Burgh Baby's Page

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:

1. A Toddler's face light up like a Christmas tree while playing with the pure joy that is bubbles.

2. The sparkling white sands of La Costa Del Sol along the Mediterranean Coast of Spain (*LA LA LA conveniently forgetting the part about the old fat guys wearing Speedos LA LA LA*). (Follow the link--how freakin' cool is it that they have a webcam on the beech?!?! I used to sit RIGHT THERE nearly every night.)

3. The Toddler spontaneously teaching others to stop and smell the flowers.



4. The Steelers win a SuperBowl.

5. Mr. Husband's pride the first time he held his daughter. And his subsequent Papa Bear Fierceness when they gave her shots, making her scream.

6. The vast nothingness that is North Dakota as it enables me to more greatly appreciate that which is absolute and complete boredom. It can't be found anywhere else. (You can tell me that the photo is pretty, and it is, but imagine looking at it for sixteen years or so. THERE IS NOTHING ELSE TO LOOK AT.)

7. The One Step Ahead catalog because it's STILL the funniest thing of all time. Yes, I am easily amused.

8. Walt Disney World through the eyes of a child.

9. Enough sadness and heartache to recognize that life really is good just the way it is.

10. A scrunchy-faced Toddler nibbling on corn on the cob.