(The Royal Wedding factors heavily in this story. Happy wedding eve!)

Yesterday, I decided to shirk my usual afternoon chores while Scotty slept and watch a special about the Royal Wedding. We all have to play hooky once in a while, right?  So in an attempt to get into the spirit of things, I poured myself a spot of tea and had a piece of toast as I watched "Wild About Harry." I felt as rebellious as my favorite prince.

(love him!)

Anyways, the delicious sugar high that comes with the consumption of processed carbs is always followed by that bone-crushing low, so during a play date at a friend's house later that afternoon, I tried desperately to not fall asleep on her lawn as the kids played. I was still in a massive fog as I dragged Scotty home and fed him dinner. Brian came home mid-supper and we did the usual changing of the guard since planned to hit the gym that night. But with my weary exhaustion, I wasn't sure I was going to be able to get through an entire boot camp class without passing out.

No matter, I still went. These thighs aren't going to tone themselves.

And as I peeled out of our subdivision and onto the busy street, I heard a very distinct "thump-thump-THUMP!" from my car and happen to catch sight of an object go flying off the roof. Oh crap, what was that? I watched as the driver behind me narrowly miss the object as it landed squarely in the middle of the street. It was heavy, rectangular, and flat.

Scotty's truck book.

Scratch that -- Scotty's beloved truck book. He likes to read it as we drive.

Aw, snap.

A quick check of the time revealed that I didn't have enough time to whip a u-turn and still make it to my class on time, not to mention the traffic, so I left the book to fend for itself in the middle of the street. This decision made me strangely emotional (I've been strangely emotional the last few days...so annoying) and I actually blinked tears away as I watched as the book get smaller and smaller in the distance. I'll pick it up when I come home in an hour, I told myself. Stop crying. You are going to boot camp. There is no crying in boot camp.

The class very quickly took my mind off the book. (insert labored breathing here). It wasn't until I was home again, splayed out on the couch post-shower bemoaning the sorry state of my sore muscles to Brian did it hit me...I forgot to get the book.

We both looked at each other like, "Well...now what?"

My hair was wet. It was 9:05pm. I was barefoot and wearing pajamas. The last thing I wanted to do was head out again in search of this book. The same book that I stupidly left on the roof of the car when I was taking Scotty out of his car seat earlier that day all because I had eaten toast at 2pm in the afternoon in my attempt to feel British and put myself in a giant carb-induced coma.

Oh Wills and Kate, I bet you didn't realize the extent of your influence.

Perhaps the best part, as I slunk off to the laundry room to find my flip-flops was Brian yelling after me, "Be sure to take a flash light!" Considering we had been down this road several weeks ago, when the fire alarm in Scotty's room started chirping due to a low battery, I knew we didn't have a normal flashlight.  Instead, we used a parrot-shaped toy with a light in its mouth that sings "Fa-la-la-la-LA!" when ever you press its tail.

Note to self: buy a proper flashlight.

So that' how I ended up in the middle of the street on a Wednesday night, clad in pajama pants and my old IU sweatshirt, clutching a singing parrot flashlight in my hand as I searched feverishly for Scotty's book.

Laugh if you may, but I guarantee your day will come. It won't be the same as mine (hopefully), but maybe you'll wrestle a beloved lovie from the jaws of a giant dog. Or drive four hours back to the restaurant where his favorite truck was left. Or why you'll sew the nose back on her favorite rabbit until there's no more stuffing left, in an effort to make her bun-bun "just like new" again. 

It's not because you want to do it. Or the fact that you need to do it. You do it just because it's what you do. Because that's what it means to be a parent.

Editor's note: I'm happy to report that I was able to successfully rescue the truck book. It was in surprisingly good shape, considering it had been lying in the middle of a road for three hours. Very few tire or tread marks. Only one car passed me when I was running to get the book. Although they gave me a very strange look, I really didn't care because Scotty has his book back. Hooray!

Yesterday afternoon, the Bear and I set off on a bunch of errands. You know the kind - return some stuff, look at some other stuff, try to find more stuff. It was a "stuff" kind of afternoon. At least it didn't involve picking up any dry cleaning (the bane of my existence.)

Scotty took a great nap (as he should, after all of that yelling earlier in the day) and I plopped him in the car seat with his favorite book and little stuffed bear as I packed the car. He made the sign for "food" so I promptly dug out a granola bar, unwrapped it, and handed it to him. He began to happily snack on it while flipping through his book.

It wasn't until we had been driving for several minutes did I realize things were very quiet in the backseat. So I looked back and found him...

...feeding his bear.

OMG. So cute.

At the red light, I turned to watch the process.  The little bear was tucked in by his right arm, and Scotty very carefully swiveled to his side and offer his food to his friend.  He took a bite of the bar, and then held it up to the bear's mouth. This went on until the granola bar was gone. Obviously, the bear was not eating much so Scotty got the lion's share, but it was a very generous offer.

Now only if we could translate this skill when other (real) children are involved. I fear Scotty is going to get the reputation for being the school yard bully for how he manages to wrestle toys and snacks from other toddlers.

But the Bear had no problems sharing with his bear. Life is strange some times.

It was an interesting morning.

Out of nowhere, Scotty had a total and complete meltdown.

He hasn't had a Category 5 tantrum in some time. I was getting used to these calmer waters and quite enjoying them. And then today, with nothing but clear skies and sunshine in the emo-toddler forecast, the kid melted down epically.

We did the usual pantomime "What-do-you-want?-I-still-don't-understand" routine for a solid fifteen minutes. He cried while I gestured. He was standing by the oven, holding his little tractor, just wailing while I frantically searched the counter. "Ba-ba?" I asked, holding up a banana. Emphatic head-shake no. Okay..."Gingerbread cake?" I offered with hesitation. It was only 9:00am. I really didn't want him to eat cake. Vigorous head shaking. Nope, that wasn't it. "Use your words, Scott," I pleaded. "Use your words."

He continued to cry.

Diaper was not wet, no poo-poos had been made. Sippy cup was full, his breakfast had been consumed barely an hour ago...a quick check of the head revealed no impending fever, no runny nose, no cough...so...what was it?

Ah, the madness of Toddlerhood.

So I threw him in the car with his favorite truck book and headed to Starbucks. ("Doppio espresso with a splash of whole milk and one raw sugar" My new favorite order. Thank you, Sandy K.) He was calm for the drive but the minute his little sandal-ed feet hit the concrete in our driveway, he was crying again. He went directly inside, stood by the couch, and pointed to the TV. "Me-moooooo," he moaned.

Oh, I get it. Elmo.

This is one of the toughest parts about Motherhood, in my opinion. Because right now, we were at a stand-off. Me on one side, the boy on the other. And he was holding me hostage with his constant whining and crying. Either I give in to his demands or face the wrath of an angry toddler.  There was no end in sight.

In my mind, I imagined him holding his stuffed dog upside down by the paw, and telling me in a gravely Clint Eastwood voice, "Turn the TV to Elmo or the puppy sleeps with the fishes!"

I think I watch too much television.

But honestly, I was starting to feel like the John McClane of Motherhood. I mean, here I was on just a normal Tuesday morning and without warning, suddenly I'm confronted with 33-inch toddler terrorist. "My way or the highway, Lady," Scotty was telling me with his behavior. "I will make your life a living hell if you don't give in to my demands."

So I gently got down to his level and said in my best Reagan voice...

"I don't negotiate with toddlers."

And promptly walked away. 

I wish I could tell you the story ends here. But it doesn't. Because despite my best of intentions (ten minutes on Facebook, another ten minutes reading in the closet by myself, a solid fifteen minutes playing with the bop-bops in the living room), I was ready to start pulling my hair out. Stop the screaming! my brain was shouting at me. Because despite my stoic approach to the situation, Scotty held fast to his convictions (stubborn little Bear) and continued whining.

And I gave in.

Not only did I turn on the TV, but I also handed him the iPad, his sippy cup, and a piece of cake.

Ahh, silence. Blissful, lovely, silence.

Argh. I know, I know. Bad move. But tomorrow's another day and maybe I will win this contest of wills. Or maybe I should just watch "Die Hard" tonight and really try to get in the right mindset to handle my 20-month old child.

Yippee Kai Yay, Mother...(bleep!)

So...

I may have overreacted in that last entry. You know, the one where I swear vengeance on our neighbors for allegedly stealing our garbage can. (again.)

"Allegedly" is the key word in that sentence.

This morning found us in our normal routine: I was flipping pancakes, Brian was getting ready for work, and Scotty was playing with his bop-bops. When Brian came down, he asked me if I had checked the neighbors' curb for any sign of our can. I had been thinking about the great garbage can heist all weekend (I even spied on them last night when the garage door was open, trying to get a look inside for any sign of our can) but this morning, the pancakes had taken up all of my mental ability and I had completely forgotten it was Monday, i.e. Garbage Day.

Needless to say, at Brian's prompting, we both ran to the window. (Scotty jogged behind us, wondering what the heck his parents were up to now.) And...no can. The neighbor's cans were lined up neatly - all two, not three - and both had lids.

Brian and I stared out the window for a long time.

Brian: They don't have our can.

Me: We don't know that for sure. It might be in the garage. They may have taken it hostage.

Brian: [sighs heavily]

With that, he headed to work and I set about not burning the pancakes. Imagine my surprise when about 10 minutes later, I hear a knock at the garage door -- the door that leads to the house from the garage. I thought I had shut the garage door?

It was Brian, toting our can. You know, the can with our address on. The can that I've been fixated on for the past five days.  And as some of you may have noticed, as he was so quick to comment in my last entry, our garbage can was not tied up in the neighbor's garage. Nor were we going to start receiving ransom notes from our garbage can's kipnappers.

Nope. The damn can really did blow away. It was all the way down the street, past the yellow pole things, and in a different subdivision. Brian happen to catch sight of it as he was driving out of the neighborhood. The poor little can spent the last five days exposed to the elements, laying on its side, all alone. 

As he stood in the garage and pointed out the retrieved can, he started jogging back to where he was parked. "This better be going in the blog!" he shouted as he ran.

Thanks, honey.

So to my neighbors: my apologies. Sorry for calling you thieves. (I am pleased I got a chance to use some good Charlie Sheen quotes, though.) Can I make you some muffins to make up for this horribly awkward neighborly faux pas?

And in an effort to distract the rest of you from my glaring mistake, here are some cute pictures of Scotty from this weekend. Enjoy!

(We had a little bit of an issue with the hawk. See, it's in our backyard to scare the pigeons away. Scotty, however, thought it was part of the Easter celebration. I had hid an Easter egg next to the hawk, and Scotty retrieved both the egg and the hawk and then promptly put both in his basket. We had to explain that no, the eggs are not from the hawk, but from the Easter bunny, despite fact that hawks lay eggs and bunnies do not. It was confusing, to say the least. I think we might have really screwed the kid up.)

(we were finally able to get the hawk away from the Bear and headed to Cili for a lovely Easter brunch with Uncle Jim. I hope everyone had a great weekend!)

Because our garbage can is officially missing.

Again.

I kid you not. What I think is especially funny is that I heard the garbage truck as I was typing the last entry, the very entry that described our neighbor's very weird behavior and yet stupidly, I didn't go running out to the curb and save our clearly marked can from the Great Unknown. Oh no - that would have logical. Instead, I finished the entry, published it, and promptly sat my bum on the couch and watched approximately 42 minutes of 'The Real Housewives of New York.'

Despite having just written an entry about losing our garbage can, my brain didn't register this irony.

By the time Scotty woke up and I had grown tired of LuAnn/Alex/Jill/Bethenny & Co arguing (it was a rerun from last season), I completely forgot to check the curb. It wasn't until we got back from our playdate later that afternoon and I checked the mail did I think, "Hey! It was garbage day!" And just like that, I realized, it was gone.

And we are now officially one can short. Again.

I will say, this time I'm doing things differently. Because it's our can. Our house address is on the side. We have already retrieved our can from the neighbors once before; now what is their excuse going to be? I can only imagine.

Because I will say this: it's on. Oh, it is so on. Monday is the next garbage day, and while Garbage Man may cometh, I will taketh away. I am not messing around. Screw this whole "neighborly" niceness. Here's an idea:  stop taking our can! 

If necessary, I will walk over there in my jammies and demand the safe return of our can.

Because it's our can.

Duh. Winning.

Grr...

So stayed tuned. Monday should be an exciting day.

Oh, and happy Easter! Peace, love, and all that jazz.

It’s been pretty windy around Vegas for the last few weeks. I have no idea how Chicago got the title of “The Windy City” since I believe Vegas’ wind puts Chicago’s wind to shame. I mean, we’re talking gusts up to 50 and 60 mph. It’s enough to knock a grown man over.

And it’s more than enough to send an empty trashcan flying down the street, as we experienced last week. Before Brian left for work one blustery morning, he gave me rather stern instructions to ‘make sure [I] grab the can right after the garbage men come,’ or else we were going to lose our trash receptacle to the Great Unknown. So I said, ‘Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’ll make sure I grab it quickly.’

Guess what? We lost our can that day.

I looked all over for it. We live on a cul-de-sac with only nine other houses, so it couldn’t have gone far. But I could not find the darn thing. I looked all over and finally gave up. When Brian got home, he was none too happy, and even commenced a search of his own, running up and down the street in his little jogging shorts. (giggle)

It turned up nothing.

The next day, he went out and bought another garbage can. “It’s critter-proof,” he told me proudly.

Number of raccoons I’ve seen or any animal, for that matter, that would fall under the category of “critter” since moving to Vegas?  Zero. But I appreciated the effort. And the new can.

So imagine my surprise when on the next trash day while watching Brian drag our new critter-proof can to the curb, I noticed the neighbors across the street had not one, not two, but three trash cans lined up at the end of their driveway. Two were identical, though one was missing a lid, and the third was the standard-issued one from the garbage service. All three were piled high with trash.

All of the cans were lined up with the front part facing the house, not the street.

“Brian,” I hissed. “They have our can! They have our garbage can!”

He looked at me blankly. “What do you want me to do?”

“GO GET IT!”I yelled, waving my hands at him.

So Brian dutifully trooped off to ring the bell while Scotty and I stood on the porch, watching intently. This whole situation was going to be resolved quickly, I was sure, since our address was painted on the side of the can. The same side that was currently facing their house, but how were they going to argue with that? It was our can.

Within a few minutes, Brian was walking back to the house, empty-handed.

“What happened?” I jumped on him as soon as he hit our property line.

“Well, she said she didn’t know it was our can,” he started.

“How is that possible? Our address is painted on the side!” I exclaimed.

He shrugged. “She just said that she was wondering why their can was missing a lid.”

“But their garbage can has a lid…our doesn’t.” Our lid had blown away in yet another wind storm earlier in the year. “She didn’t notice that she now had…three garbage cans? And that there was still a lid on one of the cans?  Did she think the trash cans were multiplying? They were mating in the garage or something?”

Brian just shrugged again. “She said they will bring our can back as soon as the garbage men come…but she swears it isn’t our can. Despite the fact that they have an additional garbage can. Without a lid. That just magically appeared in their garage. With someone else’s address painted on the side.”

Weirdos.

I finally stopped interrogating him and let him go to work, but the minute the garbage truck rumbled around the corner, I was on our can like nobody’s business.  I felt strange going across the street and taking it off their curb, but for the 12th time that day, I told myself, “It’s our can. I am not stealing…I am taking back what was originally ours.”

Is that what OJ told himself when he robbed those men at Palace Station back in 2007?

Who knows. But it was our can!

Argh. The complicated mess that is a neighborhood.

And now today is yet another garbage day, and Brian dragged our can to its rightful place on the curb. It’s windy again, so I’m prepared to haul it inside the minute it is emptied. Because as we learned last week, while the can may be critter-proof, it doesn’t mean it’s not neighbor-proof.

"Scribbles at Dawn," by Scotty-Bear...

...the first work in a continuing series using animal-shaped crayons.

(thank you to Tiffany for pointing out that I forgot to post a picture of the completed masterpiece.)

Notice the interplay between dark and light? The gentle, sweeping motion of the lines as they grace the page? The fact that the artist chewed on the corner of the paper?

(the smiley face is my contribution).

To me, the work symbolizes a peaceful resolution to the conflict in Libya. To Brian, he saw the tide breaking in the Pacific Ocean at dawn. As for its actual meaning, we may never know, as the artist is fairly tight-lipped about his true intentions.

That, as well as he only has about 30 words in his vocabulary. The most recent one? "Flush!" Sophisticated, I know. We run a classy joint around here.

And it was all made possible by this little piece of plastic.

The owl-shaped crayon. Who would have thought?

I'm happy to report we have a budding artist on our hands.

Let it be known: he is quite serious about his passion. He sits in his big boy chair, assesses the white paper in front of him, and selects his first medium with careful consideration: colored pencil or owl-shaped crayon?

In this instance, the crayons won.

Per Crayola, young children are better able to grasp and draw when there is a rotund, colorful animal attached to the writing utensil. (actually, they claim that the shape of the little animal makes it easier for kids to write since they grasp it better.) So like any good mother, I sought out the latest piece of molded plastic that will allegedly further my child's development and promptly purchased it.

Scotty did a great job this particular picture. Since his animal-crayon selection was sadly limited to only red, blue, and green, he eventually moved on to the colored pencils, as if offered him a chance to shade and contour his drawing with more depth and complexity.

Notice the focus? The concentration? This kid is in the zone.

When Brian came home, Scotty showed off his masterpiece with excitement and a bit of trepidation. Brian praised him for his use of color and realism, though noted some aspects of his technique lacked finesse. It's okay; he's only 20 months. We've got plenty of time to improve.

We named this picture, "Scribbles at Dawn" and hung it on the fridge. I'm sure Van Gogh's mother would have done the same.

Defriendation:  [dee-frend-A-shun]
    (noun): 
-- the intentional and willful deletion of a previously approved friend on one's Facebook account. Deliberate and with purpose. May or may not be done with malice.
Also see: "I'm just not that into you," "Don't call me, I'll call you," and "You suck."

                                            *************************

So, I got defriended this weekend.

By two people. Two people, interestedly, that are friends with each other. Coincidence? Hmm...

It was a strange moment, I'll admit. I was on the iPad, just surfing around on someone's page when I noticed my first alleged friend had a little block by her profile picture that said, "Add as a Friend." No wait, I thought, I'm already friends with you.

But I wasn't. At least, not anymore. When I clicked on her profile pic, I saw nothing. Except the little box that said I could add her as a friend.

And then I scrolled down further and realized yet another friend, a very good friend to my new non-friend, had also hit the termination button on me. She had the same box by her name and again, no access to her page.

Huh?

I will admit, I was surprised. And hurt. Here were two people that I considered friends, and I guess they didn't feel the same way anymore. Both have moved out of Vegas in the past few years, but I thought the distance was just physical, not emotional. I attended their baby showers. They attended mine.  I saw them probably every few weeks when they lived here. I didn't really keep up with either on a daily basis anymore, but I know them. Does a move justify defriending someone? I have no idea.

Of course, I had to scroll through about 27 mutual friends' pages to see who else got defriended. And as it turns out...it was just me.

So that makes me think it was personal. What did I do wrong? Was I talking smack about something, as I am so prone to do? (also see: "Hygienist, My" from last week entries) Did I forget their birthday? Fail to acknowledge major moments in their life?  Not comment on their photos? Honestly, I'm at a bit of a loss on this one. I probably did all of the above -- since it's impossible to keep up with absolutely everyone on Facebook -- but does that justify defriending someone?

I will admit, I went through a fairly quick grief reaction.

Denial:  This can't be right. There must be a mistake. She probably accidentally deleted me and then the other one followed suit. I know - drunk defriending!  I bet it was an accidental click of the mouse. They are probably no longer friends with a bunch of people...here, I'll double check...okay, nope that's not true. I really did get defriended. Hmph.

That makes me...

Angry!  What the hell? Seriously? Oh my goodness, they are so stupid. They want to defriend me?  I'll show them; I'll "unlike" any page they've ever suggested to me. Ha! Showed you! Jerks. But maybe, what if I...

Bargained?  I'll just shoot them an email and let them know I know I'm defriended. I bet if I did that, they would probably re-friend me and we'll iron out whatever went wrong. But right now, I'm feeling really...

Depressed.  Geez. I must be a loser if two people de-friended me. Gosh, this hurts. Am I smelly? Boring? Not fun? A bad friend? I'm probably a really bad friend. I still haven't sent [insert name of college friend here] a baby gift, and her kid is like, six weeks old. She'll probably defriend me next. Gosh, I'm lucky I have any friends at all. Loser.

Okay, wait. Why am I beating myself up? I am not a loser. I need to find a way toward...

Acceptance.  You know what? In the big picture, this doesn't matter. How much did I like these people any way? I didn't really keep in touch with them, and they have moved on. They have every right to defriend me as I have not been a big part of their current lives. It's okay. I'll live. ::deep breath::

And because this is  Facebook-level grief and grief not about an actual loss, I'm adding a sixth stage:

Whatever.

It's Facebook. All I need to do is turn off the computer and walk away. Problem solved.

(except that I have it on my phone and iPad. Damn you, social media!)

Please file this under "The Adventures of Scotty Bop-Bop."

This morning started like any other. Scotty had just finished breakfast and we were upstairs getting ready for the day. As I plopped him on the changing table, he gave me a quick swat across the face. He made his "mean face" (nose wrinkled, eyes squinty) and I knew I had done something wrong. What that is, I have no idea. But he's a toddler and prone to mood swings and well, that's my life.

I grabbed his little chubby hand quickly and said, "No hitting! No!" He then grinned and promptly pinched the back of my arm.

Grr...this kid knows how to push my buttons. The back of my arm is like, the most sensitive place on my body. (is that normal?) I can't stand it when anyone touches the back of my arm, let alone pinches me there. I spent most of Sunday afternoon holding Scotty while we were in a lighting store, and he continuously stroked the back of my arm. It was n innocent-enough gesture, but totally made me cringe. Even as I type this, the hairs on the back of my neck are standing up, just thinking about it.

Okay, back to this morning. So the kid pinches me. Hard. And I go into my usual "NO! NO PINCHING!" mode. This time, for good measure, I added, "Next time you pinch, you will go to time-out." I gave him my most stern Mother face.

At the mention of the dreaded t-word, his eyes got big and his little mouth dropped open. Then, to my absolute surprise, he clamored to his knees (we're still on the changing table, remember) and wrapped his arms around my neck. And gave me the sweetest little toddler hug you could imagine.

I instantly melted.

"Aw," I told him, kissing his forehead. "You're a good boy. You are Momma's little boy. Such a good boy."

He sat back down and smiled. And then without warning, pulled himself back on his knees and gave me yet another full-body toddler snuggle.

I held him for a little while and finally laid him back down to change his clothes. The look on his face was priceless.

Total smugness.

I can only imagine he was thinking, "Yeah lady, try to put me in time-out after all that great snuggling. I dare you."

Stinker.

Or perhaps I should give him the benefit of the doubt and say it was a nice apology hug. Times two.

Well, whatever. The bad behavior ended AND I got some quality hug-time in with the Bear. I just hope the boy wasn't playing me. As I told Brian earlier, I feel like we need to have a sign in our house like those construction companies have, but instead of [X NUMBER] of days since an accident, it would say, "IT'S BEEN [X NUMBER] OF DAYS SINCE A TIME-OUT." Maybe we'll even get him a little hard hat.

                                        ******************************

Last week, Scotty and I were sitting down to breakfast (well, he was sitting; I was skirting about the kitchen as Mothers are prone to do) when all of sudden he looked ready to melt-down. He started crying and wiggling and yelling something that sounded like, "Up! Up! Up!"

I did a quick mental assessment of the situation. His pancakes were perfect; cut into long strips like he wants. The turkey sausage was warm but not hot, and diced. The strawberries were ripe, delicious and not covering Elmo's face on the plate. (he has an Elmo plate that MUST at all times show Elmo's face. I don't know why I just don't slop down a pile of food on the table and leave the plate clean so Scotty can admire Elmo during mealtimes. It would certainly make my life easier.) Scotty was gripping the all-important Elmo fork and his milk was present and within reach. What was the deal? Why the sudden melt-down?

"Up! Up!" Scotty yelled from his booster seat. He was gesturing frantically to the entire kitchen at large. Oh, this was helpful.

"UUUUUUUP!" he wailed.

I looked around. Banana? No, he can say that clearly. Milk? Juice? Did he make a poo-poo?

And then it hit me.

I ran to the fridge, yanked the door open and grabbed a bottle.

"Would you like some sy-RUP?" I shouted. And his little face broke into a giant grin as he clapped merrily. I poured a generous amount on his cakes and seriously felt like I had just cured cancer or something. We even fist-bumped, I was so excited.

The only way I can describe what it's like deciphering toddler-speak is you feel like a code-breaker everyday...except the fate of the world rests on you and you alone, and it's 7am and you haven't had any coffee yet. Think fast, my friend.  Think fast.