....But You Can't Pick Your Friend's Nose

You know the old saying, "You can pick your friends and you can pick your nose, but you can't pick your friend's nose"? Just how do you explain that to a two year old?
Last night Firstborn was not feeling well. He'd had a very long and trying day. I had the family down at the health department before sun up in order for us to obtain our H1N1 Flu vaccines. The vaccine made him cranky. The ungodly hour of 5:30 in the morning made him tired. And I just made him mad every time he turned around.
Since he was not feeling well I allowed him to go to sleep in my bed with the plan of Hubby moving him to the toddler bed once Hubby was home from closing the restaurant. Firstborn was having trouble settling down. He kept wiggling. I asked him to stop. He did. He began to sing. I asked him to stop. And he did. Then the nose picking began. I said to Firstborn, "Take your finger out of your nose and do not put it back in there." And thankfully, he did.
As I lay there on the very edge of sleep, thinking I had taken care of the situation, I reached out for my son's sweet chubby hand. For the record, this particular hand had no involvement in the prior nose picking incident. Firstborn was playing with my hand and I paid it no mind. That is until I realized my finger was going up his nose. My son had enlisted my hand to harvest his crop of snot.
After dislodging my finger and giving it a generous application of hand sanitizer, I once more tried to go back to that fuzzy sleepy place. This time I was interrupted by Firstborn sitting up in bed and asking, "Where booger go, Mommy?"
"What do you mean, 'Where booger go'?"
He then points to Hubby's pillow, apparently its previous resting place, and says, "Booger go bye-bye".
As I closed my eyes for the last time that hour, I gave an inward giggle that at least I would not be the only one picked for this booger business.

It's My Life

I pride myself on having well managed days with a three month old and a two and half year old. While pregnant I was terrified of what the days after the birth would hold in store for me. But, as it turns out, I've done alright. Heck, I feel like I'm doing really well. Yes, some days are harder than others, but each has its own rewards.
In maintaining these well managed days I've had to let some things go. Namely, myself. Yes, I know I just had a baby....three months ago. That does not excuse the fact that I should not neglect the things that make me happy. I love writing articles for this blog. It's a wonderful outlet for my rantings. I have several topics scribbled down that I want to write about. The problem is when I have the time I'm often too tired to connect the words. Even as I'm writing this it feels forced and not as fluid as it once did. I hope that as we continue to establish a good working rhythm with our household that it will come back to me once more.
Secondborn is a pure delight. In every aspect she is the day to Firstborn's night. Where he was severely colicky and cried for hours and hours, she rarely utters a whine. There are exceptions to that, though. Obviously when she's gassy and it hurts she'll cry. Or, when big brother decides to shower, or mop as it was in one case, her with attention she does so as well.
Where he had a head full of jet black hair, she has little. And what she does have is strawberry blond. He never cooed or babbled much, but she's my little chatterbox.
It's a marvelous thing to have such an easy going and happy baby. It helps alleviate some of my heavy workload of constantly rescuing Firstborn out of some precarious position he's wriggled himself into. Or cleaning up mishap after mishap. Dealing with Firstborn at this time is exhausting and often frustrating. It's not uncommon since he's learned to open the refrigerator to find a new bottle of tarter sauce poured across the kitchen floor, or him drinking lemon juice straight from the bottle. I suppose that teaches me a lesson about having shoved lemon wedges in his mouth when he was just a babe to see his funny faces.
Yesterday was trying and today's forecast is predicting the same patterns as well, it would seem. I felt as if I had a three foot tall parrot shadowing my every move yesterday. Not only was my every step followed in close pursuit by said parrot, but my every word was also mimicked. I love Firstborn dearly, but sometimes Mommy just needs a moment. I'm certain all mothers have gone through this very thing. However, acknowledging that does not relieve the stress of having to be on ballerina toes at all times so as not to step on the always underfoot child.
And when he isn't underfoot, I'm even more concerned. Why, you may ask. Because that's when he's most dangerous. Not only to himself, but my sanity. He finally learned to put his poop in the potty. And there was great rejoicing throughout the land. However, for the third time this week he's deemed it unnecessary to use the necessary. What gives, kid?
He sneaks off while I'm nursing Secondborn. He has learned that this is his window of opportunity to wreck havoc upon my house and my nerves. He slips off quietly to his bedroom. He shuts the door, yet I never seem to hear it close. What I do hear over the monitor is him reading books to himself. I then silently congratulate myself on instilling a love for all books in him early on. I also hear him playing with toys. It all sounds so innocent until I hear those dreaded words, "I poo-poo, Mommy! I poo-poo!" as he's approaching me with fingers to elbows covered in poop.
After the initial freak out routine of me unlatching Secondborn with little to no ceremony, plopping her in the nearest safe spot, grabbing Firstborn by the upper arm and leading him to the bathroom all the while yelling, "We DO NOT put our poo-poo in the floor", I am once more thrust into clean up mode.
Today's routine was slightly altered as he had locked the bathroom door and then closed it. Hubby was on hiney detail and I was on umm, litter patrol. I went to the bathroom to flush the poop only to find I was locked out. Great, not only was I irritated that he'd once again pooped the floor, but I was left holding still warm poop. Lovely.
I love it when older women like to give the advice "to enjoy every minute of these days because they pass all too quickly". Even with days such as yesterday and today I try to. After all, it's my life and I love every single poop and tarter sauce covered floor moment of it. I may grow weary in the midst of it, but I will never tire of the greater rewards. Besides, I'll get mine when I get to tell his future girlfriends of how he tried to mop his baby sister and proudly said, "Look, Mommy. I hepped. All clean now."