Burgh Baby's Page

For the past two weeks, it has been a daily ritual for the Toddler to try to con us into taking her to the Zoo. I do believe she would be perfectly content LIVING there, and she has tried every trick in her book to get us to go as often as possible. We've had her slip the sentence, "We go eat French fries AFTER we go to the Zoo," in just to see if we would notice that she was scheduling our day. She has tried convincing the dogs that they want to go to the Zoo in hopes that her little army could join forces and convince the adults in the house to load up the car and take the critters to see some critters. She has tried yelling, "PLEASE!" in a tone of voice that would be better suited for telling a prisoner to stop scaling the prison wall. Today was finally her lucky day (BTW, she's been there four times so far this year. Don't let her try to convince you she's deprived.)

It was a PERFECT day for the Zoo in that it was probably 90 degrees outside. There is no sarcasm to be found in that sentence; hot weather drives away the weak. It rocked to be there when it wasn't terribly busy. It also helped that we went later in the afternoon when the animals are far more active. We actually heard one kid gleefully scream, "LOOOOOOK! The Snow Leopard IS alive! It's actually moving!" The kid had a point there. The Snow Leopard is the first animal you see when you go in and it's ALWAYS sleeping. Except at 3:00 when it starts pacing and hanging out right next to the glass as it waits for it's meal.

Also pacing and hanging out right next to the glass were the tigers.



(I left the kid's head in this photo on purpose so you could see that the tiger really was inches away from us. SOOO Cool!)



While it was fun to see the tigers up REALLY close and to actually see them playing, it was the baby elephant that stole the show. This is Angelina and the other female elephants at the Pittsburgh Zoo. Angelina was born July 10th and I believe is Jackson's 7th kid.




(I don't know why I giggle at these photos of the headless Zookeeper, but I do. Pretend that's not weird, mmkay?)






Apparently it was the day for seeing animals up close through glass, because while we were hanging out in the monkey house, this guy came up for a visit:



And that is when I was reminded that my daughter is a wuss. A BIG wuss. The wussiest wuss that ever did wuss. Mr. Husband was holding her and thought he would be a kind, caring parent and show his animal-loving daughter the monkey-type thing up close.

She flipped out.

She yelled at him to, "Back up, Daddy!" over and over until he finally did. But the wuss didn't end there. Oh, no it didn't. After the monkey house we ventured to the little eating area for our customary fresh cut French fries fix. As we were sitting there fighting over the crispy ones, a peacock wandered into the area.

(Now, I would have some seriously incredible photos of that peacock if it weren't for one little thing: I am The Queen of Forgetting to Pack the Extra Camera Battery. I'm expecting my crown in the mail any day now because that is the THIRD time I've left for the Zoo with a nearly dead battery and no back-up. Don't you wish you were as talented as me?)

Anyway, we were happily eating French fries when the peacock wandered into the area. And headed straight for us. Right when the peacock moved close enough for Alexis to kick him, she noticed him.

And freaked the f*@& out. That? Is an understatement--there is no adjective that would accurately describe the level of freak that went on. Think about how badly you would freak out if Michael Jackson were to walk up to you, lick your face, then pull his nose off and shove it in your mouth. Now double it. She freaked out MORE than that. I picked the Toddler up to calm her down and then we all enjoyed twenty more minutes of trying to eat French fries and ice cream while the kid flipped her lid because a silly bird was in the same time zone as her.

The kid is scared of the peacock. A lot scared.

Mr. Husband, being the outstanding guy that he is, loves to exploit weaknesses. For example, he knows I hate to be called a common nickname derived from my first name. HATE IT. WILL STAB YOU IN THE FACE WITH A PITCHFORK FOR SAYING IT. So what does he do when he wants to irritate me? Calls me that name over and over and over and over. What did he do once he found out Alexis was scared of a very friendly (and GORGEOUS) peacock? He kept saying, "Look! There's the peacock!" and singing a lovely rendition of, "The Peacock is Coming to Take You Away." The Toddler was not amused.

This story brought to you by those who would like everyone to remember that I am not in fact the mean one in this house. Although, I do totally plan to yell, "Hey look, a peacock!" the next time Alexis tries to steal ice cream from me.

Dear Fine Producers of Toddler-Sized Nightgowns,

Hi, there! You know that I love you. Really, I do. My kid? She is a nightgown FREAK. One of the happiest days of her short life was when she was finally old enough for me to be OK with her wearing nightgowns. She loves that they are almost like dresses. She loves that she stays cooler as she sleeps when she isn't wrapped in head-to-toe fabric. She loves the fun characters splashed all over them. She especially loves the accessories that seem to come with toddler-sized nightgowns. From the slippers to the headbands, she is in accessory heaven.

I am not. I do not like the accessories. At all. Look, if I wanted my kid parading around in 2 cent slippers, I would go buy her a pair at Wal-Mart for $5. She doesn't need slippers. The only thing that ever happens when she wears slippers is that she forgets that she can't walk fast on the wood floors and usually ends up looking like she's trying to slide into 3rd base every blasted time she tries to go into the kitchen. She's going to hurt herself.

But really my complaint lies with the headbands. What exactly is the point in little kids wearing headbands to bed? Are you trying to make me flip out? What if that headband slips over her forehead, down around her neck, gets caught in a bed rail, and then Baby Shell (the doll my kid drags with her everywhere) shoves my kid out of bed (again)? She's going to choke! I just know it. Those headbands are a disaster waiting to happen. I am SHOCKED that there isn't a story on the news every single night about another headband incident.

OK, so she's probably not going to choke.

But.

In about 20 years? When she sees photos of herself wearing the headbands? I'M going to get choked. The kid is going to KILL ME for letting her prance around with a half yard of fabric wrapped around her follically-challenged head.

Please refer to the photos below and do something to prevent my future death at the hands of a pissed off young adult. I'm sure you will see that this is not a minor problem, but rather one that should be addressed swiftly. Preferably before Richard Simmons calls and asks for his headbands back.

Thank you,

The Lady Who is Tired of Spending 20 Minutes Every Night Searching for One of Those Stupid Headbands (or Watching Her Husband Perform the Same Search and Rescue Mission)

And, it's back!

Just when you thought there was nothing more that could happen in the Fishtank of Horrors, a new twisty poo has occurred.

(If you're newish here, there's background here and here. Basically, it's a saltwater tank that doesn't know how to be boring. I LURVE the drama!)

This morning I sauntered into the Toddler's room to feed the fish. Belly (the 1st maroon Nemo fishy) came barreling up to the top, wiggling it's tail and oh! so! eager to see me! Darryl the Worm-eating Stud came darting out. The (nameless) Tiger Goby flitted out, too. There was only one fish missing.

The B*tch.

This was odd. Very odd. The B*tch earned her name because she is the Master of the Saltwater Tank of Horrors. She rules that roost with an iron fin and isn't above smacking the others around a bit if she doesn't like what they are doing. Someday The B*tch will be entering a treatment program for fish who commit domestic violence. She's MEAN. I glanced around in the tank for a minute thinking surely The B*tch couldn't be that good at hiding.

She was nowhere to be found.

So, I sprinkled in a little flake fishy food. Belly chomped and chomped and chomped like a fish on a mission. THAT was strange. Very strange. The B*tch usually gets pissed when Belly eats and a little altercation nearly always ensues. It's kind of like when the fat hooker gets caught by her pimp at the buffet, except that Belly is really a very healthy weight. And not a hooker. As far as I know.

Anyway, I managed to make myself 30 minutes late for work visually scanning the tank for any sign of The B*tch, only to find none. Admittedly, I assumed she was dead and figured I would find her eventually.

After work, I returned to the Fishtank of Horrors. Still no The B*tch. A piece of coral had fallen to the sand bed, so I figured I would fix that and dig around and see if I could find The B*tch under a rock or behind some coral or something.

I found her all right.

The B*tch was COWERING under a rock. By cowering I mean that fish was shaking in it's boots. I chased it out of the little cavern and then it happened.

Belly.

Belly went rushing over to The B*tch and bullied her back into hiding. So I bullied The B*tch back out. Belly bullied her back in. Again and again and around and around we went until I finally decided to just let The B*tch hide if she wants to. Whatever.

The victim has become the aggressor. The pimp has become the hooker hiding under the bed.



(BTW, the snail eggs from our last installment became a tasty Scooby snack for something or other.)

I think it's safe to say that toddlers are the most neurotic creatures on the face of the Earth. One minute they're giggling with glee, the next they are pounding their heads on the floor in a fit of despair because the crayon you handed them is not yellow enough. One day they want nothing more than to wear that pretty flower dress all.the.time (even boys), the next they refuse to wear any clothes. But the biggest source of toddler neurosis? Food.

Alexis is no exception. Sure, she's a good eater. She lurves herself some fruits and vegetables and generally will try anything. But, she has a rule. No mixing. Period. See, while she loves strawberries, blueberries, and raspberries, if I go and get all domestic on her behind and mix them together into a Wondrous! Magical! Fruit Salad! she won't eat it. She can WATCH ME pick the berries apart and place them into separate piles and will then eat them, though. She doesn't care if her food touches (a generally accepted variety of neurosis), she just doesn't like things that have multiple ingredients. She won't user her own little princess hands to pick them apart either. That's apparently my job.

Think about that for a moment. Does it seem like it might be a pain in the tooshie? IT IS.

As a perfect example of her food neurosis, I present Exhibits A through whatever the heck letter we end up at. Yesterday I thought I would be SuperMommy and make s'mores. I am a s'mores master. It is the one useful skill I acquired after attending Girl Scout camp every summer for about ten years. I know how to burn sugar just right so it is gooey and warm and yet slightly crispy and beautimous. My s'mores would make Emeril cry with glee as he shouted, "THEY DON'T NEED ANY BAM!" from the rooftops. They.are.yummers.

So, I handed the kid a perfectly concocted s'more, carefully adjusted to more readily fit in a toddler-sized mouth. She stared at it.



She did NOT put it in her mouth. No way, no how. As she was staring at the three-headed s'more, she realized she had gotten some marshmallow on her hand.



Score! A single ingredient!



"More shmalloo, please!"

I caved. I handed her a virgin marshmallow. One that had not experienced maximum Zen with my little cooking utensils.



She was happy.



Then she noticed the chocolate bar sitting on the table. "Shocklit, please!"

Polite children in this house are generally rewarded. I handed her a piece of chocolate.



It was goooooood.



She decided to chase the chocolate with another marshmallow. It was all fine and dandy until she pulled that marshmallow out of her mouth.

And noticed chocolate on it.



Alert! Alert! We have multiple ingredients! "MOMMY, CLEAN IT!" I wish I were kidding.



There was a lecture at this point. I felt it was my duty as a professional connoissuer of chocolate-covered marshmallows to inform her that one should celebrate when those two great tastes come together. CELEBRATE! Throw a party. Invite the mayor. Shoot off fireworks. It is a grand occasion when chocolate and marshmallow can be enjoyed simultaneously.

She wasn't buying it.



I gave her a new CLEAN marshmallow. When we did a lather, rinse, repeat of the chocolate on the marshmallow debacle, I quit. I handed her some glow-in-the-dark ridiculously disgusting looking applesauce (which probably contains multiple ingredients, but apparently they fly under the Toddler radar). She shoveled it into her mouth.



And all was right in her world.



From this day forth, I will use this series of photos as my reminder as to why I do not share my s'mores making skills with the world.

And to think, all I really wanted was to get a "one year later" version of this photo which was (obviously) taken before the neurosis fully set in: