The search for Froggie pictures had me cracking up yesterday. I flagged some of my favorites and thought you might enjoy them, too.

I honestly cannot believe what a little chubber-muffin Scotty was. No wonder the kid didn't crawl until he was 10 months old -- he was too fat.

Around three months, he started to pack on the pounds. Right in his middle section.

You would think sitting upright would burn some calories, but nope. He continued to expand. Mostly in his face.

(Editor's note: Scotty is not actually sitting upright; under the blanket is his Bumbo seat. Looking at these photos brings back so many memories, including how many stinkin' loads of laundry I did. So. Much. Laundry. Also, please note the breast pump on the left. Egads.)

We went to baby gymnastics. Still, no weight came off. We just laid on a lot of stuffed turtles.

By seven months, the chub was seriously out of control. Look at him - he doesn't even fit in that hat. I'm pretty sure the hat was a 2T.

But like most mothers, I was blind to my own child. So what did I do? I fed him cheese. Not diet cheese, but regular, full-fat cheese. And he loved it.

Scotty displayed no shame about his size. Shame was too complicated of an emotion for his little eight-month old brain to handle. So he sat around the house, naked, reading books.

The only time he balked is when I attempted to feed him something nutritious, like leafy greens. The expression below says it all.

Here, Scotty does his best Chris-Farley-SNL-Chippendales impressions. It's spot-on, really.

But alas, that chub has come off. With walking came running, and with running came major calorie burn. At two and a half years old, we're left with this: slimmer, but all attitude and still naked. And size 9 sneakers.

Yup, that's my kid. Why is he wearing sneakers on my couch?!

Remember how I mentioned the Bear is a better traveler than I am? He is. He really is.

I learned what a lovely travel companion he is during the recent jaunt to the Midwest last week. In an effort to save some cash, both flights had layovers - one in Omaha and one in Phoenix. Nothing against the good people of Omaha, but your airport kind of sucks. Sorry. That was definitely stressful - getting off a plane, having 60 minutes to kill, and then re-boarding yet another plane. As any mother would attest, traveling with toddlers makes you sherpa-like; the bags, the stroller, the child. It's an additional 50 pounds of stuff that a normal human being doesn't have to lug around.

But alas, Scotty was blissfully well-behaved on all of the flights. Leaving Chicago, our flight was delayed 15 minutes. No problem, I thought; we have a 60 minute lay-over in Phoenix. We are still good on time. I bought the Bear a McDonald's cheeseburger ("cheese-bur-ger-ger," in Bearspeak) and we settled in at the gate.

Fifteen minutes went by. No plane.

Thirty minutes went by. Then thirty-five. Then forty. I began to pace, with the Bear in tow, feverishly praying for a plane. Scotty's cheeseburger was long gone by this point, so he was happily flying his own little toy plane in the window of the airport gate. He had no idea what a lay-over was or how annoying it is to miss a flight (especially when you are so close to home.)

Finally, ten minutes later, a plane arrived. We boarded, we flew, yada yada. The plane touched down in sunny, glorious Phoenix (ah, how I love the sun) at 3:29. Our flight - leaving out of the D gates - was scheduled to depart at 4:00pm. I can still make, I told myself. We might have to hurry, but we'll make it.

Then the stupid plane sits on the tarmac for the next twenty minutes.

At 3:52, I pushed my call button. The flight attendant scurried over, probably thinking there was a problem with my child (who was sitting silently next to me, completely absorbed in "Cars." We were out of gummi bears, but hadn't yet touched the Cheez-Its or M&Ms. Life is grand when you are a traveling Bear.) "I have a flight to catch at 4pm," I told her quietly. "I have to be in Vegas by six..." I hesitated for a moment, then said quickly, "...I have a speaking engagement at six. And I'm the speaker."

Eight heads swiveled my way immediately. They were probably sizing me up thinking, "Who is this chick? She looks like a stay-at-home mom...frumpy...tired...poorly dressed. But she has a speaking engagement?"

Yes, I admit, I was grossly overstating my role. I had agreed to speak at a round-table training for Junior League that night. Considering my two good friends were hosting it, I didn't want to leave them in a lurch. But did it sound like I was presenting myself as some kind of key-note speaker at a large Vegas convention? Well, that was up to my audience to determine.

The flight attendant quickly promised to call the gate of the plane leaving, would attempt to get the stroller out of baggage as quickly as possible, and would order us an electric cart to transport the Bear and I to the D gates. (We were pulling into the C terminal, so it was a trek.) The guy behind me quickly latched on to my electric cart promise, stating he too was going to Vegas on the four o'clock flight, and asked if he could catch a ride. Feeling magnanimous, I said yes. I was, after all, a speaker. At a function. Where people would be listening to...me. (insert drunk-with-power-hair-flip-here).

So imagine my surprise when we finally, finally exited that plane only to find...no stroller. We waited two grueling minutes, and the man going to Vegas hustled by, promising to look for the electric cart while I waited at the plane's gate for the stroller to be brought up. Finally, the stroller emerged and Scotty and I were able to escape the tunnel to find...no electric cart. Did that guy take it? Did it ever arrive? Either way, I threw my child into the stroller, slung the bags off each hook, straightened my ballet flats, and pulled my hair into a ponytail. "Hold on, Scotty," I told him. "You're going for a ride."

The kid squealed with joy all the way from C-18 to D-3. I can say with certainty that we were moving at approximately 5.8-6.2 mph.  I almost ran over several elderly folks and one small child, but we did make it on time. I was dripping with sweat, out of breath, but thankful that marathon training has its unexpected benefits (like covering 1/4 of a mile in about 2 minutes).

Thank god.

The good people on this flight brought me a drink at no cost (gin and tonic, my favorite airplane drink). Scotty noshed on Cheez-Its and I reapplied my make-up. By the time we landed, we found ourselves in the familiar position of waiting by the plane's door for the stroller to be brought up. After another 10 minutes, the pilot emerged and asked if we were okay. I told him about the situation, and he immediately offered to go find it himself. When he came back with it, he thanked us for flying his airline. Just as I was about to walk away, he then said, "Hey! You wanna come see the cockpit?"

Do I? Does the Bear?

Is the Pope Catholic?

And just like that, Scotty got a chance to view firsthand what it looks like from the pilot's seat. I was very cautious about going up there, but Scotty wasn't. Once I put him in the seat (at the encouragement of the pilot), he grabbed for the gears and started smashing the buttons. The pilot was cool about it, but I wasn't (um, I wasn't ready for the plane to start moving again and inadvertently send us to Mumbai.)

I find this to particularly amusing, since when we were taking Scotty home from the hospital on Day 3 of his young life, we put him in his car seat and found he looked a lot like a fighter pilot. Maybe a career in aviation is in his future?

Let's hope he didn't inherit his mother's fear of heights.

Our little Bear has turned into a parrot.

This is good and bad. Good because he is talking up a storm and cracking us up on a daily basis. Bad because...well, clearly Brian and I have some serious work to do regarding our own clever choice of words.

It started on Sunday morning as Scotty and I traversed down the stairs. He wobbled a bit on the top step, steadied himself, and then exclaimed, "Dammit!" My mouth dropped open. He then made his way down all seventeen stairs (and two landings), cursing each step with another terse "Dammit!"

I immediately shot Brian a dirty look that said, "I blame you for this."

He shrugged and plead innocent.

Then on Monday, Scotty was putting together one of his wooden puzzle. When the piece didn't line up correctly, he threw the piece down and shouted, "God dammit!"

Oh holy Jesus.

I can't tell if he's feeding off our reaction of complete and total horror, or he simply does not know what he's saying, but Scotty is up to swearing about 15-20 times a day by now. I'm trying really hard to not react when he starts cursing, but it's so hard. On one hand, it's one of those cringe-inducing parenting moments when you're like, "Don't let the neighbors hear him!" On the other hand, it's downright hysterical. And then there is that lingering thought in the back of my mind of "How do I stop this without making it into a big deal...all out of earshot of the neighbors?"

Haven't figured it out yet.

These new curse words add to a litany of additional "OMG he's going to get kicked out of preschool before he even starts" fears. For example, Scotty has this little car; it's purple and gold with flames on the side. Quite rightly, Brian and I call it the "pimp car." We thought we were being silly well out of hearing distance from the Bear, but nope. Just other day, he ran up to me with that car in his hand and shouted, "Pimp car! Pimp car! Momb, pimp car!"

Um...

And don't even get me started on how he pronounces the name of Thomas the Train's best friend. His name is Percy, in case you don't know.

Just let your mind wander for a minute...roll the 'r'...soften it...

Yup, that's how he says it.

We're totally getting kicked out of preschool.

I attempted to have a little talk with our Bear, but it didn't go so well. I told him very calmly, after he had sworn 'God dammit!" for the up-teenth time that day, "No Scotty, we don't use that word. We don't say that." He looked at me with his big blues and with total sincerity (and confusion) said, "No dammit? No dammit?" I tried to not laugh (again), but man, this is rough.

So now he walks down the stairs saying, "No dammit. No dammit."

::sigh::

I figure I'll do what every good parent does: if I can't extinguish the behavior, I'm just going to spin it.

"Oh, what? He said what? No, no...see, we had a leak in our sink. I called the plumber and asked him to dam it...that's all. Dam it. Dam the leak. Nothing sinister going on over here. Haha, where is your mind going?"

Based on what Al Roker is telling me, it's pretty hot in the Midwest and on the East Coast right now.

As you may imagine, those of us who live in a desert are familiar with high temperatures. We willingly sacrifice four months out of the year, putting up with blistering heat upwards of 120 degrees, in order to receive mild winters and over 300 days of sunshine.

My verdict? It's totally worth it. 

Since us Las Vegans are seasoned pros at dealing with hot temps, the Bear wanted to offer some advice. This is his second summer, after all, as a desert Bear. And he has some good tips for those of you in the 'Dome of Heat.'

First, have a playdate. Invite your friends, turn on the sprinkler, and fill the kiddie pool. Nothing is more refreshing than cool water.

As Jett is modeling here, clothing is optional.

Thirdly, driving with the windows down is both windy and fun. It's an instant way to cool off an oppressively-hot car during these summer months.

And finally, when all else fails, just try to look cool. I recommend mirrored sunglasses with Batman decals. Nothing says "cool" like a good pair of shades.

Stay cool, everyone! Enjoy your weekend.

Editor's note: Brian is back to work, Scotty has been puke-free for 3.5 days now, and I am showing no signs of illness. Our entire house has been wiped down to within an inch of its life and the smell of vomit is slowly starting to dissipate. I'm not going to call it yet, but we certainly seem to be headed for calmer waters.

Want to know what the hottest ticket in Las Vegas is right now?

No, it's not Marquee at the Cosmo. Or XS at the Wynn. It's not Pure or Tao or any other mono-syllabic night club with a celebrity DJ or outdoor pool area.

Nope, it's not even a night club. It's not a show or a restaurant or some silly rave in the desert with a weird sounding name like "the Electric Daisy Carnival."

The hottest ticket in town, folks, is...

...10:30 Storytime at the Windmill Library.

I'm not joking. And today, Scotty and I were denied at the door.

Ouch. It still stings a bit.

This is seriously the hot spot for the 3 and under (jet) set. The doors to the library open promptly at 10am, and Storytime begins at 10:30. There is usually a snaking line of toddlers and their parents wrapped around the building by 9:55am. I've seen it; the first time we went, under serious advice to get there early, I was shocked to see the throngs of people lined up. Was Elmo making a special appearance? Was Thomas the Train DJ-ing?

Nope, it was just your average Thursday morning Storytime. And for whatever reason, it was a big deal.

We've attended - and gotten in - the last few weeks. But today we were running late. I didn't pack up the Bear until ten, and we parked in the lot at 10:16am.

Then the "slow burn" commenced.
(i.e. Scotty walking to the door by himself.)

Why is it that everyone else's toddler runs away from them, yet mine takes the long way, every time? The kid picks up rocks, touches the flowers, pats the sidewalk. He kicks at stuff, points to things, and expects me to offer a running commentary on everything we see.  It's exhausting and frustrating, particularly when we are running late. And then when he does take a step, it's a quarter of mine. I was trying hard not to push him, but at one point, I think I yelled, "Pick it up already!"

Scotty just looked at me and blinked. Slowly.

By the time we reached the librarian's desk after the very long walk through the atrium, I knew it was too late. The clock was approaching 10:22. The librarian, whom we shall call Ms. L, looks nice but there is a steel glint of cold unforgiveness in her eyes. As I approached the desk and feigned stupidity, holding my hand out to collect our two precious admission tickets, she didn't even smile.

"Sorry. We're all out of tickets."

I smiled again, this time trying to disarm her. I mean, she's a librarian. This whole drunk-with-power thing was really getting old. She runs Storytime like we're prepping the kids for the bar exam; she has even gone so far to ask parents keep their children sitting for the duration of the hour.

Did I mention the entire program is geared for kids 18 to 36 months? Sitting? Really?

I don't think Ms. L has children of her own.

Anyways, I smiled again, shrugged, and asked, "Really? We can't squeeze in? There's only..." quick estimate "one point five of us. We won't take up much space."

Again, no smile. She actually stood up and started to walk away from me. "It's fire code. We can only have so many people in the room at once." She was now engaging another librarian in a conversation, clearly letting me know she was not budging.

Hmph. I'm not going to argue with fire code.

I managed to get in a passive aggressive "Wow, you guys are hard core" before I huffed away. And while Scotty sat and played with the other kids, I tried not to pout. When the doors opened and all the ticketed children were ushered in, I shot Ms. L one last nasty look before we headed to the back.

Scotty and I ended having a great time, despite the fact our entrance was denied. I don't know what games were played or what stories were read. I don't really care. I do know, however, that several board books were not put back on the shelf, which may or may not have been intentional.

Hmph.

Editor's note: The review of this week's True Blood is being interrupted to bring you breaking news on a stomach virus that has attacked the Bear. The review will be posted tomorrow, pending no additional vomiting.

I hate puke.

As in, really hate it. It's my least favorite thing out of everything the body manufactures. I can handle urine, poop, boogers, sweat - hell, I practically bathed in breast milk for a  year. I'd even take blood (small amounts, please) over vomit. Because the only thing puke does to me is make me want to, well, puke.

::shudder::

Remember how I mentioned I was sick on the Fourth of July? Yeah, blowing chunks of spare ribs out of your nose will definitely turn you off to that food group in the future. Brian got sick on Wednesday, and then all was quiet in our little family of three. I really thought (stupidly) that Scotty had escaped the grips of this virus.

And then yesterday, I was reminded Motherhood is all about perspective.

I got home from the gym about 1:30. Brian and I promptly high-fived, and he headed out the door. I begrudgingly set about cleaning the bathrooms when I heard Scotty start screaming upstairs at 1:45. That was a super short nap, I thought, and tried to contain my irritation as I pulled off my rubber gloves. I can't even find the time to scrub a toilet...grr...

And when I walked in his room, the sour stench of vomit practically made me keel over. His blankets, his animals...everything, including himself, were coated in pink, chunky goo. He was wailing sad, sad tears. It was like his whole crib had been slimed.

Not sure what to do, I wadded all of the blankets into the hamper and set about picking chunks out of Scotty's hair. Finally giving in that a.) I was stinky from the gym and b.) my baby was covered in vomit, I threw him in the shower and jumped in, too. He hated the water. Absolutely hated it. But at least the pink was coming out of his hair and I was not a sweaty mess anymore.

I gave him some crackers and water and settled in for a little Bob the Builder action. (yes we can!) On the DVD was an additional video of a British cartoon called Fireman Sam, and by the fourth viewing (as the Bear sat silently in my lap), I realized that Fireman Sam was actually kind of cute. On the fifth viewing, I found myself looking at his hand for a wedding ring (never mind that I myself am married and he doesn't really exist.) On the sixth viewing, Scotty hurled crackers and water all over the couch, the carpet, and me.

I turned off Fireman Sam and totally panicked.

The Bear kept puking. All over. The bathroom, in the waste basket, in his hair, on the towel. All pink, all super, super smelly.

Brian arrived home from the gym and I called Scotty's ped. She was just leaving her office and referred us to the nearest ER. With his fifth shirt on for the day (the first four were piled in a disgusting pile in the laundry room), we headed out the door. I tried in vain to get Scotty to puke into a bucket as Brian drove, but he turned his head at the last minute and hit me and most of his car seat. And himself, of course.

So remember what I was saying about perspective? My grumpiness about cleaning a bathroom quickly evaporated as a I carried my vomit-covered child into the local hospital, but not before he managed to press his puke-stained shirt directly into my shoulder and face, ensuring the most amount of chunk-age could stick to me. Did I mention it was 105 degrees yesterday?

See? All about perspective. Those bathrooms don't look so bad now, huh?

Scotty put on a total show for the ER staff. After howling like a wolverine when his vitals were checked, he calmed down and turned into a little ham. He coo'd at the doctor, said hi to everyone walking by, and acted like he had never puked a day in his life. I bet the hospital staff thought we were neurotic parents freaked out by a little upchuck. I'm not saying I was hoping Scotty would puke while we were at the hospital, but it certainly would have verified our claims.

So we walked out, nary a prescription in hand, and watched as the kid heaved his little guts out in the car ride home. Gallons of puke, let me tell you. All over him, all over the car seat. And all while sniffling and crying, like, "Momb! Make it stop." We stripped him naked and draped towels all over the house as Brian and I tackled the mountain of pukey stuff in front of us. As Scotty rolled naked on the carpet, Brian stood over him and said quietly, "You know we really love you, right? Because this is really gross."

Right now, we are 19+ hours with no additional vomiting. He's keeping down some crackers, a banana, and 2 oz of applesauce. When I put him down for his nap, he felt warm, so maybe his body is fighting this virus off. All I know is I have more laundry to do and some serious scrubbing ahead of me. Fun times.

I'm a huge believer that kids need to start chores at a young age. It's good practice for the real thing when they grow up. And since toddlers don't really understand the difference between work and play, everything is a game. Well, I try to make everything a game. In an effort to get the foundation for good skills built now, we're "playing" in several different arenas.

Scotty empties the dishwasher with me. This is great for learning "fork!" "spoon!" and "hot!" (our dishwasher likes to scald the items.)

He runs to put his dirty clothes in the hamper. I cannot tell you how this warms my heart.

We've even gotten to the point that he puts his toys away at the end of the day. Brian and I usually help him, but he understands that balls go in the ball box, all of the big cars need to be lined up against the wall, and puzzles go on the fireplace. Bop-bops can go either on the fireplace or the windowsill; doesn't matter to me, just as long as they are not underfoot.

And then a few weeks ago when I was cleaning the kitchen, I handed him a rag on a whim. I'll be the first to admit stainless steel is ridiculously difficult to clean, but the Bear did an okay job. 

He does windows, too.

His future wife can thank me later.

Since I haven't watched 'The Bachelorette' yet (tonight!) and there's not a lot of new stuff to report, enjoy some vintage Scotty pics. He's growing like a weed!

Personally, I think the boy looks a lot like he did when he was born. Just add some teeth and hair and viola! It's a toddler.

Hope everyone had a great weekend! Bachelorette Review coming tomorrow!

(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!

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.