Eyes Like a Tiger

Two nights ago in a deep sleep I awoke to find our bedroom door ajar with the shiny white of an eye flashing before me. “Owen, is that you?” No answer. I was submerged in the drool phase of sleep and immediately thought this was a dream, all the while fearing my impending murder. “Owen?” No response. John woke up and looked to the door. “Owen?,” we said together. “Are you okay?” This is when he took the door, slammed it and ran back to his room. I stumbled there, to find him on his bed, head buried into the pillow on his knees with his butt saluting the air. This is his usual, “I am mad at you, so leave me alone pose.” “Are you okay?,” I said while rubbing his back. He was asleep in thirty seconds without a word. Maybe it was a bad dream, or sleep walking or any possible number of toddler sleep antics. But if anyone had a right to be mad in this situation, it was me. Being awoken from a coma like sleep to find a pair of hostile mutant midget eyes glaring at you with deep breathes of attitude is not something qualified as a proper wake up technique. And “scared” does not adequately describe my mental state: confusion/non-recognition/fear/recognition/amazement/why-are-you-slamming-the-door-you-are-going-to-wake-your-sister-and-then-I-will-have-to-kill-you/did that just happen? I have read about parents who say nothing is more horrifying than waking to find a pair of tiny eyes staring, and now I completely agree. At least I did not wet the bed.

Ten Things About Maggie McCall On This Her Second Birthday.

1. Strawberries. I do not believe there is anyone on the planet more in love with strawberries than you. I have to hide the pints below the carriage at the supermarket so you don’t go into hysterics shouting “STAHHHBEERRRRIIIEEESSS.” After giving you a half a pint, you will return with the empty bowl 3.2 seconds later, your face covered in strawberry juice, moaning “More, more, more, more.” Strawberries are freaking expensive, and it is your crack.

2. Your Hair. Holy cow, I don’t even know where to begin with this one. Your hair is nuts. It is fine and curly, not tight cork screw but sort of long dangly curls that are always dry. This is what you looked like on Saturday when you woke up:



Wow. Thank god for conditioner and elastics, because if strawberries are your crack, this is your crack ho hair. Is it wrong to liken a 2 year olds hair to a crack ho, I don’t think so.

3. Owen. I believe that your brother is your favorite thing on the planet, aside from strawberries. Ohwin! Ohwin! You love him. You follow him around imitating his every act. Which is not good when he is doing something wrong, but hey, I decided to have two kids, and that is my punishment.

4. Fearless. You really have no real fear that I can see. In fact, a few weeks ago you at 22 pounds decided that it was an opportune moment after your 45 pound brother stole your car to tackle him, put him in a head lock and then throw him and you to the ground. I think you realized when you smacked your head, that your next assault would have to be better planned.

5. Rage. I think it is apparent that you have a bit of a temper, you always had. God forbid I got my boob to you 0.0003 second late when you were a baby, but now when you are mad, you throw up your arms and shake your clenched fists, a screaming malcontent. Its pretty hilarious. We try not to laugh, but its really hard. You look like the cover of Platoon for crying out loud.



6. Sunglasses. Just let’s say you like them:







7. Hugs and Kisses. You are very responsive with kisses and hugs to anyone. Which in the family is fantastic, but when we are leaving MUNI for the street, and you start saying bye and hugging the person next to us, well that is a tad bit too friendly. But also pretty awesome.

8. Dancing Maggie. Your dance moves are sick.



9. Toy Story 1, 2 and 3. I am pretty sure if you could replace your father and I with Woody and Buzz, you would.

10. The Mags. That is what we call you when we are not calling you Maggie, Maggers, Maggaroons, and her Magsesty. I think your brother said it best last night when I told him that today was your birthday and remember to wish you a Happy Birthday, “Mags is crazy. I love her.” I know your father and I feel the same.

Happy Birthday Maggie. We love you.

Evidence

Those familiar with this blog are also familiar with the torment caused to my psyche when last May I sat in a hairdressing chair and stated the following “So, yeah, I want my hair to look like it is in a pony tail, without the actual ponytail.” Again, people - NEVER FUCKING SAY THIS EVER. It is now almost the end of March and my hair is a chin length bob, which I like and plan to continue growing until god knows when because I have been damaged internally by excessive scissoring. My hair is finally to the point where I can put it in a ponytail, albeit a sad impersonation of one. But a ponytail. And this morning due to an almost comedic poof in my hair, I did just that (with a green elastic, my ode to St. Patrick’s Day). Because, again, my hair is short it falls out and was in need of a quick fix, I sauntered into my work’s ladies room where I saw it. What the hell is that? What is that? Is that . . . holy shit, that is a gray hair. Oh my god, it is not even gray, its white. White and kinky and glowing harshly under the cruel fluorescent lighting it stood bold. After a wince and a shudder, my fingers quickly excised the intruder from my head of hair. And as I examined the inch and a half long indication of my aged future, it occurred to me that this, this right here, was evidence that my kids were in fact, slowly killing me.

Tales from Bedtime

In order to curb the bedtime battle that was ensuing with Owen resulting in screams, cries and bottles of wine (all me), we decided a few months ago that after John read him stories, I would climb into bed with him until he was sleepy. It works great, usually by Owen’s third yawn I can head out of his room and he falls into a peaceful slumber. Because of this, Owen and I have been conversing while he tires. Two evenings ago, the following transpired:

Owen: “My head is itchy.” “Its soooooo itchy.” Scratching head.
Me: “You want me to scratch it?”
Owen: “Yep.”
Me: Scratching head. “What happened?”
Owen: “I hit my head.” “Its so itchy.”
Me: “How did you hit your head?”
Owen: “Maggie did it.”
Me: “I though you said you hit it.”
Owen: Silence.
Me: “You okay?”
Owen: “Mummy my eyes are itchy.” “Soooooooo itchy.”
Me: “Well, itch them.”
Owen: “No Mummy, you do it.” “I close my eyes and you itch them five times each.”
Me: “You are insane.” But yet itching his eyes, five times each in concentric circles.
Owen: “Thank you Mummy.”
Me: “You are welcome.”
Owen: “Let’s go to sleep.”
Me: “Okay.”
Owen: “Let’s cuddle.”
Me: “Okay.” (heart melting).

To be continued under Conversation With a Four Year Old: Your Window Into Insanity.

Whoops - Mothering Called

Sorry that the TBGTP&P took a day off, that was because this Tomboy was at Owen’s preschool for a meeting about my son’s unparallel blind rage. I blame this entirely on my genetics because the McInnises are known for their tempers, and also their jail sentences. Owen seems to have the switch where in he goes from happy, sweet and awesomely awesome to complete dick. This is a pattern that goes for a few weeks. Then suddently, he will stop the shenanigans and be back to his old self. John had a good idea that it might have something to do with his mental and physical growth because he seemingly grew two feet over night. When mad, we are teaching him to take deep breaths: “In with the good, out with the bad.” And, yes, I do live in San Francisco (but still hate hippies). I am sure this is a phase that will get better as he has a better grasp on his words, and it is evident he is trying very hard to be a “good boy”. To Mr. O, freshly shorn handsome: