chip | According to Chip and Bobo

Have you seen this child? Reward offered.

Description: My younger child. Also answers to “Chip.”

Crime: Entering toddlerhood.

Formerly Known As:

“My Sweet Momma’s Boy”
“My easy, second-born child”
“The Quiet One”

Recent Aliases:

Little Devil
Mr. No
“The Biter”
“The Hitter”
“The Hissy Fit Thrower”
COMEHERERIGHTNOWMISTER
The “you’ll-never-guess-what-your-son-did-today” child

Identifying characteristics: Eyelashes so long it’s not even funny. Smile that says “I double dog dare you to put me in timeout.” Sly, sneaky grin. Will not perpetuate crimes unless you are looking directly at him. He believes that if it is not seen, there is really no point in doing it.

Last seen: Squeezing a juice box all over the carpet. Just to see what you’d do.

Anyone with information regarding the whereabouts of my child (the pre-two-year-old version), please email me immediately.

Warning: If you see this child, please approach with caution. Do not be fooled by his outwardly cute exterior. And, above all, do not engage him. He thrives on an audience for his malicious deeds.

Also, be aware that he is prone to being a sweet cuddlebug one minute, and the next, throwing a temper tantrum of epic proportions. You will not see it coming. He strikes when you least expect it.

If caught while executing a crime, he will try to weasel his way out of punishment by laughing, batting those obscenely long eyelashes at you, or uttering the words, “I love you, mommy.” Do not underestimate the power any of the aforementioned in making you laugh when you’re trying to be angry.

Again: Approach with caution.

And be afraid. Be very afraid.

Because he is two. Terrible, terrible two.

The Very Hungry Momma

In the light of the moon, a little egg lay waiting.

One candlelit evening, after a romantic dinner and a few martinis, the egg was, well, bombarded. And… pop! It started to grow.

When the egg was discovered, the parents were ecstatic. They immediately dubbed the little egg “Chip.” Because, as they explained to their daughter, it was only the size of a chocolate chip.

But as “Chip” grew and grew, it created a tiny, and very hungry little momma.

She started to look for some food.

The first trimester was rough. She ate through 6 boxes of Saltine crackers, a dozen 2-litres of Ginger Ale, and a ginormous bag of lemon drops.

Alas, even though she felt like ralphing all the time, she was still hungry. It’s just that nothing sounded appealing.

But by the second trimester, her appetite returned with a vengeance. She ate through 10 rotisserie chickens, 23 Big Mac Meals (super sized, of course), countless slices of pepperoni pizza and a 5-gallon tub of Red Vine licorice.

And she was still hungry.

By the third trimester, she was on a roll. She was eating through a jelly donut every morning, as well as any other food that dared stand in her way.

But she was still hungry.

Sometimes, after hoovering all of the non-perishable edibles in the house, she’d have a tummy ache. Her doctor called it heartburn. She ate through one bottle of Tums. After that, she felt much better.

And after that, she wasn’t hungry anymore. Because there simply wasn’t any room on her little frame left to accommodate any more food. And she also wasn’t a little momma anymore. She had gained almost 50 pounds, and was now a big momma. She was ready to burst.

So she made a nursery and decorated it lovingly with stars and cowboy hats fitting for a little buckaroo. She nested. She cocooned.

One night, she was awoken by some strange stirrings from within the cocoon. They made their way to the hospital.

Where they waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Through multiple episodes of Cash Cab. Through a dozen games of solitaire. Through nine hours of watching the lines of the contractions make pretty little hills and valleys up and down the paper.

In the midst of this she felt a familiar rumbling in her stomach. She was hungry.

She asked for food. A banana, a cracker, a jelly donut… anything besides popsicles and water. She pleaded. They denied.

“It won’t be long now,” they told her. “Just a little while longer, and then we’ll get you something to eat.”

So she waited some more. And, finally, it was time for him to arrive.

And when he emerged? She suddenly forgot getting something to eat. She instantly forgot about the months of morning sickness, and the pain. She forgot about how tired she was, or the ravenous hunger that gnawed at her belly.

All she could think was that he was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

Happy belated birthday to my sweet Chip. How did two years fly by so fast?

Hair today, gone tomorrow

This may sound a little odd, but I am enchanted with my son’s head.

There are so many things I love about it.

I am enchanted by the flecks of gold in his hair. It always shocks me to see this, as my hair is about as jet black as it comes. When Chip was born, he actually had light blond surfer highlights that I thought were so cool. He still gets pretty blond in the summer time. It reminds me of his dad.

I am enchanted by the little cowlick at the back: an ode to Alfalfa. It never lies completely flat, no matter what length it is. He gets that from his dad as well.

I am enchanted by the fact that his head is still slightly out of proportion with the rest of his body. It’s not orange-on-the-end-of-a-tyooothpick big. It’s just toddler big. I know someday soon, he’ll grow into his head. And that makes me a little sad.

But most of all, I am enchanted by the way his head smells.

I know, that sounds weird.

But I sneak smells of it when I can. In those rare quiet moments when he’s sitting on my lap munching on a cookie… or snuggled in my arms before bedtime, I like to smell his warm, fuzzy little head.

I inhale. And savor.

Sometimes it smells like wacky watermelon kid’s shampoo, or baby lotion.

Sometimes it smells faintly like a squished piece of chocolate, or some ground in mac ‘n cheese.

Sometimes, after napping on freshly laundered crib sheets, it smells of Mountain Breeze detergent or dryer sheets.

Sometimes it smells like drool. His, not mine. But it’s a sweet, comforting smell that has no trace whatsoever of morning mouth. I guess there is a reason they call it baby’s breath.

Sometimes, after he’s been cuddling with Jay, it smells faintly of aftershave. I love that I can get a whiff of both of my boys at once.

But there’s always an underlying scent.

It’s the smell of baby.

I can’t describe the scent. But it is real. It’s a smell that, on my olfactory scale, ranks right up there with home-baked cookies, cinnamon and fresh freesia. It’s a delicious, enchanting aroma that, in my book, has no equivalent.

My daughter doesn’t have this any more. She used to. But then I blinked, and her baby smells gave way to Tinkerbell chapstick, Strawberry Shortcake dolls and sweaty little preschooler head.

She’ll never again have that distinctly baby smell. And that, too, makes me a little sad.

But for now, my son does. If you see some random crazy on the street with her nose buried in her kid’s hair, it may be me. I know that smell of baby will soon be gone, so I’m soaking it all in while I can.

And so I inhale… and savor. Because that smell just enchants me.

Just call me Gimpy

The Good

The good news is, my son does not have any broken bones. X-rays have confirmed it.

The other good news? He’s earned a new nickname this week. Our little Chippy now goes by the name, “The Gimp.” We can thank dad for that one.

The Bad

Did I mentioned that my husband now refers to my son as “The Gimp”? No? Allow me to give context on how the new moniker came to be.

Earlier this week, Chip was on the playground frolicking happily with his little friends. One minute he was fine, and the next minute, he was standing by the fence, sobbing loudly. No one saw what lead to the accident, but the end result was that Chip wasn’t able to bear weight on his leg.

What we now think happened is that Chip must have sprained his ankle or tripped on a tree root. However, it took us multiple trips to the doctor, several attempts to hold a screaming toddler still during X-rays, and what may amount to some hefty co-pays to figure that out.

We’ve been told that, if it is indeed a sprain, we should begin to see some improvement over the weekend. And I never thought I’d say this, but I’m ready to see him once again careening through the house, screaming at the top of his lungs. It’s been sad seeing my little guy in pain and immobile, when he clearly wants to run and play and do everything Bobo does.

The Fab

As I was holding my screaming son on the X-ray table, trying for the life of me to keep him still, I thought, “This sucks.”

But last night, in a moment of clarity, it occurred to me. It really doesn’t suck. Because, in the whole scheme of things, we’ve been pretty lucky.

Our kids are, with the exception of the pervasive green boogie monster, extremely healthy. And for that, we are blessed. Until yesterday, they hadn’t once had to make a trip to the emergency room or urgent care.

It made me realize that there are families who go through ordeals much worse than mine was this week. Or who have to watch their kids undergo tests, poking, and prodding on a consistent basis. We’ve been spared of that. And that, is truly fab.

Chip’s temporary setback is already improving. This morning, he made a feeble attempt to limp across the living room, before giving up and lunging on his knees to reach the desired object. (Said object was, by the way, our cat, Booyah.) I have no doubt that, before long, he will once again be tearing up our house, leaving a wake of chaos in his path. I never thought I’d say it, but that is also fab.

And did I mention he had a new nickname? While I’m not exactly fond of calling him “The Gimp,” as least we’re pretty sure that this whole thing will be short-lived.

How much more fab could that be?

I’m linking this one up to “The Good, The Bad, and the Fab.” What was fab about your week?

Stick ’em up.

Yes, that’s a water gun my son is wielding.

Yes, it was filled.

He may be cute, but don’t let him fool you. The kid shows no mercy. Note the unmistakeably evil glint in those little puppy dog eyes, as he tries to stifle a mischievous cackle.

It’s not hard to figure out what happened after this shot was taken. And no, I didn’t get a picture of it. I was too busy wiping off the camera. And my face.