washing him up and getting him dressed, I asked him what he liked about church school.  He immediately rattled off the array of crafts, toys and games the staff let the children participate in.  I then asked him what he learned about at church school.  In true Babychild fashion, he told me Jesus…and monster trucks.

I suppose at his age, there is nothing better than learning about the King of King and Lord of Toys!

 

 

He’s At It Again: McDonald’s, Fasting and The Babychild

As a part of our every-New-Year-ritual, my honey and I have adopted the practice of consecrating the first 36 – 40 days of the year to God (a tithe, if you will) as a means of starting the year off right, and getting more definitive purpose and direction for our lives for the coming year.  As such, we typically decide upon a fast to implement and stick to throughout the month of January (for accountabilities sake, I have chosen to do the sun-up to sun-down fast, while the honey has selected the no meat, fruit/veggie option; so if you should happen to see either of us at Krispy Kreme…).

So in preparation for this severely arduous time (when like clockwork, just about every sort of food commercial will come on television, or discounted restaurant coupon will arrive in the mail), the honey and I put the kids on notice that there would be very little “everyday” home-cooked meals being prepared (substitute: freezer dinners) and even fewer instances of dining out until February.  As they began calling out various meals and restaurants to entice us and break our resolve (rotten kids), The Babychild blurted out rather brusquely that he wanted to go to McDonald’s. Explaining to him as only a father could that McDonald’s was poison and that we shouldn’t be eating there, The Babychild stared at him blankly as if he didn’t know the man:

“Daddat, stop fibbing already! You Looooovvvvveee McDonald’s!”

Although we won’t be eating there anytime soon, Mikey D’s can rest assured that they have at least one ringing endorsement coming out of The Pack Household!

 

 

Holiday Entertainment: Baby Child and a Rowboat

Although I got an immensely early jumpstart on my loose-end Christmas Shopping today, having the babychild in tow for the majority of the day proved to be a rather interesting ordeal to say the least.  While he demonstrated exceptional resolve for a toddler amidst my hustle and bustle and daily to-do’s, by hour three the babychild was completely restless and required entertaining (and french fries) to remain even remotely behaved.  One such entertaining moment came when he decided to serenade me and my fellow department store passersby with a special solo:

Row, row, row your boat,

gently down the stream,

merry me, merry me, merry me, merry me,

light my butt a dream.

GASP!

Oh no mom-ma! I don’t want to light my butt!!!!

If the snickers and chuckles coming from the shoppers in line behind and in front of me were any indication, then they found the notion of the babychild’s lit butt as equally amusing as I did.

Why My Precocious Toddler Is Posted On Craigslist

Because of the firm but reasonable boundaries that me and my honey set for our children, they all know (the babychild included) that the quickest way to be given up for adoption is to 1) come into our room uninvited 2) mess with or take items out of said restricted room and 3) lie about it.  Well, the babychild (who loves to tippy-toe the line when it comes to rules) hit the trifecta today, and is currently awaiting his new set of parents to come pick him up!

While preparing dinner this evening, my youngest child was instructed to chill out with his cousin and catch up on his Spanish lessons courtesy of Dora and Boots.  Thinking he was safely in the bonus room getting his Noggin on, I finished cooking and setting the table so went to my room to boot up my computer to finish up some work that I’d taken home with me.

Thinking I was loco in the coco, I noticed that my laptop (the same one that I had wheeled into the house only a few hours before) was out of its rolling case and sitting a little too strategically in the middle of my bed.  Opening it up, the screen immediately went from black to 50-11 internet and application windows popping up, followed by the System Restore prompt notifying me that Windows had not started properly and that Start Up Repair would try to identify and resolve the problem.

Seeing red, I began to gaze around the room for definitive clues as to who exactly had hijacked my computer, before I started dispensing punishment of the hide-tanning variety.  No sooner than I filled my diaphragm full of name bellowing hot air, did the babychild conveniently meander into my room with his sippy cup in hand to inquire about his dinner.

Me: You can eat in a minute, but first I need you to tell me something.

Babychild: What you want me to tell?

Me: Did you touch my computer?

Babychild: (A little too quickly) No!

Me: Are you sure? Don’t tell me fibs.

Babychild: No, I just turned it on.

Me: You know you broke it right? Now mommy can’t do work.

Babychild: I will fix it, don’t worry.

Me: Um, no. You touching it in the first place is why it’s broken.

Babychild: I’m sorry mom-ma. And I’m hungry.

Me:  I am not very happy with you right now.

Babychild: But I love you, see (blows a kiss)?

Me: What should I do because you broke mommy’s computer?

Babychild: Call your friend.

*Sigh* I cannot with him! 

But the more I think about it, the more I realize that he might be right. I just may call my friend…my social worker friend!

Noggin, Moco Jumbie & The Honey-Babychild Relationship

Vodpod videos no longer available.

If I’ve not said it before, let me going on record to proclaim Noggin as one of the best Children’s Programming Network for kids of the pre-kindergarten demographic.  Between their creative line of programming, their celebrity guests stars and musical interludes, I can always count on the babychild to learn something new and retain that knowledge.

Which brings me to one of my favorites songs in the whole world, courtesy of the babychild and Noggin.  No matter where he is in the house, all he has to do is hear that distinctive calypso beat to stop in his tracks and seek out the television and his daddy.

“Mom-ma, look! That is me and my da-dat. Watch us dance.”

The following minute and a half usually results in pure entertainment (for me) as the babychild sings an ode to his hero and their affinity for toddler appropriate choreography.

Check out the cuteness!