What Happens When You Spend Most of Your Time With a 2-Year Old

I had a conversation last night about Mary Poppins nipples.

No, it wasn't with my husband. Or Tara -- although that really wouldn't shock me too much. It was with the household's resident expert on Poppins, who is also fast becoming the resident expert on body parts: Meg.

She was getting out of the tub, pointing out every wonderful part of herself when she noticed she has nipples. I agreed, yes those are nipples. She then asked if I had them, and I told her yes. We then went through a list of all the people who likely have nipples: Daddy, Grandma, Grandpa, Lucas. Each time I assured her none of them are bare chested.

And then she asked about Mary Poppins.

Just off hand I told Meg that of course Mary Poppins has nipples. Really, though, thinking about it now, I'm not sure. She definitely has breasts, or at least something that makes her chest stick out in a breast like way. Of course, she also has a carpet bag that can hold a plant, so maybe she's just smuggling fruit in there. Of course, even if she is just carrying around apples in her bra and is totally flat chested that doesn't rule out the possibility of nipples.

She's practically perfect in every way, which would suggest she isn't missing any of the normal body parts. However, the "practically" could also mean she's a nippleless wonder. That would explain why she never stays anywhere very long, lest someone walk in on her in the shower and discover her secret. Also, since she can fly wouldn't it be best to have as little extra weight as possible? Nipples must weigh at LEAST four ounces that could be jettisoned.

Maybe though, she actually NEEDS them to fly. Left one calculates wind speed, while the right one navigates. After all, if Poppins has magic in her fingertips that can pick up toys, her nipples have to be able to do something spectacular. I'm not magic at all and my nipples can at least get my husband to do the dishes.

Yeah. I can't believe I'm thinking about this either. Out loud. On the Internet.

I really hope Mary Poppins isn't reading this post. She probably wouldn't like it, and I really don't want her to come to my house and hit me with her parrot umbrella after calling me "cheeky."

Bert would probably love it though. He's probably the only person who really knows the answer to the mystery of Mary's nipples.

It will be a long time before I explain that to Meg though.

A long, long time.

Maybe never.

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Not a Paid Endorsement

If you have a child, and that child has a nose, chances are right now, or in the very near future, you will be dealing with snot.

Sorry. There's no way to sugar coat it.

Cold season is coming, or in our case, is already here. Meg's nose started running Saturday afternoon and by yesterday had turned into a full on faucet. I'm home with her today because she didn't sleep at all last night, waking up every hour to cough or just breathe, despite the Vicks Vaporub we smeared all over.

The one saving grace in all of this? Boogie Wipes.

Really, these things are magic. They say they are just saline and vitamin E, but there has to be some magic in there too. They probably just can't put it on the label because of the FDA.

My Mom found Boogie Wipes last year when Meg was in the throws of last year's cold season. At first I was not so sure. Actually, I was bitchy. I figured my Mom had been suckered by a nice package with a catchy name when a wet paper towel or a baby wipe could do the same thing.

I was wrong. The fact these wipes are so great though actually makes me okay with admitting it.

All Moms know the super crusty, after nap, so gross you want to run face. There were times when I saw it on Meg I thought the only answer was alcohol. Not to get the snot off, but just so I could look at her. Boogie wipes made short work of it.

Oh, and not only do they clean off the snot horror? They do it without leaving the dried chapped skin horror behind. I think we all know what baby wipes can do to a baby face. There was a point last winter when I really worried Meg would actually be scared for life. That was before Boogie Wipes.

And no, I am not being paid by Boogie Wipes. Really though, I 'm flattered you think that many people read my blog. I just figure I found something that works, so I would share -- even if it has a stupid name.

Really, you'll thank me. And if not you, your kids.

You know, the ones with the noses.

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Where is She?

I have a list of questions in the back of my head at all times. I call it my "St. Peter Questions."

These are the questions I would like answered in the event of my death, if heaven actually exists and I actually end up there. Most of them are garden variety: what is the meaning of life, what kind of joke is giving me non-functioning reproductive parts in a world where Duggars exist, and is there any way "Jurassic Park" could be scientifically accurate. Not surprisingly, there are also questions on the list that have to do with news; after all, I've been practically breathing it for 20 years. Deep throat's identity used to be on the list, until he outed

himself. What happened to Elizabeth Smart used to be on the list, what happened to Jon Benet Ramsey still is.

And then there is a question of Susan Powell.

For those of you not in Utah, or who don't have to watch the Today Show (lucky), Susan Powell disappeared from her home almost two years ago without a trace. The consensus is that that her husband killed her and buried her somewhere in the desert where he claimed he was "camping" at the time of her December 2009 disappearance. Of course, if that is the case, the mob might want to hire him because apparently he is a criminal mastermind. Cops have combed his house, and his car, and his father's house, and everywhere else they can think of and have turned up NOTHING. Oh, and we know they have found nothing because every time the police are about to find is they have called the media.

In the past month they have led three media goose chases, making sure camera were there when they went into caves, or dug in fields, or took items of out homes. So far, the biggest discovery has been some burned wood and a spot where cadaver dogs think they smell human remains. Either that or burned hot dogs someone buried after a camp fire. Dogs do like tube meat.

I will give you a dollar if you know where she is.

I really hope to take Susan off of my SPQ list soon. Not just because I'm worried I won't have time to ask St. Peter all my questions if she stays on the list either. Also, not because I feel like I should apologize to my viewers when I tell them we will bring them something new in the Susan Powell case and then report on burned wood. The reason I hope it comes off my list is because I am sure her family would also like the questions about her disappearance answered, and most likely before they are dead. Probably even more than the "Jurassic Park" question.

I said probably.

I mean, that is a really good question.

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People Who Need People

So, this is where I normally would tell you where I have been lately besides here. I would pretend I had been in jail, or fighting for the Missoni line at Target and you would all laugh and hopefully click the links.

This week though, there are people who need your love more than I do.

First of all, Heather, previously of HeathertyFeatherty fame, and now, unbelievably, of Talking to Neil. It's a story I can't even begin to tell, and don't feel it is my right to, so hop over there and check it out. Also, Erin of Musings of a Madwoman and Tired and Stuck would probably appreciate some support too. Or maybe some vodka. Take your pick.

If you do want to find me, I am at Tired and Stuck talking about a doctor that blows, and at Sprocket Ink talking about a presidential candidate that does as well. Surprisingly, they are not the same person.

Oh, and as always, get back here tomorrow. I'm making cookies.

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Play Don't

Dear God, I hate Play Dough.

Oh, I'm sorry, I meant Play-Doh. See, the way it's spelled is even annoying.

It doesn't matter how thorough I think I am cleaning it up. I can dab at the table, floor and play mat with rages, and sweep the floor thoroughly with a broom and vacuum. I will still find small, crumbly, petrified pieces of it everywhere. And those pieces are always the strange grayish

purple of used gum. It's the color all Play-Doh eventually turns after it has been smushed in with the other colors, which is unavoidable unless you're only interested in building monochromatic sculptures.

That's right, any time you try to put two colors of Play-Doh together, no matter how softly you do it, they will cling together as if holding on for dear life, until you finally just decide to combine them, hoping to get a cool color, but just getting some shade of that gray. It's like the color wheel is thrown out the window when it comes to Play-Doh. Blue and yellow? Gray. Red

and blue? Gray. Red and yellow? Orange, but only because the orange of Play-Doh is almost as bad as the gray.

Play-Doh doesn't just attract other Play-Doh either. It also attracts dog hair, dust, food, lint, and anything else that can give it a texture that can only be described as "crunch

y." You could be playing with it in a clean room, in a sterile suit (I know, that doesn't sound like much fun, but I'm trying to make a point) and SOMETHING would end up in the Play-Doh.

Oh, and things don't just stick it Play-Doh, it sticks to things, especially people. Touch it for a moment and it will coat your hands with a salty film. Play with it for longer than that and you will need a shower. The stuff that comes off in the shower? It will immediately become that gray gum dust I talked about earlier. Guaranteed.

You know the worst thing about Play-Doh, though? Kids love it, especially mine.

Damn.

I guess I am just going to have to put up with it.

After all, I think I even loved it as a kid. Actually, I know I did.

I loved molding it, and squishing it, and at times eating it. After all, there's nothing like that chemically salt taste to cap off an afternoon snack. I had a bunch of the little play sets that allowed me to feel like a sculptor when all I had really done was push clay through a sieve. It was the best sense of accomplishment a non-artistic child could feel.

I wonder if my Mom felt the same way about it I do now.

Maybe I should check the corners of her house for the remaining Play-Doh dust to make sure she isn't carrying a grudge.

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And in the end...

Warning: this post gets sappy.

In the past week I have been to a funeral and a wedding. I can't really decide which one I preferred.

The wedding, of course, should be the clear winner. It had a bar and dancing. The only tears that were shed were tears of joy. They gave out favors, took pictures, and served fancy cake. It was a party.

There was little party atmosphere at the funeral. Sure, there was food. Lots of it, all very carby, and fattening. There wasn't a bar though, and definitely no dancing. There was lots of crying, but most of it was that ugly crying with shaking shoulders, hiccuping, and running noses. No favors were handed out. No pictures were taken. The cake wasn't very good, and it was from the grocery store.

For all the differences though, both had one thing is common: they were both about love. I think the funeral even more so than the wedding.

No, I am not saying that the bride and groom don't love each other. I'm sure they do. However, I don't think it can yet compare to the love I saw at the funeral. The love my uncle had for my aunt, that led him to nurse her through five years of cancer. The love her family and friends have to support her husband and sons now that she is gone, the same way they supported them through her illness. The love everyone in the church had for those around them, realizing that in just a second, the most important things in your life can be taken away, and how they should be treasured at all times, even after they are gone. There was so much love there it had me thinking about it all week, and now has me writing this post.

I hope we are all lucky enough to have love like that in our lives. Oh, and that we are smart enough to recognize and cherish it.

See, I told you. Sappy.

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Meg and Mary

My child is in love with Mary. Last weekend we went to see "Mary Poppins: the Musical" and she has been smitten ever since.

Oh, except she does call her "Harry Poppins." I'm not going to split hairs though.

Do you love the pearls? She wanted to "dress up."

I really didn't think Meg would even make it through the first act. I had packed my purse with all kinds of books, and crayons, and snacks, and such to try and lengthen the time she would sit in the chair, and figured we would wander the lobby until the show was over when all of that got old.

I hardly had to use any of it. That is how much she loved this show.

Of course, I got out the gummy bears, but mainly because I wanted some. The books though? No interest. Meg was too busy looking down at the picture on the front of her program and then back up at the stage in wonder. The crayons? There were too many colors on the stage to worry about Crayolas.

Every song had Meg bouncing about in her seat like a jack in the box. And at the end of them? She clapped with all of her two year old might. I know she wasn't just clapping or pretending to

listen too, because ever since the show she has been singing the songs non-stop. No, really, I was forced to download the album from iTunes. I am now going Supercalfragacrazy. I kinda miss DJ Lance Rock. Kinda.

Really though, I would do it all again. The look on Meg's face was the best sort of magic. Eyes wide, mouth trying to sing along, body tense to see what happens next. I loved it all.

Well, maybe I wouldn't do it all again.

After all, Ryan hasn't seen it yet.

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The Bed

My family is bed bound.

We didn't mean to become this way. We are all healthy and able bodied. None of us have "the vapors" or some other 19th century mental illness. None of us are depressed. Little by little though, we've all come to congregate on the bed.

We used to all spend time together in the living room. You know, because it's where we lived. We would hang out with Meg reading books and playing with toys, and then Ryan and I would sit on the couch to catch up on the "Daily Show" or just talk.

This summer changed many things though. All of Meg's books and toys got moved into her room when I redid it. We got an iPad and discovered the joys of movies and shows on demand on Netflix. We got rid of cable. And we figured out the bed is a better place for all of us for cuddle when watching a show or reading a book. Oh, and it is much easier to keep track of puzzle pieces and toys with small pieces in a smaller space (it's a queen). Even if we can't find it at the end of play time Ryan or I will find it with our feet or backs when we go to sleep.

So, here we are. It's quite cozy. There's even room for Sally and the cats. They have to be on the floor in the living room.

I still go into the living room sometimes. Mostly to assess the dog hair on the sofa and blow the dust off the mantle. Or when I finish a book and need a new one. Then I take that book and read it in bed.

I think the living room actually prefers to be empty. I mean, if rooms can have preferences. It looks better than it has in years, despite the neglect. It's all about putting on appearances for people entering the house.

The bedroom, though? It's all about the party. Oh, and the cuddling. Lots and lots of cuddling.

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