Oh Lord, when did my son turn two?!?

FunnyKid isn't actually two yet, but he sure is acting like it these days. A few examples:

- Everything is dramatic. Everything includes the need for tears and yelling and struggling against me if it's not done exactly as he wants it (which changes daily, of course). These traumatic events include having his diaper changed (thank goodness we only have to do that six times a day!), being asked to get dressed and-- although I have no idea why-- having his hands washed.

-Diapers are now a curiosity. As in, FunnyKid likes to check out what's in them and-- to put this delicately-- doesn't always leave things inside. There was an incident a week ago in which the Pretend Husband thought FunnyKid's crib was covered in blood... until FunnyKid pointed at the mess and proclaimed, "yuck!" You can guess the rest.

-Diapers also serve as practice sessions for FunnyKid's Houdini act. The other day, I heard splashing in our bay window. Thinking the kiddo was pouring the water from his sippy cup into the window where he had climbed up, I turned around... just in time to watch him finish peeing on the window and start dancing in the puddle to make it splash. I couldn't even find his diaper at first. He had shed it in the kitchen before getting up on stage for his performance.

-Nothing gets said once around here. A typical diaper change includes me saying, "FunnyKid, let's change your diaper. Come here, bud. Kiddo, time to change your diaper. Are you listening to Mommy? Let's go. Diaper change." Then I chase him through the house, bodily bring him to where his new diaper is and try to hold him down while completing the challenge. I often break a sweat before it's over. Then, just a few hours later, we get to do the whole thing again.

Oh, and today we hung out with a couple of three-year-olds. Where I learned this crazy behavior that is testing me and sometimes pushing me to my limits is not going to end anytime soon. I'm scared.

You know it's time to dye your hair when....

...the neighbor of your sister (the sister who is only 2 years younger than you) sees you holding your cute niece and says, "And this must be your mother..."

Time froze. I kind of stared at her in shock, fighting back the tears, as my sister said, "this is my sister" and the neighbor continued the conversation without an "Oh, I'm sorry" or "it's awfully bright out here so I didn't get a good look" or anything.

Because apparently getting mistaken for being in your fifties (at a minimum) when you're only 35 isn't a big deal to some people. I have a kiddo only a year older than my niece, for goodness sake. So yes, I'll be breaking out the hair dye and covering the gray this weekend. And trying not to cry while I do it.

I know telemarketers are just doing their job... but I kind of hate their job.

We recently dropped caller ID (I know, how 1990s of us!) in order to save a few bucks. Which means I have to blindly answer our home phone. Which means I've had the, uh, pleasure of speaking with many telemarketers lately.

I immediately know I'm talking to a telemarketer when they butcher our last name. Which, to be fair, it's not the easiest name, BUT, they manage to make a very French-looking name sound Italian-- now that's talent. While that's not a big deal, not taking no for an answer and being snotty to me is what gets my goat.

Last week, we got a call from the cable company we already use. They were basically trying to upgrade our service (i.e. increase their revenue) and tried to make it sound like the deal of the century. In a bored voice, the guy described how he was calling to generously offer three free months of extra movie channels.

"No thanks," I said.

"But you get blah blah blah for only blah blah a month and at the end of three months, you get a rebate of blah blah," he said.

"No thank you, we don't want any more channels," I said.

"But these are basically free," he whined.

"No. No thank you. We're not interested," I said firmly.

And he had the guts to sound hurt. You make me say no three times before you'll give up and I'm supposed to feel bad about hurting your feelings? I don't think so.

A few hours later, we got a call from a breast cancer organization (I had never heard of) asking for a donation. The woman not only called me by the Italian version of my name, but told me I sound beautiful (that's flattering, but doesn't work with me... plus, how does someone sound attractive?) As she went through her spiel and tried to get me to pledge a donation over the phone, I politely asked if she had any literature she could send me to look at.

"You're not going to send it back. Can you just make a pledge now?" she asked.

"Uh, no. I don't choose where I make donations over the phone. Do you have a Website?" I replied.

It took me asking twice more for her to give up getting my credit card info over the phone and actually give me the Website. Which, it turns out, didn't actually exist.

I might start letting FunnyKid answer the phone. He says "hi" and "no" perfectly and when dealing with telemarketers, that's pretty much all you need to know anyway.

We should have named him "Jeeves"

FunnyKid is going through an awesome phase right now where he wants to help in any way he can. It started with him wanting to help feed the dogs in the morning so we began with him helping us carry their bowls from the counter to their mats. We're now at the point where he gets the cup of food out of the pantry and brings it to me at the counter. Then he gets the dogs' bowls from opposite ends of the kitchen and brings them to me. I fill the bowls and give him the cup back, which he takes back to the pantry. Then he carries each bowl to the dogs' mat and "places" it down (which sometimes meaning lowering it slowly and sometimes means dropping it from chest height). I give it another two weeks before he's the one doling the dog food into the bowls while I sit comfortably on the couch giving directions.

As if that wasn't enough help, I pulled out the coffeepot this morning and when FunnyKid pointed to it, I said, "Mommy's making coffee." The little smarty immediately walked over to a cabinet, opened it and pulled out a can of coffee, which he walked over to me! I just need to buy a step stool so he can climb up and finish the job.

Lastly, this morning, I casually mentioned, "We need to clean up the family room so Mom can vacuum" and realized a few seconds later that FunnyKid had disappeared. I found him in the hallway, where he had opened the closet door and pulled out the vacuum. He was in the process of rolling it to the family room when I got to him.

People told me I would love having kids, but not because they would do all my work for me! I'm loving this. Now, if I can just nurture this work ethic into his teen years... I may never have to lift a finger.

Toddler!

FunnyKid is a toddler! through and through (if this is 16 months, I'm scared about what two and three are going to look like). And that exclamation point isn't a typo-- because toddlers! don't do anything quietly or calmly or with precision. Toddlers! are loud and they're fast and they leave messes.

When the Pretend Husband got home last night, he walked in the door and stopped in shock. There were toys scattered all over the family room among the coupons I had been cutting before my toddler! got hold of them. In the kitchen, there were pots, pans, towels and other cooking implements all over the floor. In the living room, Cheerios on the rug (I blame our dogs for not getting those cleaned up more quickly). In the hallway, an abandoned Cozy Coupe, the vacuum cleaner that had been pulled out of the closet and some random kid socks.

And the worst part? I cleaned yesterday. Actually, I cleaned and cleaned and cleaned, putting toys away as my toddler! followed behind and took them out again. I finally gave up and figured I would let the toddler! wear himself out and I could pick everything up once he went to bed.

This morning I couldn't find my car keys and didn't know if I had misplaced them or if my toddler! had taken possession of them. If I had misplaced them, I could have looked in the usual places of in my bag, in my coat pockets and under the driver's seat. But if the toddler! had a hand in their disappearance? Well, that's a whole different search. One that found me digging through the garbage can (FunnyKid likes to throw things away whether they are trash or not) and going through the kitchen cabinets (he doesn't only like to take things out of the cupboards and drawers).

It turns out the missing keys were in my coat pocket, but the search for them made me realize just how on my toes I have to be when my toddler! is awake. Wish me luck...