Tag Archives: Toddlers

Skills They Don’t Teach You in Preschool

Dear Mr. Netflix,

It seemed like a good idea at the time.  And you know what?  This ‘no late fees’ shenanigans is pretty smart business if you ask me.  You didn’t?  Well, I’ll tell you anyway.  There’s a local DVD place about 6 miles down the road that has a deal on Tuesdays where every DVD is $1.  I think it’s a fantastic deal.  You might counter back that they have late fees.  Yes they do.  I’d like to also submit the notion that you do too.  If I forget about a film  — which I have on a few occasions — I’m still paying for a service I’m not technically ‘using’.  I have to admit though, my intrigue with Netflix isn’t about saving petrol money or the convenience of forgetting I have legs or the innate ability to portray some sort of social skills by interacting with other humans in public places.  No, it’s about lists.  I can create a list from a huge database and somehow, that cheers my soul.  I also like getting stuff in the mail.

There is a personality behind my faceless membership number, and skills I don’t readily get to employ on a regular basis, at least with the viewing public.  You should count yourself lucky you are one of the very few to lay witness that I can piece back together a paper product that has been shredded by toddler ingenuity.  I think you’ll agree that this is one piece of impressive engineering.  And you’re welcome.  It’s the little things that show you care.

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Cheers,

abritdifferent, a list lover.

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Oh! de Toilette

You know, for the most part Cameron has been an easy toddler.  He hasn’t eaten dulcosate sodium capsules, flung cinnamon all over my floor, or drawn all over my new monitor with a black Sharpie (I got it off, it was easy – thanks Google).  He hasn’t even drank childrens’ ibuprofen when I turned my back for two seconds, redistributed potting soil all over my floors, table, chairs and carpet 6 feet away, repainted over a newly painted wall (in a different colour), and I haven’t had to call Poison Control three times — actually, not even once.

[read: Ian did all that.]

But right now, my second and youngest son has barricaded himself in the bathroom next to his room.  I’d like to find the person who thought placing a sink with cabinet adjacent to a bathroom door was a great idea and thank him/her.  He got in there, promptly shut the door and opened the top drawer.  From my location in the kitchen, I could hear him playing with the toilet water and a plunger (always a great discovery).  I walked over to retreive him and salvage my bathroom floor only to be thwarted in my attempts to gain entry.  Ladies and gentlemen, the door opens a whole half an inch.  I knelt on the floor, calling out incentives to coax him out of his euphoria.

“Cameron?  Do you want to go outside?”
I got the usual “Ehm!” — his nodding yes.
“Cameron, Mummy’s leaving, bye!”
“Wait’ch!  Wait’ch!”
“Cameron, do you want a num-num?”  (An icepole/otterpop, we don’t have any left, I’m such a liar.)
Another “Ehm!”
“Cameron, come see!  IT’S A HUGE FISH!”
Sigh
“Cameron, shut the drawer” I said, pleadingly.  “Mama stuck!  Look.  Stuck!” I call out, as I slam the door repeatedly against the drawer.

The little blighter giggled.

“Ian, I can’t get the door open, he’s stuck in there…” I said exasperated, hoping for compassion or an idea.
“And he’ll be in there forever and we’ll never get him out!” he responded, sounding dejected.
“I can’t even fit food under the door…” I said, half joking, trying to dispel my fears of him falling into the open toilet face first.

“Cameron?!  Ian has to go potty!  Open the door!”
“No I don’t, I just went, mama!”
“Shush, it’s a joke so he’ll open the door!”

Ian’s little friend from across the street is no comfort either, all he can do to answer my explanations and door demonstrations is talk in fluent Russian.  Heaven help me.  And to make matters worse, the dog is yipping a hole in my left eardrum and there’s a distinct smell of poop coming from the bathroom.

So my friends, if you don’t see me for a while, I’m either hacksawing a door to pieces or squeezing my way through a chihuahua-sized window twenty feet from the grass.

Whoever said being a stay-at-home mum was dull?

*  *  *  *  *

UPDATE:  After 20 full minutes of pleading and coaxing, I gave up and walked away scrambling for inspiration.  Just at that moment, he closed the drawer and opened the door.  I ran over, saw the devastation, and promptly closed and locked the door behind him.