Do You Speak Toddler?

So I have this three year old. Don't try to tell him he's three though, because he will assure you (As he assures me multiple times a day) that he is 'a really big man' and also, 'really, really handsome.' He might also tell you he is going to be a priest and a daddy, and that he might have babies some day, but not in his tummy because he is 'a real man.'

If real men spend 90% of their waking hours asking questions, telling on their younger brothers, and fashioning straight objects into weapons, then he is Mr. Marlboro himself. I'll let him do the rest of the talking just to prove it to you.

At bedtime, after somebody got to stay up late to watch the first half of the Notre Dame game:

Joey: (sobbing) John Paul is cryyyyyying.
JP: (indistinguishable moaning)
Joey: (in a piercing wail) He is really crying and I can't like that noise!

While driving home one evening:

Jenny: Buddy, do you want to stay up with Daddy and watch the football game for a little bit?
Joey: Well I'm really sleepy. Maybe just a little bit of football and a hot bath. Can I get a hot bath? And a drink?
Jenny: Would you like a cigar, too?
Joey: Just a hot bath, Mommy

Upon discovering the requisite Millenial tramp stamp mommy sports on her unfortunate lower back:

Joey: Why you got a flower on your booty, Mommy?
Jenny: I made a silly decision when I was younger and now I have to live with it.
Joey: Daddy doesn't have a flower on his back
Jenny: Nope, Daddy was not quite as silly as I was when he was a kid
Joey: Daddies don't have flowers, because they have penises
Jenny: ...

Wandering through the family room, unaware he is being observed:

Joey: All we have to do is get our SHINE ON!
Jenny: What?
Joey: A big giant guard
Jenny: Excuse me?
Joey: I got away on a telescope
Jenny: ... sips coffee

Looking very concerned upon waking:

Joey: Are my teeth grayish, Mommy?
Jenny: What?
Joey: Just a yittle bit gray, do you think? Maybe if I sleep with a toothbrush...

Busting into our room at o'dark thirty:

Joey: (flings open door, slamming it into the wall) Good morning! I'm ready for gluten free pancakes!
Dave: (blink, grumble, snort)
Joey: All you have to do is get your shine on. (Can you guess what his favorite song is?)
Jenny: Are you real?
Joey: I'm really hungry for gluten free pancakes

Dragging an empty Pellegrino box through the living room at 8 am:

Joey: We just need some more wine. To get on the airplane!
Jenny: ...
Joey: Everybody needs more wine!
Jenny: ...

While driving through far-eastern rural as all get out northern Colorado to visit friends:

Joey: What I'm seeing out there, Mommy?
Jenny: Llamas. Those are llamas, they have nice fur that makes sweaters
Joey: (silence)
Jenny: They're from Peru. Aren't they cool looking?
Joey: Do llamas do bad things to people, Mommy?
Jenny: ...

Boasting about his newfound ability to stand and deliver at the potty:

Joey: I pee like a man. I'm a real big man!
Jenny: Yep
Joey: Like Peyton Manning. He pees like a man. These are his undies.
Jenny: ...

He is a delightful, challenging, confounding, and hilarious little housemate. I just wish I could figure out the source of his rich interior monologue. Because I'll have one of whatever he's having.

The Birth Week

In my family of origin we have a little tradition whereby the birthday celebration somehow gets streeeeetched into a weeklong fun-stravaganza of indulgences for the lucky celebrant. I'm not sure how this got to be the case, considering there are seven of us kids, but so far it's something I've managed to carry into my own little family, basically throwing it around as a blanket excuse for partying for longer than 24 measly hours.

And so I give you Joey's 3rd birth week. Yesterday, because I hate myself, we went to the zoo at/around naptime. And then to a major league baseball game. Yes, all in one day, and no, it wasn't planned. And yes, I know what causes that. Stupid mommy guilt, that's what causes that.

Anyway, we had a free zoo pass gifted by a sweet friend who had the temerity to meet us for the first day post Noah's second flood (we had nary a spot of water damage in our 'hood, thankfully) with her 2 daughters, one of whom is 4 weeks fresh and came with a matching c-section scar for mommy. So basically super mom. Who was I to say 'no, we can't possibly do the zoo at 11.' So we went. And honestly, it was so much fun for all parties involved, that I took nary a picture, but let it be known that Joey thinks Giraffes are "Big, biiiiig zebras" and that mommy tigers have nurses to nurse their baby tigers. And nurses = boobs.

Around 4 pm, when nap time ought to have been ending but was only just beginning, Dave texted me to say he'd scored 4 Rockies tickets at work and didn't we want to take the boys to see the Cardinals get  poached at 6:40 pm that very evening, 20 minutes before bedtime? Why yes, yes we did. So up came the boys, 70 minutes into their ill timed naps and very, very angry about it, and off went we and a pair of Jimmy John sandwiches and smuggled water bottles to Coors Field for a very lovely 6 innings of baseball.

This was another huge home run with the boys, if you'll forgive my saying so, and Joey kept raptously singing out "GO ROCKIES" and whooping whenever anybody did anything and the crowd made any noises of approval in response. On either side. He also wore his Uncle Patrick's little league hat from last season, and was in full-on big boy mode as he strode manfully about the rows and rows of seats, reassuring me when I coaxed him back down to our row, 30 levels below, "I'm just being up here right now Mommy, it's okay."

Alright son. It's your birthweek, after all. Counting down till the real party gets crunk on Saturday night, complete with cousins, a gluten free chocolate cake, and a Superman pinata filled with tiny bottles of something special for all the adults forced to participate.

We love our little Jojo, attitude and all. What a wonderful three years it has been.

Five Favorites

1. This piece, which my younger sister sent me, and has significantly improved my outlook on how my children might turn out fine, after all.

2. These.

I could eat a can a day. Lucky for my waistline, baby's cholesterol, and all that is good and decent, they are kind of hard to find here, and it's kind of ridiculous to shell out $3 for a can of chips. But still. I long for them...

3. This guy.

Some recent gems have tumbled from his lips in his raspy little toddler voice, and I almost die some days over the things that rattle around in his brain...

• Imma get bigger, and bigger, and bigger, and then I'll be a priest?
• Mommy, lay on that pillow. (Points to pillow on living room floor, strewn with shredded kleenex) lay down and rest NOW.
• Girls don't have a penis. Just a butt. 
• Oh! I have a little nipple right there.
• Jesus makes me happy, Mommy'
• Mommy, look there, you have a flower on your butt, Mommy? (Thinking about getting a tattoo, you hot, young, 18-year-old thing? Think again. Think long and hard. Actions have consequences, and God might send you a two year old boy some day to fill your days with verbal chastisements just to drive home that point. And no, it's not really on my butt. Thanks, son.)

4. My new smartphone.

My sweet husband snuck back into the house on Monday morning and surprised me with a genuine, made in this past year and compatible with modern technology smartphone so I can rejoin the 21st century. He even scribbled me a love note and left it near the box. Look out facebook, imma like all the things and share all the posts.

5. One week from today, I'll be happily loading toddlers onto a 747 at Fiumicino for a 12 hour flight via Heathrow to Denver...and I'm not even scared.

Well that was a fun image search. {Source}

Not a single ounce of hesitation or worry over their in-flight behavior, no cares about airport security or baggage issues, and no qualms about feeding them any amount of sugar and carbs to keep them happy and content. And then the 6 subsequent flights in the following weeks ... I don't even care! Bring on the screaming and the transatlantic meltdowns and the time change horrors! Hell, I would be eagerly anticipating a steamship crossing at this point. Bring on the scurvy, we're headed home on vacation!

Hallie, as always, thanks for letting my mid-week randoms have a happy place to reside on the internet.

To Market to Market

Where I probably could buy a fresh pig. But I'm not quite there yet, Italy.

One of the great blessings of living in a country where people live a little closer to the land is that even in a city of several million people like Rome, I still have access to some of the freshest meat and produce I've ever seen.

I've mentioned before that Italy has stricter laws as far as GMO and pesticides are concerned, (though my favorite butcher thinks nothing of dropping the cherry from his cigarette into his case of sausages and skinned rabbits and then carefully plucking it out and wiping clean the meat. Shudder.) so things that I may have struggled to fit into our grocery budget back home are simply commonplace here.

The tiniest little strawberries, called 'fragolini:' Molto piccolo e molto dolce.

Yesterday I bought the bulk of our meat and veggies for the week at the marcato at the base of our apartment building. I spent about 40 Euros (roughly $50), and I came home with all this:

Meat is by far the most expensive ingredient here, so most weeks I will buy 1 (one!) chicken breast and have it filleted into thin slices, and the result is what you see above: an entire IKEA container filled with mini 'chicken breasts' that I can stretch into 3 meals. This week that little box 'o chicken will yield chicken and pineapple fried rice, gluten-free chicken parmesan, and probably something involving the magical packet of Ortega taco seasoning gifted to me by a very sweet fellow ex-pat whose husband makes frequent returns to the US. And who shares my affinity for all things 'Messicano,' as they say here.

We do have at least 2 vegetarian meals per week, not because we don't like meat, but because we can't afford to have it here every day! This bothered me at first where the boys were concerned, since I don't want to deprive them of the nutrients and protein they need in order to grow, but once I realized they were eating a wide variety of fruits and vegetables here and were having either beans or eggs or some other protein-dense food on a daily basis, I relaxed a little. Plus, chain-smoking aside, Italians seem a lot healthier than Americans, from the cradle to the grave, a reality which, despite the massive amounts of pasta I see consumed, has to harken back to their native cuisine.

(An aside. According to an Italian acquaintence who is very slim (effortlessly so) and very typical in her habits, I am assured, Italians do not eat pasta in the evening unless it is a special event, like a holiday or a big family dinner. They limit their carb consumption in the afternoon and evening, and it would seem that this has a hugely positive impact on their bodies being efficient in processing so.many.carbs. Plus, she pointed out, they have been eating this way for centuries, and therefore their bodies are accustomed to doing so. She theorizes that perhaps American women's bodies are not.)

Another huge help I've discovered, thanks to my sweet friend Susanna, who is herself a transplant to Rome (from the Italian island of Sardinia. Swoon) via CNA - her husband works with Dave and produces EWTN's Vaticano, a weekly news show from the Vatican, is Despar's home delivery service. Despar is a German grocery chain whose selection of international foods is fairly impressive, and whose willingness to deliver cases and cases of water and heavy cleaning supplies is magical.

For an additional 5 Euro on top of my grocery bill (about $7.50), I can have a month's worth of water delivered to our house. Delivered as in driven to our building, loaded on the elevator, and unloaded in my front foyer. Boom.

Like Christmas, only wetter.

My pedestrian days of water lugging are behind me.

So the grocery shopping breaks down like this: every 2 days or so, a trip to the fresh market, where we buy all of our meat, most of our produce, and a good chunk of our eggs and dairy. And the occasional scarf or piece of cheap jewelry or knicknack from the dollar/Euro bins at the end. Because Mommy has a problem.

About twice per week, I go to Todi's, the local discount grocer around the block. There I buy diapers, (5 Euro for a 20 pack. Best price I've seen in the city which still guarantees the diapers will perform their desired function.) yogurt, frozen veggies, canned goods, and some cleaning supplies/trashbags.

Once per month I visit Despar and import our drinking water, and usually end up with unplanned vino purchases and the stray jar of Nutella, because damn their prices are good. And Nutella is hard to quit.

Ocasionally I stray from this pattern if we're travelling or if we ever (okay, inevitably) need something on a Sunday afternoon, when everything is closed. Then I have to hoof it about 1.5 miles west to Simply, which is a rather largish and nice-ish grocery store featuring a good mix of Italian and international foods.

There you have it, folks. All the stuff you didn't know you didn't care to know about grocery shopping in a foreign country.

Oh yeah, and these guys. Not super helpful, but usually very entertaining.

This is a clear popsicle. Which is a miracle. Also, they wanted to Lady and the Tramp it. Their request, not mine.

Boy oh Boy

Stepping back from yesterday's craziness (calling all trolls, come hang out in my commbox) for a little good 'ol fashioned mommyblogging, courtesy of sweet and crafty Sheena at Bean in Love, who actually asked for obnoxiously kid-centered posts of progeny.

Twist my arm.

Yes, that arm. The monstrous post-partum mommy arm flapping in the bottom right-hand corner of the frame.

 When John Paul was born, we were all but convinced he was a 'she,' both because the pregnancy was so different from Joey's, and because we had our girl name settled oh, about 9 months earlier than our boy name. But out he popped, and we are so glad to have two little man cubs only 19 months apart.

They are already best friends,

though Joey is for sure the Alpha Wolf. Except that JP is only trailing by 7 lbs these days, so better watch your back, big brother.

Joey is the proverbial eldest child: bossy, confidant, opinionated, a little self-centered, smart, and really, really stubborn. In other words, he's the male version of me.

John Paul is our sweet and snuggly guy...but he can scream. Like noises from another planet. Particularly during the Eucharistic Consecration. Or if ever we happen to be tagging along when Dave is filming an interview or having a conversation with somebody famous and/or important. John Paul does not have a 'discrete' setting. Also, his screams. Oh Lord, poor Joey is still scarred from the Great CIO-fest of Spring 2013, (wait, that's now, actually. But it's been a great past 2 weeks! So I think we won.) when we locked him in a marble-floored bedroom with his younger brother and 'sleep trained' them both to the tune of JP's ungodly shriekings ringing off the acoustically perfect floors.

Don't be fooled by this face.

My ears still bleed from time to time.

They look alike, but they look like their own little persons, as well. Joey is skinner and has a longer face (and a much fiercer scowl) where JP's honest and open round face/eyes assure me he will never be able to tell me a lie. Or so I hope.

We're so in love with these little boys.

And so is the entire city of Rome, it turns out.

For Jack

My little guy has been missing his buddies in Denver a lot, lately. I don't know if the longing for the comforts of home was brought on by the awesome dinner with had with this fun family and their six-pack of kiddos last weekend, or by Tia's departure for sweet home Colorado last Sunday, but Joey has been asking me 'where'd so-and-so go?' all week long. Poor guy.

The most frequently requested players in the on-going drama of losing playmates and family members to the world of Skype (he was terrified when Tia suddenly popped up on the laptop next to Grandma on Monday morning. Literally buried his head in my shoulder and started sobbing, poor guy. Technology makes me feel that way too, sometimes.) are Jack, his bff+e and the son of my sweet friend Sarah, (who doesn't blog but should because she is beautiful and brilliant and stylish - here are  some articles she's written for CNA) Abigail, daughter to the lovely Holly, and Gigi, the sweetheart oldest daughter of Margo, who also could save the world through beauty, etc., if she'd only jump on the blog-wagon.

He also occasionally inquires into the whereabouts of our favorite little Mexican, but if mommy can't have good guacamole in this country, then you better believe I've cut the little scream-talker out of our daily rotation. Plus, no Netflixs in Italy. Suck it up, son, we've got the Pantheon.

So without further ado, I present to Mr. Jack M. the following collection of meaningful images and captures of daily life in Italy, according to Joey. Who isn't a terrible photographer for being a 2 year old, I have to admit.

Mommy's bare legs + filthy Sperry's. Nice outfit shot, son.

Bubbles on the balcony + an artsy sky shot.

Beloved shopping cart.

His 'garden' - the windowbox planter lining our balcony.

His new 'run shoes'

Daddy's discarded tie-turned-dress-up item. Joey can pull off orange like no one else in this fam.

His roommate.

His room. (disclaimer: mommy took this shot)

Love and miss you, friends of ours. See all that space in the boy's room (hint, hint.)

A Glorious Case of the Mondays

It's 5 minutes to noon here in the Rocky Mountain Empire, and I can honestly say it feels like 5 pm.

So far today we've had blown out diapers, barfed up breakfasts, and suffered the emotional and physical consequences of our little gluten-sensitive bread addict scoring a 'fix' in the form of a stolen baguette last Friday night. Let's just say diapers and tantrums from the underworld, and leave it at that.

Also, I just found a fist-sized chunk of sparkling clean asphalt in my dryer. All morning I'd been wondering 'is that the sound of rocks in my dryer?'

Close. Oh so close.

So glad I catered to his highness' sweet tooth and whipped up a batch of these bad boys for elevensies. Little ingrate.

The good news is, tonight is the last Presidential debate! And yes, I'll be live-blogging it on Facebook per usual, though I have to admit, I'm so ready to hang up the social network towel again once this whole sh*tstorm has settled and Team Mitt can begin mentally rearranging furniture at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. And making plans for re-installments of English busts and whatnot. Seriously sick of politics this go-round. And since I thrive on the stuff, I can only imagine how the average, temperate media-consumer feels. And it ain't good.

Today, while filled with bodily fluids, tantrums and poor culinary decisions, is nonetheless the feast day of my favorite not-quite-a-saint-yet of all time: Bl. John Paul II.

We were privileged to make the pilgrimage to Rome in 2011 as a family and stood in St. Peter's square while Pope Benedict declared him 'blessed.' It was one of the highlights of my life, and certainly remains one of the coolest things we've done with Joey. Which I will no doubt hold over his head for the rest of his life.

Incredibly, we were able to go back to Rome this past summer, this time with our little John Paul in tow, and early one Sunday morning as Mass came to an end in the Basilica, one very naughty mommy snuck her little chunker up to the altar and touched his little fist to his namesake's tomb. Way cool.

On a more serious note, our sweet John Paul has a medical condition he was born with necessitating a relatively simple, out-patient surgery that is scheduled for this coming Monday, a week from today. His doctors have assured us it isn't complicated or especially dangerous, but he does have to go under general anesthesia, and I can't come into the OR with him. So, that's really hard.

We've been praying under the patronage of Bl. John Paul II since we discovered his condition when he was just 1 day old, and we have confidence that he can be healed without the surgery, if God wills it. Will you join us in prayer this final week? We would have loved to have received an immediate healing for our little man, but how cool would it be if they get him onto the operating table and discover there's no longer a reason to operate?!

Way cool.

So Bl. John Paul II, patron of the unborn and of the youth (among other awesome and numerous things), pray for us on this, your feast day.

And please excuse the mess.

2 Years of Awesome

2 years ago today, about 39 minutes from now, to be precise, I became a mother on the outside.

My sweet Joseph, how you have filled our lives with joy. And sleeplessness. Oh, the sleeplessness. From the day of your birth until this present moment, you have never been a good sleeper, nor have you ever hesitated to let us know exactly how you feel about anything. You don't exactly play your cards close to your vest, son. And you certainly don't waste precious moments of your busy life with something so mundane as the recommended 10-12 hours of sleep for a guy your size.

This year with you has been my favorite; watching you love your baby brother, learn how to speak and communicate with us, and seeing your eyes light up when a train goes thundering down the tracks near our house ... it's all good son.

And even though I am literally sick from lack of sleep, I love you, and I wouldn't trade a minute of it. Unless you're willing to start staying in your bed longer in the mornings. In which case, yes please.

Here's hoping today is a magical, choo-choo train filled and chocolate-saturated glut of happiness and carbohydrates to fuel your childhood memories.

We love you sweet boy.

Mommy and Daddy

Sleep training is a four-letter word

So my kids are apparently 19-month apart twins (yes, I am already explaining to strangers that a skinny toddler + a fatty 4 month old does not equal womb-mates.) Come on people, the (slightly) larger one speaks in complete sentences, while the shorter fatty dabbles in projectile vomiting and gummy smiles. So yes, anyway, clearly twins.

As I sit here contemplating whether or not to air their dirty, sleep-deprived laundry on the internet, the slightly smaller one is moaning at me from his impeccably decorated nursery (maybe it's too pretty for him to sleep?) while the bigger fellow utters plaintive cries from the basement. Which is now his bedroom. Which I can only hear because they drift up through the floorboards and slowly erode what was left of my sane mind.

Ironically, the last two nights have been our best ever. Ever. In nearly 2 years of exterior parenting. And tonight, by golly, we will try our damndest to painstakingly re-create the magical elixir of ambient sounds and circumstance to try for a hat trick. So, here's hoping.

The thing about these two precious boys is, they were both born without the desire to sleep. One prefers falling asleep briefly and popping up every, oh, 20 minutes or so to say heeeeeeeey, and the other prefers to scream/talk/whine it out for about an hour until he surrenders to a slumber so light, we brush our teeth slowly so as to make less noise. And forget about flossing. What if he hears the box click shut? Oh the horror.

We've read our way through the gamut of sleep-training handbooks, everything from the mildly sadistic Babywise to the straight up commune-style Dr. Sears manifesto. And a few in-betweeners like the Baby Whisperer, Healthy Sleep Happy Child, and, while I've yet to crack open my own copy, I've heard good things about 'Go the *$(% to Sleep.' So maybe we'll try that next.

Anyway, last night was awesome, naptime today is crashing and burning, and I just ripped 'Bun Bun,' Joey's beloved stuffed rabbit gifted to him at birth by grandma, from his clutches. And now he is softly weeping himself towards what I hope is dreamland and not the psych ward.

Time will tell.

Any hints, mamas? And not to get all judgy, but we just got the small fatty out of our bed and it would take a home invasion of vigilante tigers with machetes and napalm to get me to take him back under our covers, so ... yeah. We're not into co-sleeping.

This guy...

Is becoming seriously helpful. And seriously opinionated. No idea where he gets that from. Ahem.

Anyway, venturing into the wild unknowns of toddlerhood has me continually scratching my head and wondering 'did I really say that word in front of him at some point?' and 'I wonder how many more months/weeks I have until he can rat me out to daddy that I (insert massive motherhood failure here) today...'

I picked up this book at my fav thrift store (Attention Denverites: Savers on Littleton and Windemere. It is phenom for baby clothes, books, and maternity wear... and the occasional designer shoe, if you're the kind of gal who will stick her bare foot into someone else's discarded footwear based solely upon the ratio of brand-name-status-to-rockin'-ass-price.)

I am that kind of girl, and I'm not ashamed. 2 pairs of JCrew (made in ITALY, people) flats and a pair of Sperry's will attest to that. My husband thinks it's slightly gross/weird, but probably not as gross as including a $150 line item in the ol' monthly budget for footwear. So there.

Anyway, the book is 3 parts stupid and 1 part intriguing, and I've spent the past 2 days haphazardly implementing the very serious suggestion that baby through toddlerhood is actually a compressed span of the entirety of human evolution (if you're into that sort of thing), and that our littles are actually mentally and emotionally progressing from monkeys to Neanderthals to little cave people between birth and age 3. Or something like that.

Anyway, the good doctor (famed for his more notable work, the Happiest Baby on the Block, which may or may not contain anything useful depending upon the craziness of your particular child) recommends that rather than reasoning with a tantruming toddler, mom or dad get down to their level and grunt to them, repeating their own words and short phrases to convey empathy and understanding.

Since my wee genius has like, 3 words in his whole vernacular (4 if you count curse words), my attempts to impart said brilliant strategy sounded a lot like this:

"NO. No NO NO no!" and "Unks! Unks unks UNKS" (which we believe to mean juice) along with a smattering of 'Yeps' and 'Dudes.'

Quite the little orator I'm raising, no?

Anywho, I feel like this new channel of mutual understanding and love has opened up between us every time I squat down to eye level with him and start making jungle noises.

Or perhaps he is just alarmed enough to calm down and enjoy the spectacle which is first-time motherhood personified.

In either case, UNKS UNKS UNKS.

Winning!