Jet Packs: Now at Target

I was futzing with the radio when an interesting question floated up from the backseat.

Peapod:  "Mom, do they sell jet packs at Target?"

Me: "What?"

Peapod: "Do they sell jet packs?  At Target?"

I have turned off the radio, as this demands my full attention.

Me:  "No, I don't think so, Sweet Pea."

Peapod:  "How do you know?"

Me:  "Well, uh... Jet packs are for, um, scientists.  NASA people.  Astronauts! You really can't just buy a jet pack."

Peapod:  "But Daddy saw one at the Rose Parade.  Where did that guy get one?"

Me:  "Um.  Not at Target, that's for sure." I have begun to lose composure at this point.

The Edge: "JePaaak!  JePaaak!"

Peapod: "Well if you see a jet pack at Target and it's a good price, will you get it for me?"

Me:  "You got it, Boo."

Fake Cats Re-Arranged My Tupperware Drawer

People who write books about raising kids:

1. No longer have toddlers or babies and therefore have time to write actual books.
2. Are smug.

Anyway, I listened to these people and put all my tupperware-like plastic food storage containers into one low drawer that I let Peapod and The Edge have access to. The idea, according to these books, is that you arrange a few drawers in your kitchen to have only "safe" items in them, and then let your kids do as they please. The theory is that these fussy small people won't go caveman on you, because you've put the rest of your far more interesting kitchen stuff behind toddler locks and electrified cow fence.

What these book authors don't talk about is how this little arrangement will drive you slowly insane.

Let me explain.

The Edge loves cats. Not only does he know every cat in the neighborhood, he can point out where every cat has been in the neighborhood, for roughly the past 6 days. He also likes to imitate cats, which has inspired his sister to do the same.

So now I have two fake cats, meowing and re-arranging my tupperware drawer. Let me assure you, it sounds much cuter than it actually is, especially when you are trying to unload the dishwasher.

Well THAT Was Easy.

There are "Bottle Fairies."

These are apparently fairies who come in the night and take bottles away from toddlers who are otherwise occupied.

There are also parents who snip the nipples of bottles lower and lower until there is no more nipple to be had.

There are chapters in parenting books about how to wean your toddler off the bottle. There are pages and pages on the internet on this subject.

So as The Edge approached his second birthday, which is in April, I figured maybe I ought to pay attention to all this noise.  We did not go through any of this with Peapod because at the age when she was to be weaned from the bottle, she was in the hospital, recovering from her boo boo finger injury where she was strapped down and plugged into feeding tubes.  When we returned home a month later, she had completely forgotten about her bottle.

We hoped to avoid a similar bottle weaning plan for The Edge.

One day, about three weeks ago, Super Nanny burst into the kitchen with the following apology "So sorry -- I dropped The Edge's botella!"  She genuinely felt bad because we only had two left -- I was too cheap to buy any more, and it was clear that these were on their last legs.  It had slipped from Super Nanny's fingers in the driveway -- probably while she was hoisting The Edge, his diaper bag, the Plasma Car, his jacket, nine of his toys, and a bucket of sidewalk chalk, which I have seen her do.  She is Strong Like Bull, this woman.

"Don't worry about it."  I waved her off. "I think it's a sign."

It was time to wean The Edge off the bottle.  So I went to Target and bought him two of those sippy cups with the flimsy nipple-like tops and let Super Nanny know we'd start using those at bedtime to see how it goes.  We figured he's so tired by then maybe he wouldn't care.

He didn't care.

We did this for a few nights, just to be sure.

He didn't care.

So we ushered it in during nap time.

He didn't care.

Mind you, this is a kid who makes every diaper change difficult.  85% of the time I put him in a car seat, he screams, kicks his feet and arches his back.  For 7 weeks straight, right around the time he was 18 months old, he refused to nap in his crib. He is not the Happiest Baby on the Block. He is The Edge.

But man, that was easy.