Scooby Snacks

There I stood in the kitchen, the picture of pure domestic bliss. The house was (somewhat) clean, my makeup was (partially) applied, my hair was (kind of) combed, and I was (sort of) dressed. But, best of all, after an hour of my best wild wild west wrangling, I had roped and subdued the tiny terrorist into the sweetest of nap time slumbers. I practically skipped out of her room as I oh so quietly closed her door, danced over the squeaky floorboard, gave my dog the look that said "you bark at the mailman even a little and you're pound bound" and stopped for a moment on my way to collapse on the couch just to revel in the serene sound of silence.

As I eagerly anticipated working out the mind numbing reality television show in which I was going to fully indulge, I heard the faintest sound of knocking. The dog's ears perked right up as she emitted a low growl. I frantically lunged at her as I whisper shouted SSSSHHHHHH! She looked at me apologetically. She didn't want to wake up the toddler any more than I did. I glanced toward the front door, confirmed that no one was standing there, and, convinced that both the dog and I should have our hearing checked, proceeded to turn on the tv.

I was only two seconds into the glorious drama that is Southern Charm when I heard the sound again. Knock, knock, knock. The dog jumped up, the hair raised on her back, poised to bark and ruin nap time and my subsequent veg time. I couldn't let that happen. I quieted the dog as I tiptoed toward the front door, ready to yell at what I thought for sure was the UPS guy. Thanks for supporting my online shopping addiction, Mr. UPS Man, but I swear to God if you wake the baby it is so on!

But no one was at the front door. Fully perplexed, I scratched my head in confusion but nothing - NOTHING - was going to keep me from the comfort of the couch and the endless time suck of the old tube. As I turned my back to the door, I heard it again. This time, the knocking was authoritative and definitive.

What. The. Heck.

The dog and I looked at each other, then looked down the hall, then looked back at each other. Her expression matched my bewildered one as I muttered, in my best Shaggy voice, "Uh oh Scoobs! This isn't good!"

The knocking, you see, was coming from inside the house. My heartbeat quickened as my spidey senses kicked into high gear. Slowly, I walked down the hallway, the pooch following closely behind. I made it to my daughter's room and as I cautiously opened the door and looked down, I saw it....

The tiny toddler terrorist had catapulted herself out of her crib and was furiously knocking on her bedroom door, demanding to be let out! She laughed when she saw my face, patted me on the leg and ran down the hallway with the gusto of an inmate who had tried for years and finally succeeded in busting out of the 'pen.

And as she claimed her new found freedom, I felt the carefully constructed walls of my own autonomy begin to crumble. I almost had a whole hour to myself - And I would have, too, if it hadn't been for that pesky kid!

There's Something Amiss in the Old Clubhouse

I owe a lot to the old Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. The toddler terrorist has loved the show since she was a little baby. This baby crack has saved me many a time when all avenues of child soothing was exhausted. I don't know what it is about this show, but it just does the trick. Do I feel guilty that Mickey is a better parent than I? Sure. Do I sometimes cringe when I use Mickey as a babysitter so that I can do super fun things like clean the bathrooms, cook dinner, steam clean the floors, vacuum the bedrooms...? Absolutely. Do I sometimes swear off the Micky sauce? Totally. But without an Intervention style rehab stint, it's just not going to happen. And if you did try an intervention, I would be the addict who agrees only after stipulating that I get to go home first and pick up some "stuff". I'd then pack up all the Mickey and the terrorist and fly the coop.

Because the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse acts a surrogate husband and father in our house, I have had the luxury of noticing a few action items that require some attention. These things simply do not make sense. I have outlined my observations below because I am a responsible parent who pays attention to details.

1. Why do Daisy and Donald refuse to wear pants while Mickey likes to rock it shirtless? I might wear the same outfit day in and day out. I might forget to put on makeup and on a crazy day when the tiny terrorist has tried to kill me, I might even forget deodorant. I often forget to brush my hair. But I always remember my pants and my shirt (you're welcome, world). Do the ducks face a closet devoid of pants or do they actively decide not to don their bottom duds? I know Mickey can afford a nice shirt with that fat Disney paycheck. His girlfriend Minnie seems like a proper lady. Why doesn't she do the girlfriend thing and buy him a shirt that he hates but wears anyway because he knows wearing the shirt is easier than receiving the silent treatment for the next few weeks? I'm just fascinated by these various states of undress. Perhaps I'm just jealous.

2. If Goofy and Pluto are both dogs, why does Goofy get to wear clothes and speak English while poor Pluto is...well, a dog? Poor Pluto! It must be so frustrating to be the same species of canine and yet he can't communicate but for a few ruff ruffs and a couple wags of the old tail. His agent probably had to negotiate the title of Pluto the Wonder Dog just to overcompensate for the fact that he doesn't get to be a lovable, clumsy, Goofy mess. He probably gets paid less, proving that even a cartoon canine can hit a glass ceiling.

3. Minnie has two nieces, Millie and Melody. Where the heck are their parents? These adorably mischievous trouble makers just show up sans parents demanding attention. When they don't get the requested consideration from their aunt, they resort to giggling maniacally, combining forces and wreaking havoc. Poor Minnie is the fun auntie and therefore has trouble with disciplining this child power couple. Remember when they screwed up Minnie's winter bow show? They giggled their way right out of trouble and then dragged poor Minnie along on their crazy adventure, causing her to completely neglect the bow show on which she worked so hard. Where were the parents? Taking a nap? There's nothing that bothers me more than a mysterious parent who drops their adorable but rebellious pint sized terrorists off with the sweet, unsuspecting relative. Better to plop them in front of the old babysitter Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and be done with it.

4. How does Daisy squeeze those duck feet into such a cute pair of shoes? Does she ever wish she could run around barefoot like Donald? I wonder if she ever gets sad that she can't just breathe a sigh of relief as she slips on a pair of flip flops. Everyone knows that webbed feet don't allow for sandals. She probably can't wait for the end of her work day when she can finally kick off those ridiculous shoes, stretch out her wide, flat feet and relax with a glass of wine.

5. Does anyone ever get the feeling that there is about to be a coup at the clubhouse? Mickey is clearly the star of the show, but Donald seems awfully exasperated a good portion of the time and Pete is always sabotaging his pal's plans. Seems innocent enough if you're not tuned in to the political power play that is prevalent in each episode. There is trouble in the clubhouse, folks. I'm telling you, there could be a House of Cards style power upset coming to a clubhouse near you. Minnie appears sweet, but you can tell there's a little Claire Underwood buried under all those pink bows. I'm just saying - things are about to get interesting.

These are just a few things that I have noticed about our good friend Mickey the Mouse. What things have you noticed amiss in the clubhouse?

Let it...Go?

Okay, okay. I get it. Parents are up to their eyeballs in Frozen. They're over it, but unfortunately their little ones are not. I've had conversations with other moms that go a lot like this:

Other Mom: "So how many times have you seen Frozen?"

Me: "Probably about 20 times."

Other Mom: "That's it? I've seen it 20 times too....This week."

I, on the other hand, am digging the Frozen phenomenon for one simple reason. Sure, I can recite every line and of course, I'd rather be watching bad reality television rather than listening to Anna lament her relationship with her sister (again), but Frozen has brought out something adorable in the tiny terrorist.

Turns out, the girl loves to sing. And it's adorable.

The first time I heard her singing Let it Go, I wasn't sure that was exactly what she was doing. I caught it on video so that I could run it by a few other judges for a ruling.

My husband wasn't convinced. But as the weeks went on, she became more and more animated. The way her face lights up when I play a song from the movie could thaw a Frozen heart. (See what I did there?) She now can belt out a rendition of Do You Want to Build a Snowman that is quite impressive if I do say so myself.

I get it. There is a major Frozen overkill. But I don't know if I can ever let it go when it comes to this adorable singing voice.

Taking to the Unfriendly Skies

In less than a month, I will be embarking on a solo plane trip with the tiny terrorist. It's a rite of passage through which all mothers must pass, but it has me trembling in my Toms. I have witnessed close friends of mine take flight with toddlers in tow without incident, but I always seem to be the exception to the rule. My husband and I travel frequently, yet we always seem to roll deep with stress and luggage.

Take the San Diego Airport. Whoever invented the Southwest terminal had a diabolical anti-baby plot brewing as he deviously drew up plans for a circular floor plan that forced the millions of travelers to shimmy by each other like packed sardines as they chase their own tails (or toddlers in our case) around, and around, and around...

Then this mischievous little terminal creator decided to put in one bar. It is always packed and the people are always spilling out into the already too small walkway, adding insult to injury to frazzled parents. Smell that delicious scent of libation freedom? Too bad you can't have any as you race through a throng of travelers, desperately chasing your independent (and really fast) child as she is resolutely hell bent on boarding a random flight sans parents.

Our last trip was particularly memorable. It was so crowded that I was forced to confine my little runaway in her stroller. The only good news was that her outraged screams were drowned out by the other travelers screaming over one another to be heard. I caught my husband's eye from across the terminal as we simultaneously rolled our eyes and pulled our imaginary triggers in a futile attempt to disappear from the hell that is the Southwest terminal of the San Diego Airport.

Now let's talk airplane. Everything you are doing with your child, the flight attendant demands you do the opposite. If you are wearing your baby, you must remove her from the carrier. Never mind that she is sleeping, it is a fabulous idea to remove her just so that the flight attendant can raise a disapproving eyebrow as the baby erupts into screams, cranky that she was just so rudely awoken. As we take to the unfriendly skies, we are admonished for playing Mickey Mouse without forcing our 13 month old to wear headphones. I'm sorry, ma'am - have you met a 13 month old? Surely you haven't, because if you had you would certainly understand that getting a child that age to wear pants is a success. Headphones might be pushing it a little. And as you reason with this lovely flight attendant who is just doing her job, you remind her that a screaming toddler is much more disruptive to the passengers than the background melody of Hot Diggity Dog.

No? Okay, lady, you asked for it. There goes my toddler, bum rushing the cockpit as she petulantly pelts peanuts at unsuspecting passengers while belting out her favorite war cry rendition of Let it Go. Face flushed and feeling as though every eye in the plane is boring into my back, I frantically lure the outlaw Bugsy Malone back to her seat with a trail of toddler tricking snacks and resume the task of containing the wiggle worm to her assigned seat. Sigh.

We once sat next to a nice man with really long dreadlocks. When he first sat down next to us, we told him he was brave. He laughed it off and said she looked like a sweet girl and besides that, he loves kids, he claimed. My husband and I raised our eyebrows and smirked. Fast forward to mid flight, and the tiny terrorist was having the time of her life yanking on his luscious locks while he looked tried to laugh it off but was surely covertly Googling where he could turn in his kid loving card.

I have always had my husband to help wrangle the wild one. When she is sick of me, she can climb on her dad and vice versa. This time I will be flying solo with my sidekick who is always unpredictable. If it goes badly but I live to tell the tale, I will sure to share my stories. I'll see you on the other side!

Do you have any tricks for traveling alone with a toddler?

Ramblin' Fever

Ah, the Great Outdoors. The melodic sounds of birds chirping, ocean waves crashing, wind whispering through the trees, and the air punctuated by the shrill shrieks of a tiny toddler in the throes of a temper tantrum. As the record scratches and the music abruptly comes to a halt, the overwhelming beauty of the nature hike we were just enjoying blurs into the background as my tiny terrorist planks in the middle of the trail demanding that the we stop immediately and prove that once again, the world does in fact revolve around her. Goldfish crackers are frantically yanked out of a perpetually cluttered diaper bag, soothing shushing noises escape from adult mouths as if that might make a difference, heads swivel back and forth scanning to see who is noticing this debacle and desperately hoping not to overhear the disapproving clucks of fellow hikers. Just another day in paradise, baby.

I'm starting to get that rambling fever that creeps up every now and again. The palpable urge hits me to pack up the truck and drive across stretches of open highway for days on end Thelma and Louise style, blasting Tom Petty and getting into the kind of trouble you just don't find when caring for a tiny human. The only thing I want in my face is the sunshine. Who cares where the road leads me as long as it never ends. As long as the sound of silence remains uninterrupted by the incessant voice of Mickey the damn Mouse.

Just as I have mentally made it past the California state line, just as I begin to almost hear the first few chords of Free Fallin', just as I have escaped into a daydream so blissful I can almost taste the sweet fruit of freedom...

My tiny toddler picks herself up off the dusty trail, looks around at the wonder of the world completely unimpressed, flashes an unapologetic smile, and whips those pigtails around as she runs off.

As I chase her down the trail to save her from the impending danger of her adventurous spirit, it occurs to me - She has that rambling fever. The only thing she wants in her face is the sunshine. Who cares where the road leads her as long as it never ends. She is going to find the kind of trouble only a tiny toddler terrorist can discover. She will not live in a world without Mickey. Thelma and Louise have nothing on the Outlaw Bugsy Malone. And seriously how old am I? She couldn't care less about Tom Petty. Let it Go, she'd rather Build a Snowman.

So I am once again reminded that when I get that rambling fever, I'm going to have a sidekick along for the ride. We will find the kind of trouble that only a mother and daughter can. And oh sweet sunshine, I hope this road never ends.