Nail Polish Remover Has Met its Match!

I woke up this morning when I heard my son start to whine from his upstairs bedroom.  I stumbled from my bed in my husband and my's makeshift room (ours is under construction, so we are now blessed with having our bed be the first thing people see when they enter our front door!) I crept up the stairs and collected Maximus.  He was cheerful upon seeing my face, which eased the pain I felt from leaving my warm nest.

I dressed him and his big sister in cute clothes (we are going to a moms' group today) and we tromped back downstairs to get breakfast.  Before I made two little bowls for my children though, I disappeared into the bathroom. My stomach has been hurting badly lately.  We won't get into any more detail here other than to say it has been deterring me from my typically responsible actions, like get the kids their food BEFORE I take care of my debilitating cramps.

 As I waited out my pains in the bathroom, I glanced over the nail polish job I attempted last night.  Botched again.  I waited two and a half hours after painting them to go to bed and STILL have linen prints all over each nail!

I heard a plunk outside the bathroom door.  Lately, anytime I hear a sound I immediately assume it is Maximus finding mischief.  You know what?  I am usually correct.  I was correct again today...

I exited the bathroom in a hurry and looked around for the disaster.  "Oh Max!!"

He had found my nail polish bag that I foolishly left out from the night before.  He grabbed the nail polish remover and entered our kitchen.  Maximus somehow ripped the top of the lid off the bottle and proceeded to dump its contents all over the floor.  Only a photo of the bottle will help you understand how this kid did it.  He can't open bottles normally, but to shred the top apart? He's got that down.  Thank God he's alright!

MAXIMUS!!!

My son is 13 months old.  He is the most striking, intelligent child.  He claps and smiles, he dances to music, he calls the dog by name and he plays with his older sisters. I love him so much; my heart swells with pride and adoration every time I see his tiny little face. Lately though? This miniature man has been the biggest terror of my life!

Maximus is...curious, to put it in a pleasant way.  He climbs the chairs, the tables, and any other object he can use to get to the "restricted" stuff.  He stretches like gum to reach our cell phones, computer mice, cords, bobby pins, glassware, etc. in order to examine them (which often ends in the demise of the object).

In the last two weeks, my son has:
1) drowned my Glamour magazine in the toilet.
2) smashed a glass bowl on the kitchen floor after swiping it from my dishwasher.
3) pulled a chunk of Hailley's hair out of her head.
4) climbed onto the dining room table to reach my purse and destroyed/eaten its contents.
5) chugged what he could of my 7up, and the rest dripped onto the living room hardwood floor.
6) climbed onto our office chair and removed 11 buttons from my laptop's keypad.
7) terrorized my plant and eaten some of the dirt out of its pot.

I know there are more terrible occurrences, but my mind is repressing them right now. This is an abbreviated list of the activities my son has been up to lately.

Keep in mind that this child is THIRTEEN MONTHS OLD. What other atrocities will my family suffer from as he gains speed, agility and vocal skills?? I shiver at the very thought.  Thank God our furniture is mostly hand-me-downs.

Out of Babes' Mouths

One of the saddest ordeals with babies is the inevitable diaper rash.  I have worked tirelessly to avoid this painful occurrence, but every once in a while my success streak is broken with a rough outbreak of the red tush. 

So is the case with my son recently. I'm not sure which one of us has cried more over the matter.  Desitin flows freely, and the air is tainted with the ever-present scent of baby powder.  My heart breaks because I can't wash his pain away with one of his Pampers baby wipes.

While his rash is getting better, it's not improving fast enough for me. My attempt to fix his poor butt faster inspired me to leave Maximus's tushie free from diapers today (for as long as I can handle it!) Hailley, my two-year old, and I chose a nice warm long sleeve shirt for him and let the rest hang free (if you are picking up what I'm putting down here). 

Hailley was quite amused by Max's attire.  She kept repeating, "Look at his butt Mom! Look at his butt!" Yes dear, it is indeed a butt.  Rare thing in these here parts.  All parents know though that when it comes to conversing with a toddler, especially one that talks all day long, one of the best responses to remarks such as these is "Yes dear".  Keep it simple and save yourself from having a ten minute conversation about cheese or something when you could have been finishing your chores early.  I continue picking up the baby room as I mumble yes dears to Hailley.

Finally I catch the comment I was waiting for. I hear my daughter say "awwww, look at his little tail!"

Whose bed is this?

Right now I should be sleeping.  I should be fast asleep, dreaming about a clean apartment, or being skinny again, or Jason Segel.  Lord knows I could use my "beauty rest". This morning, however, I gave up this precious allotted amount of time by 4:50 a.m.  Why the *@#& would I do this, you ask?  I blame my son Maximus.
Max is four months old, and already suffers from an addiction.  "What??" You might think to yourself.  "I am reading a blog that a drug-induced mother wrote?" No, of course not.  I gave up drugs days ago.  (insert sarcasm here)  He really has an addiction though, and it is to my bed. 
I can't argue with the kid.  My husband and I enjoy a queen-sized cloud covered in bedding from my favorite store, Target.  This is the place I would vacation to every summer if I could.  So I get why he feels so comfortable here. But.. really? His satisfaction in taking over my side leaves me suffering.  I know what you're thinking-so don't let the kid sleep in your bed dummy!  Oh, if only it were that easy.  You try listening to a baby cry in his crib for even five minutes.  Parents of the world get it.  Before I know it he is happily nestled against me, breastfeeding.  Then he is asleep but I am a human pacifier.  Then he is kicking my left boob repeatedly (um, hello, way to kick the boob that fed you!) Finally he starts oohing and ahhing incessantly, a trait he picked up from his father.  So I vacate the premises, and he falls back asleep immediately.  Go figure. 

The scene of the crime, complete with spit up.