No, Fig Newtons did not sponsor this.

But we love them. And their wrapper. Wanna see how 2 sickies entertain one another when they’re home alone at snack time?

Be warned, this is about 5 minutes of your life you will never get back. It will, however, leave you with a goofy grin on your face and a feeling of happy deep within you. If it doesn’t, you likely have a dead fish for a heart. Good luck with that.

So? Do you have the happy?

He was cute and then I died.

Which, by the way, happens over and over and over again.  Turns out I have way more lives than any stupid cat.

We have a routine around here – we have really always stuck to a similar one, and it’s one of the things that helps me maintain my sanity.

Shut up. I heard you laugh at that. I do SO have some sanity left! Do not challenge me, or I may mail you a box of dog poop (my stand-by threat).

And yes, mailing out various boxes of dog poop is entirely sane.

Anyway. The routine. So. Part of the routine is that Braden takes a nap at the same time most every day (barring an unusual excursion or if he has to skip it to help me pack up boxes of dog poop to mail out).

A looong time ago we realized, in our Infinite Parenting Wisdom, that warning Braden in advance of naps and bath/bedtime, etc., helps him deal with those interruptions to his happy-go-lucky play-play life in a more calm manner.

And by that I mean it stops him from going absolutely batshit crazy and making the walls bleed with shrieks of despair and doom.

So we start at the 30 minute mark (“Nap in 30 minutes!”) and we hit 20, 10 and 5.

His current nap time is 1pm.

The other day, at around 10am, he said to me, “Nap in teeeehhhhhnnnn mits!”

I looked at him quizzically. Okay, okay, I looked at him like he was a deranged lunatic.

“What? No, honey.”

“Nap in teeeehhhhhnnnn mits!”

“No, Braden, you don’t have a nap in 10 minutes.”

“Nap in teeeehhhhhnnnn mits!”

“No, really, sweetie… you don’t have a nap for 3 hours.”

He looked at me like I was eating tainted meat.

“Nap in teeeehhhhhnnnn mits!”

“No. Nap in thrrreeeeeeee hours!”

He paused for a moment and considered.

“Nap in thrrreeeeeeee hours and teeeehhhhhnnnn mits!”

Okay, buddy. You win an extra 10 minutes of playtime before your nap today for being SO DAMN CUTE.

Bob Ross had nothing on this kid.

Okay, so he doesn’t recommend any “happy, little trees.” And, yeah, that was pretty groovy.

Instead he instructs us to “add awhatta bwooo.”
Cute factor? Score.

Life Lessons: Chapstick

Alternate title: “My lips hurt real bad!”

(for the Napoleon Dynamite fans.)

I don’t know why this video makes me so happy, but it does. There is something about the way he applies it, so freaking seriously. Having kids makes you think stupid things are cute. But, yeah.

Incidentally, Vimeo wanted to make me wait 85 freaking minutes before my video was ready for viewing.  In fact, Vimeo actually said to me, “Due to a high number of uploads, this video will be converted in approximately 85 minutes. You may now leave this page and we will email you when this video is finished converting.”  Really, Vimeo?  I have your permission to leave this page?  Thank you so much.  How gracious of you, Vimeo.

And along with that information, they taunted me with the knowledge that “Vimeo Plus” Members are moved to the front of the line for video converting.  Click and you’ll be greeted with, “Buy now for $59.95 a year!”

The hell?

Yeah.  I think I’ll pass.  Oh look, there’s a YouTube button on my toolbar!

So, thanks, Vimeo, but no thanks. By the way, Youtube was willing to convert my video right away (I timed it: 3 minutes.) For free. Stick that up your “Vimeo Plus” and spin on it.

Somehow, I don’t think it’ll be as cute as my kid applying chapstick. Just a guess.

Kid doesn’t know how lucky he is.

I mean, if >I< got to take a freakin’ nap every day, I’d be shooting SUNSHINE AND ROSES out of my butthole when I woke up.

And don’t even get me started on the pretty princesses, the unicorns, or the rainbows.

Or the tiny, sprightly, little elves with PINK TUTUS.

There would be a veritable  fantasy fairytale world around my general anus area.

But this kid?  OH HELL NO.

After-Nap time is also known as The Hour of Satan.

There is screaming, crying, flopping around… an all over protest at the very idea of existing takes place.  Then, suddenly, it vanishes and Cute Boy arrives.  Ready for his snack.   But with a little Satanic Grump Angst tucked in on the side.

“I Got Your Photo Shoot Right Here, Lady”

Unfortunately for him, even his Satanic Grump Angst is so damn cute, I just laugh.

(And the effort sometimes forces a cute, glittery fairy wand out of my butt.  Don’t tell.)

No, I don’t hide cocaine in his milk.

Because his giggling is infectious and you all deserve to have some of it.

It is as if he was trying to headbang, tell you jokes, laugh, and give a speech all at the same time. Gotta love a toddler. Especially one with dried baked bean sauce around his mouth. Classy!

And I promise he wasn’t on any drugs, and I had not given him any candy or caffeine of any sort. That’s just “Everyday Braden.”


And, oops, I turned the camera off right before he was going to tell you to leave your comment on this post so you can win $50 of merchandise!

Do you put your shits on the table?

Braden likes to pull his cute, little, bare feet up on the table during dinner and say, “fits!” He is very proud that he is correctly naming them and getting away with putting his feet on the table all at the same time. I try to be hardcore and not smile and coo at how cute he is.

“Yes, those are your feet. Now put your feet down, Braden. No feet on the table.”

Last week, I put his shoes on him so we could go run errands. “Shoose!” he exclaims, when he sees his shoes. He seems to be naming everything right now, in that cute little way that is barely intelligible.

We sat down to eat dinner together, after coming home, later. He still had his shoes on at the table, which is a rarity. Suddenly, he pulled his feet up on the table and yelled, “SHITS!!!”

I almost died laughing.

Yes, Braden. Those are your “shoes” and they are on your “feet.”

For the first time, I asked him, “Show me your feet again, Braden!” and picked the camera up off the table to take some pictures.

And that was one smug, happy “shits” on table-havin’ little booger.

We just have to dance together now.

Remember when I was lamenting about starting to lose the carefree rain-dancer in me?

I think he’s keeping her alive more than I realize.

[videos in post, click through to view]