Neurotic to the Marshmallow

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:

Ten Things I'm Grateful to Have Seen

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.

The Follically Challenged Apple Doesn't Fall Far from the Tree

OK, I admit it. I am frustrated that the Toddler is seemingly NEVER going to have hair. The kid is just shy of 2 1/2, and yet I still haven't given her a haircut. I have trimmed a few wild strands of hair that apparently got the GROW! BABY! GROW! message because they were so much longer than the others. I think in all I have cut eight strands of that little mullet. EIGHT STRANDS.

This is a travesty, you know. I am a skilled French-braider. I can do Dutch braids. I know how to twist hair up all foofy and cool. There really isn't much that I can't do. Except, there isn't a dang thing that can be done with hair that seemingly doesn't grow and is determined to stay a mullet. There are kids in Alexis' daycare class that have to get haircuts every four weeks, including girls. One three-year old has already grown her hair long enough and cut enough of it off at once to do Locks of Love. Not my kid, though. She might finally have enough hair to be able to Locks of Love when she's, oh 30 or so. I might cry real tears over this whole thing.

Except.

Except that this morning, Alexis asked for ponytails (she nearly always asks for something to be done with her hair and I try very hard not to laugh in her face and tell her to go shave the Lhasa Apso and make a wig because she doesn't have enough hair for jack). I figured I would see just how long she would sit still. I challenged my little hands to what I previously thought was impossible.

French braids.

They lasted approximately fourteen minutes and then The Toddler ripped them out. Because she ROCKS like that. Dangnabit.

Do they make Rogaine for Toddlers? Anybody?

BTW, the first person that points out that she obviously has my hair, thereby forcing me to acknowledge that it will be two more years before she will get hair is getting a poopy diaper in the mail. Don't think that I won't track your IP address and do it, BECAUSE I WILL.

(Except, I am far too technically stupid and lazy to actually do it, so I'll just mentally mail you a poopy diaper. But, it will stink to high heaven, even if just in my mind.)