B's Birthday

Today is B's birthday. He's 37-years-old. 

Biddy and I have had so much fun getting ready for his party this evening. It's a party for three–our family. Perfect.

We went food shopping this morning and got all of B's favorites. A filet mignon roast, Bernaise sauce, baked potatoes with sour cream, and romaine lettuce, croutons and grated parmesan cheese for a scrumptious Caesar salad made with my own homemade dressing. We also bought Duncan Hines moist dark-chocolate cake-makings and sour cream frosting. I know cake-in-a-box isn't very Betty Crocker of me. I know I could have and probably should have made him something decedent from scratch, but hey–I'm only human and I have a two-year-old. There's only so much one can take on and still achieve grace and style. 

When we got home, we promptly began making the cake. Biddy wanted to make cupcakes so we got out the cupcake pan and spooned in the yummy gooey chocolaty batter. We preheated the oven to 350 and as I bent down to place the tray on the middle rack, I remembered that we had forgotten a key ingredient. Oil. The recipe also called for oil. Crap! Out came the tray, yummy gooey chocolaty batter scooped back into the mixing bowl, oil poured in, mix well and again placed on the middle rack. All steps repeated with love.

While the cupcakes cooked, Biddy and I wrapped gifts. We used Cars decorated wrapping paper we also bought at the store, and lots and lots of tape. Two-year-olds don't get the concept of "a small piece" nor do they understand that if you roll tape between your finger tips, it will get stuck on itself very, very quickly. That said, our presents are wrapped, not with neatness but with lots and lots of love.

In 21 minutes the cupcakes were done. I wish I'd remembered not to fill them almost all-the-way to the top. I wish I'd remembered that cake rises. Needless to say, much of the cake wasn't in the cups any longer, much of the cake had overflowed onto the baking sheet. 

I cleaned the cupcakes up of excess runoff, set them on a drying rack to cool and put Biddy down for a nap. This afternoon after he wakes, we will frost and decorate them with multi-colored sprinkles. 

So, Biddy woke up and we decorated the cupcakes with Daddy's help. He was home and I couldn't keep him away from the fun. We then opened presents. A bunch of books, candles and cards. A nice haul, if I do say so myself.

After we cleaned up, it was just after 4pm. B sheepishly announced he had a brilliant idea. Let me set the stage–he's been wanting crab/lobster for over a month now and although we had sushi the other night with friends, raw fish didn't curb the craving. That said, he sheepishly announced that perhaps we should go get dungeness crab for dinner at the Woodhouse Fish Company, a reasonably priced, New England inspired, seafood restaurant highly recommended by a co-worker. Why haven't I heard about this place in the almost nine-years I have lived in San Francisco? More importantly though...You want to forego the fabulous dinner we bought for you? "Yes," he said, "but only temporarily. We can have it tomorrow night. We could spread my birthday out, right?" OMG. "Right!" I said, "It's your birthday."

We had the most scrumptious dinner. We had a ball sitting in a 50's inspired red vinyl booth. The place was terrific. The food was more than terrific. Go, going, gone. We highly recommend.

  

When we came home we sang B Happy Birthday, blew out candles and ate cupcakes. Biddy ran wild for about an hour afterwards until his sugar high ran out. He then passed out. We let the crab settle and then followed suit.

We love you B.

Pickle Fit

Today started as most mornings do with Biddy waking up around 6am. I went in and got him along with his paz, lovey, and loveyboo, (quite a feat in the dark, I'll tell you) and carried him and his crew back into bed with us. This tradition began when Biddy was six-months-old and graduated from co-sleeper to crib kid. 

He has his own tiny pillow, positioned smack dab in the middle of our massive King-size pillows, so he has a special place to rest his head each morning. He either snuggles up to one of us and falls back asleep (the optimal outcome) or lies quietly, fingering lovey and sucking his paz for 40-50 minutes. When he starts getting restless, is when you know you're in trouble. When he begins tossing and turning, I know I have only a matter of warm, sleepy seconds before Biddy leans over, nose to nose, and asks in his best morning kid-whisper, "Mommy, want to get UP?" Some days I don't, (okay–most days I don't) and either ask for one more snuggle which is accomplished by Biddy shimmying over and sharing my pillow, or just straight up saying I need five more minutes of curled up bliss. This is when I role over, tuck into a fetal position and hope five minutes actually means a full five minutes this time. 

So after "five" more minutes, Biddy gets down and retrieves my comfy pants and sweatshirt from the chest next to our bed. I trained him so well! It's nice not to have to get up out of my toasty bed AND be cold! One assault on the system is enough. He then makes a beeline to the living room to scour for cat throw-up (he's perfected the art of discovery) and reacquaint himself with his toys, while I make a beeline for the bathroom. 

Next stop: the kitchen. The tea kettle is started, the cats are given cookie treats and before Gracie, the queen of shrill, begins to cry incessantly, their water and food bowls are refilled. Speaking of shrill, within about five minutes of being vertical, Biddy wails, "Mommy, I hungry!" When he howls it, I have to act fast with Superwoman speed. Food MUST be produced and inserted in his mouth before his stomach growls too loudly because if I'm too slow or distracted, Biddy throws a Sarah Bernhardt inspired, fling himself onto floor, fists and feet flailing, tear shedding tantrum that can rival the best toddlers in the world. This is something I try to avoid at just past 7am.

Unfortunately, this morning Biddy wanted a pickle for breakfast and I said no. I offered cereal, oatmeal, a breakfast bar, applesauce, apple slices, yogurt and waffles but none of the above were the pickle he wanted and "no" was not the answer he was looking for. His tantrum went from Mach 1 to Mach 5 in an instant and the day was off to a banner beginning. Biddy then, in his anger, hit me. I gave him a stern warning saying if he did it again he was going into time-out, and of course he did it again almost instantly. Argh.

So–Biddy went into time-out, a minute passed, we had a recap convo, he said he was sorry, we kissed and hugged and went on with our day. The next time-out was about seven minutes later for pulling Tigger's tail, and the next about eleven minutes after that for hitting me again, and then another, and another, and yet another. 

I almost cancelled our play date because of the discord, but I really needed a break and an adult to commiserate with. Biddy was a gem–nothing like the snarl-toothed toddler he was before we left the house. I complained ad nauseam to Jennifer and then he proved me wrong. Huh? He was the poster boy for good behavior. Where was the crazy kid who terrorized me this morning?

Of course as soon as we got home, the crazy kid was back. I couldn't wait to put him down for a nap. I counted the seconds. He's now asleep and I'm deep breathing, trying to calm down and ready myself for the afternoon. I'm also thinking about my hair. I know that sounds weird, but it's a wonder I still have it. I seriously contemplate pulling it out on days like today–days when our sweet angelic Biddy has a pickle fit and turns into sour Darth Vader!

Thumbkin

Where is Thumbkin? Where is Thumbkin? 

Here I am. Here I am.  

How are you today, sir?  

Very well, I thank you.  

Run away. Run away.

This is the first verse of a popular children's song. Biddy loves it. It's catchy, and fun, and when coupled with hand gestures makes for an animated good time.  

When you begin, your left thumb extends straight up, while your other fingers close into your palm. You then belt out (hopefully in tune) the question, "Where is Thumbkin? Where is Thumbkin?" and the right thumb rises to answer, "Here I am. Here I am." FYI–If your thumbs have rhythm, they can bob up and down to the lyrics, bending at the knuckle. The left then asks, "How are you today, sir?" and the right primly answers, "Very well, I thank you!” and then the left abruptly runs behind your back and the right follows suit. 

You then repeat the verse giving Pointer, Tall Man, Ring Man and Baby their due substituting each finger's name when their turn is up. 

This song is supposed to be sung with finger puppets so that when your Thumbkins stands up or your Pointers stretch to their full height, your child sees singing puppet heads not naked fingers. 

My question is, what are you supposed to do if you don't have puppet heads? What are you supposed to do if you're puppet-challenged and all you have are naked fingers? I grant you this isn't a big deal for Thumbkin or Pointer or even Ring Man and Baby but it is a big deal, a very big deal, for Tall Man. 

Why?  

While Thumbkin gives off a "groovy, a-okay, it's all good" vibe; Pointer points to an "I've got a thing or two to tell you!" authority. While Ring Man mimics Beyonce's cry to "put a ring on it," Baby deserves a pat on the pinky for signing the I and J in American Sign Language. What's Tall Man got? Infamy! Tall Man is the obscene hand gesture. Tall Man is "The Finger" which sounds more like a mob moniker than a designation. 

So here’s my dilemma. 

How do I teach Biddy Thumpkin without teaching him to unwittingly flip someone the bird? 

Am I over-thinking this? Perhaps so… 

Video Tongue Wars

Biddy's grandparents live far away–both my mom and dad live in Colorado, B's mom is in Texas and B's dad is in Oklahoma. We miss them. Biddy misses them.

To keep them close, we show him pictures and they talk on the phone. The grandparents also make an effort to visit–they need their Biddy time just as much as he needs theirs. Our door has been revolving since Biddy's birth, with our spare bed in use just about every three months. They come like clockwork, welcomed with wide-open arms. 

We also bought a camera for our computer and do video conferencing every so often. 

Yesterday, we conferenced with Biddy's Meema (my mom). They had such fun. She showed him her dog Harley, and he showed her his motorcycles. He showed her his artwork and she asked if he could send one for her fridge. Biddy sang her Happy Birthday and we counted to ten. He proudly showed her his big boy underpants and his digger emblazoned t'shirt. They even got into a "stick your tongue out as fast as you can" contest. Biddy won but mom put on a good show. 

When we said goodbye, I could tell mom was sad. I could see her eyes begin to glisten as we logged off. I called her back a few minutes later to tell her it was wonderful to see her. She told me we had made her weekend. She also shared seeing us was terrific, but difficult. It made her miss us even more, made her wish even more we were already living in Colorado. 

Until then, ain't technology grand? Until then–same Biddy time, same Biddy station. 

How Many Boys Does It Take to Rescue a Race Car?

Biddy and B have taken to racing cars when B gets home from work. When B walks in the door, Biddy is ready, cars-in-hand waiting for him. Barely letting B change his clothes, they sit down on the floor to race. 

Typically they choose to do this in the kitchen as I'm cooking dinner. I've asked B to take the game into the hallway so they and their cars won't get trampled but he says no-can-do. "Why?" I ask as a green racer whizzes underfoot. "Because I just got home and I want to be near you," is his response. Awwww. Secretly, I think the real reason is, B likes seeing me dodge Matchbox hotrods. I have to say, I've gotten pretty good at it.

So they sit on the kitchen floor, revving their engines. On your mark, get set, go and off they zoom. 

The other night, an unfortunate spin out occurred–an out of control, rapid, twist and turn into the wall and under the stove. 

How many boys do you think it takes to rescue one very important race car?

Biddy, B and Tigger. My boys.

Big Boy Underpants

Biddy and I bought big boy underpants yesterday. The underpants have Lighting McQueen and Mater from the movie Cars on them, which is exactly what Biddy wanted. You gotta love movie merchandising!

Potty training hasn't been going very well. Biddy is somewhat interested but me, not so much. The idea of Biddy being potty-trained makes me somewhat sad. He'll be a real kid when he's out of diapers; he won't be a baby any longer. Also, the idea of Biddy being potty-trained makes me sort of anxious. A potty-trained kid adds a whole new level of parental responsibility. You can't just "let it ride" any longer, meaning, you can't eek out one final, final errand before returning home to change his soggy diaper. You can't push it. If your potty-trained kid says he has to poop–you have to stop. You have to locate a bathroom, hope to God it has those paper seat covers and sit there while he does his business which can take longer than you ever thought possible.  

I remember when Biddy was maybe six-months-old, we met my cousin and her kids for tea and music class. Theo, who was still potty training at the time, told his auntie he had to poop. Well, there was only one restroom in this tiny coffee shop and there were a ton of kids and parents crossing their legs waiting for him to finish. I learned that day that sometimes you just can't rush poop. So, I haven't been in a rush to really take on pooping in the potty until now.  

The other morning, during a play date at a friends house, Biddy wanted to pee in the plastic potty set up in the living room. They leave it in plain site so their son will hopefully take the hint and go. Nothing like the power of suggestion! When we walked in, Biddy didn't pay it any mind but after a while it intrigued him, especially after we told him he could flush his pee down the toilet upon successful attempt. That got him. Off came his pants, off came his diaper, he sat right down, and peed. Standing right up, he surveyed results, he grinned big, picked up the plastic potty and proudly beelined it to the bathroom to dump the contents, and flush. Flushing is fantastic to a two-year-old. In the end, he peed three times total and was so proud of himself, he beamed. 

So...that got me thinking that if Biddy is ready, I have to be ready too whether I like it or not.

When we came home that day, I pulled out Biddy's plastic potty and placed it in the living room. I also made a note to go buy big boy underpants figuring he could wear them around the house.     

This is where our shopping excursion came in. 

I washed the underpants (a Cars three-pack) last night and this afternoon Biddy wore them sans diaper, sans overalls.   

Within an hour, we were already on the third and final pair.   

“When you wear big boy underpants you need to tell me when you have to use the potty, okay?” 

“Yes Mommy. Okay.”   

In theory, he should've told me and peed in his potty. In real life, I mopped up the floor.

Thank goodness there’s always tomorrow. Unfortunately, I have to do another load of wash because, silly mommy only bought one three-pack. What was I thinking? 

BiddyTube

Biddy likes looking at pictures of himself. 

If I take a picture or two with my iPhone, he immediately wants to see them. Same thing happens if B is shooting with his Nikon. When I download images from the camera onto my laptop, Biddy saddles right up besides me for a slide show. 

Biddy's into mirrors. 

We have a long mirror in the hallway right next to the front door, just above the shoe pile (we have a no shoe policy in the house.) It's the perfect height for our wee one. If we're going out, Biddy checks himself once he's donned his coat and Crocs. We also find him there in his pajamas, standing in the middle of shoes, an inch or two away from his reflection, really close up and personal, in order to inspect. He makes funny faces and weird ones, checks out his hair or his helmet, giggles uncontrollably, dances, sings Thumpkin and Happy Birthday, or looks deeply into his eyes. He's getting to know himself–he's a kid, an adventurer, a clown, a metro-sexual in the making, a future motorcycle rider and lover of head gear. He's got a sense of humor, rhythm, and a voice he isn't afraid to use. He's deep and thoughtful.  He's also possibly a bit vain but if you're cute and you know it, clap your hands!

Biddy's also a YouTube junkie.

B has uploaded a bunch of Biddy videos to YouTube over the last two years. Just a few weeks ago, we showed Biddy his movies. In a matter of an instant, he was entranced wanting, "mo, mo, mo." "Mo" or ten "more" later, he still wanted to see himself. B asked if, instead, he wanted to see motorcycles? Well, that was it. Not only does he love seeing various videos of his own antics but he now can't get enough of motorcycles racing, fire trucks speeding, ambulances accelerating, and dirt bikes leaping. He wakes up in the morning asking me to turn on my "puter." He's in love with the daredevils and heroes. 

Biddy's our sweet daredevil and tiny hero. We love seeing pictures and videos of him as much, if not more, than he does.