Get in my mouf!

In the last week or so, Bug’s vocabulary has gone through the roof. He’s always been fairly wordy (no surprise, with me as his mother), but the last few days he has been much more clear, and much more descriptive. Instead of just “truck” it is “dump truck” or “garbage truck” or even “Mater truck.” Personally, I’m a little bit sick of Mater truck, but that buck-toothed cartoon makes it so that I can use the restroom by myself for the first time in… nearly two years.

He comes up to me yesterday morning. “Mama. I wanna watch Mater truck.”

“Okay, honey, I can turn that on.” So I turned on Netflix, selected Mater’s Tall Tales, and he was happy. He was sitting on the couch, enthralled.

A moment later, “Mama, I gots a booger in my nose,” he proclaimed. He climbed off the couch and went looking for something he had hidden – turned out to be the booger sucker thingamajig – and proceeded to stick it up his nose.

But his new phrase that is cracking me up is, “Get in my mouf!” every time he wants to eat something. I can’t help it, I laugh each time he does it.

Pancakes

ImageBeing an adult seriously sucks sometimes. I know, not exactly eloquent. I have a lot of single mom friends all over the country (and some in other countries) and for the most part, we all share one common woe: money. Especially at the end of the month, like right now. The food stamps have long run out (there’s never enough!) and your paycheck has not arrived yet. A friend of mine is contemplating turning to the more – unsavory – lines of work in order to keep a roof over her head. She, like many single parents, does not receive any support from the father. She has less than $50 to last her until the end of September. Would someone care to do the math on that? Could you survive on less than $2 a day by yourself, let alone with a child to care for? And what if you run out of diapers? There’s at least $20 down the drain, right there. I’m lucky enough to be receiving child support (at least this month) but I can’t rely on it. Who knows how long it will last? I’ve never received it for more than two months in a row. Even when I am receiving it, it is not even enough to cover daycare expenses, let alone all the other expenses that a growing child needs, such as clothes, diapers, shoes, soap, etc. And I’m in good shape, compared to some of my friends. I have a good job with a great boss, with paid time off if my child is sick. Another friend just got laid off from her job, for missing too many days with a sick child. Yet another friend had her water shut off last week, and ANOTHER had her electricity shut off earlier this week. There is a problem in this country. An epidemic, if you will. Women who are busting their very asses to make sure their children are loved and fed. Women going without dinner to make sure their babies have full bellies. Women driving in cars that need new tires, new mufflers, new what-have-you, struggling to get to work so that they can continue to pay every dime out in bills, and be left at the end of the month eating pancakes.

But all you have to do is ask on social media. “Oh, those women are eating steak every night and living the big life, while I work hard and pay my taxes! They’re getting hand-outs! There should be mandatory drug testing to be on welfare.” And I want to ask those people – have you ever gone hungry so that your child could eat? Have you ever wound up living in your car because you couldn’t afford an apartment? Have you ever had to swallow your pride and ask your friends, family, neighbors, church – anyone- for a couple of bucks so that you can buy school supplies for your child? Or diapers? I wish I could hand each one of those people the amount of money I receive in food stamps (which, by the way, I also work hard and pay taxes, as do most of the single mothers I know who are on assistance) – and tell them that they have to feed their family on that amount. If you run out before the end of the month, sorry dude, guess its pancakes for the rest of the month for you.

Update on the Doggie

It is definitely her thyroid.

Which is good. Thyroid means a pill (or in her case, two pills). Thyroid doesn’t mean death. Yippee!!!!

She’s been on the pills for nearly a month now, and I’ve been seeing marked improvements for the last couple of weeks. At first it was just the fact that her breathing had improved, sounded less labored. Then just last week I noticed that her hair was coming back in, where it had all fallen out on the sides.

Stairs are still really hard on her, but I think that’s just a fact of her getting older. Aspirin helps, but she’s a turkey about taking it. Even with her thyroid pills, I have to crack them open, sprinkle them on her food, then pour beef broth into it and stir it all up to get her to take the pills.

This child. LORD this child.

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We all pray for a smart, healthy child. At least, everyone I know did. I prayed that my little boy would be smart, and healthy, and whole (and cute, of course :P)

He is all of those things. He is healthy, cute as a bug, and hilarious. He is smart as a whip – what his pediatrician refers to as “gifted” with a bit of a knowing chuckle. I’m tempted to ask her, at his two year appointment, if she could see a hint of what was coming to me.

Because this child. THIS CHILD! He is smarter than me, I’m fairly certain. And I’m no slouch. I’ve got a higher-than-average IQ. I tested well, made friends well, managed to walk and chew gum at the same time.

But this child? This child can run CIRCLES around what two year old me was capable of. He will look at something and think, hmm, wonder if I can take that apart? Or, hey, if I want to get those cookies, I simply need to go get my chair, push it over here, and get them! Or, hey, I want a horse, but I don’t have a horse, so I’m going to pretend the dog is a horse! “GIDDAP!” (For the record, no dogs were seriously harmed during this activity. Annoyed, yes, but not harmed).

At a time when a child is expected to string two words together in a “sentence,” Bug speaks full sentences. Yes, this is a blessing in many ways. It also means he can put up one heck of an argument when something isn’t going his way. Sometimes, it is so hilarious I can’t help but laugh, and that just encourages him and he proudly proclaims, “I’m funny!” Yes, child, you’re funny.

Sunday morning we were dressed and I was trying to rush us out the door to church. He had climbed in his pedal car, and was driving. “C’mon, Bug, it’s time to go.”

He looked at me. “No mama, I’m drivin.”

“I see that Buggie, but we need to get in the car and go to church.”

“Mama drive?”

“Yes, mama is going to drive to church.”

He shook his head. “No church. Less go shopping.”

Yes, the child likes to go shopping. He is a child after my own heart, after all. Its moments like these that make my heart glow.

My give a damn’s busted

I went out on a couple of dates with this guy. He’s nice, attractive, funny, good with kids… all good things, yeah?

Well, I can’t be bothered. I don’t know, maybe “it” just wasn’t there, whatever “it” is. I thought he was cute, funny, etc. But honestly, didn’t really feel like going through the whole rigamarole of shaving, washing my hair, and leaving little Bug with a sitter. I’d rather stay home with Bug. I love that kid. I guess I’m waiting for someone special enough to make me – want to do those things?

I want to be with someone. I want to be married, and have the whole family experience, and I’d love to have another baby.

But I also don’t want to give up an evening at home with Bug. I want someone to make me feel like – he’s worth giving up that two hours with Bug, if that makes any sense. So far, not feeling it. So far, unless Jason Momoa knocks on my door and wants to take me out, I’m not feeling it.

I’ve always been so boy crazy. I can remember constantly having a crush on this boy, or that boy. Now, I’m like, eh, there’s this little bitty dude that leaves crumbs all over my house who completely has you beat.

And that’s fine. Because I know that little dude loves me, and I’m guaranteed a kiss and a snuggle at the end of the night.

Pockets!

ImageLast night, picking up Bug at daycare, he wanted to put his daily sheet (the piece of paper on which his teacher writes down what he ate, how much, and his diaper changes for the day) in his pocket. Well. That’s where the trouble came in. The pockets on his shorts were not real pockets, just little bitty flaps that looked like pockets.

He did not understand.

He’s a toddler. The words “fake pocket” mean nothing to him. He just kept saying, “My pocket! Put in my pocket!” before finally getting frustrated and crying because he could not get the paper in his pocket. I finally convinced him that the paper would be safe in my purse.

When getting dressed this morning, I made sure that his shorts had real, honest-to-goodness pockets. Good grief.

Back In the Saddle

I went on a date the other night.

I know, *gasp* let’s let that sink in for a moment.

And I realized, after I got home, after doing the whole thing (shaving, hair, makeup, getting a sitter, and leaving Bug) that I would have had more fun taking a bubble bath, by myself, and reading some smutty book on my kindle. So there’s that.

There was nothing wrong with the guy. He’s nice, has a good job, a nice car, a dog, the whole bit. But I was bored. I can’t say that I’ve ever been bored on a first date before. Annoyed, yes. Weirded out, yes. Majorly attracted and hoping it would turn into something more? Yes. I’ve had a lot of great dates (before baby). Since having Bug, I’ve realized that one) if I’m going to bother with a sitter, it better freaking be worth it and, two) I deserve better. So. I’m not going to waste my time with mediocre, boring guys just because they look good on paper (because really, we’re not in the Victorian age. I’m not going to “lie there and think of England, after all). I’m also not going to waste my time on super hotties with rap-sheets and motorcycles (However, if you are a hottie with a motorcycle and NO rap sheet who happens to respect his mama, believe in the Good Lord, and have a penchant for science fiction, by all means, send me an email). I deserve better.

I don’t need a man. I’m going just great just me and little Bug. Sometimes, though, it would be nice to have someone to lay around and watch Netflix with.