So, Ethan, among other things (other delightful, tantrum-y, rip my hair out at the roots things), has figured out how to get Mama to buy him stuff. Stuff like this:
which was originally attached to this:
when we first saw it at the Barnes & Noble near our house (by the way, it is so NOT a Barnes and Noble, if you ask me. No cafe, dim, tinny lighting, no restrooms, for pete's sake! What were they thinking?!)
This morning was a whine-fest of heretofore unequaled measure. Upon opening his eyes, after a delicious THIRTEEN hours of sleep, the child had the audacity to begin whining. And about nothing I could decipher as meaning anything more than your garden variety 2-year-old flip out. As though he thought to himself, "So, the Zoloft is working, is it? Well then, let's ratch it up a notch, shall we? Hmmmmm?" and then got his crazy on with unprecedented zeal.
I made waffles. Well, to be clear, I popped whole grain blueberry Eggo's in the toaster. Eggos were tersely rebuffed upon presentation to his Royal Crankness. I foolishly asked, "Would you like eggs?" (he does not like eggs, but in my angst to get him to eat something besides goldfish and watermelon, I ask. all. the. time. if he wants eggs). His response? And enthusiastic, "Yes, eggs!"
Cue the sound of seraphim on golden stringed harps descending upon my household, clouds parting (as if, in SoCal--I haven't seen a cloud since June 26) and the smiling sun-rays of God himself shining down on us.
Ethan said "Yes, eggs!" So, I ran into the kitchen (which, as an aside, Ethan calls "chicken". love it) and whipped up scrambled eggs, being very sure to cook them thoroughly (I fear all things salmonella) and then, with a sigh of "everything is going to be okay now and he'll weigh 30 lbs by his 3rd birthday" relief, I presented the child with his "Yes, eggs!"
You know where this is going, right? His response to the eggs of glory? "NO, EGGS!!!!" as though I'd put a plate of spiders down in front of him.
I will pause for a moment to re-enact the deep breaths and the five times I counted to 10. Come back in a minute or so, mkay?
Then he stood right outside of the shower, screaming, while I took the world's shortest shower. Screaming. "NO MOMMY SHOWER!" as though I weren't showering in water, but flames. Apparently Ethan would prefer I walk down the streets of Los Angeles with greasy hair and a 2-day funk. He's not exactly an in demand stylist to the stars, know what I mean?
Finally, after dancing the dance, and trying to keep him from melting the fuck down every other second, I finally threw my wet hair into a pony tail, slapped on some deodorant (because the screaming serenade outside the shower cut short the actual "soap" part of the shower) and put him the stroller because if nothing else, sound waves disperse better outside.
We went to Jamba Juice. No waffles? No "yes, eggs!"? Fine. Have a 12-oz Blueberry Sunrise smoothie. Blueberries? Check. Bananas? Check. Yogurt? Check. Soy milk? Check. Sounds like breakfast to this mama.
Then, we walked to the aforementioned non-Barnes and Noble because I wanted to buy Tom Perrotta's new book (read: new paperback release clarified the cheapo blogger), The Abstinence Teacher. Since he'd been peaceful and happy for five consecutive minutes, I offered Ethan the chance to get out of the stroller and play a bit in the childrens' section. I really had no intention of buying him anything; the child has more toys and books than most and I didn't want to reward this latest crazy phase with Jamba Juice AND books.
But then he discovered the Backyardigans section (note to self: lay the hell off of Noggin) and that was pretty much the end of my resolve. Not, mind you, because he was so sweet and charming and darling and who could resist.
No. Because he caught sight of the recorder attached to that damn book and slobbered all over it before I could get to him. That will teach me to glance at the latest issue of InStyle, only feet from my child. And after I "Ew, Ethan, that's icky! Don't put that in your mouth!"'d him once and was stupid enough to look away?
He double-dipped. He put the damn recorder back in his mouth. And while I had to close my eyes, count to ten, I tried SO hard not to think of all the other kids who put their mouths on the stupid thing, whose mother's didn't buy it. Because that is just so gross. Oh, for the love of germs.
I have to give him credit, it was hard to do, considering it was attached to the top of that stupid book in such a way that he had to cram the side of his head up against the book to get his lips to the recorder. I figured if he was willing to work that hard to make the whistle-y noise (which he didn't actually make by blowing into it--he just imitated a whistle sound by basically saying, "oooo!"), I suppose I could justify buying it, beyond the whole keeping my child from spreading whatever germs he's got to the next bonehead who picks the book up.
This afternoon was far less tantrum-y than the morning. But. I still needed advil. Lots of advil.