The Death of the Dumb F*ck

I am sad to say it has finally happened. Rocky the Dumb F*ck has become Rocky the Dump Truck. Although I knew that at some point in his life Landon would have to learn how to pronounce his little mechanical toy's name (or he would traumatize his preschool teachers), I am still bummed that my entertainment is over. No longer will I be able to chuckle at the grimmaces of my mother as he runs into the room to turn on his toy, yelling "Wape up, dumb f*ck!," I won't be able to laugh at the looks of horror of the customers in the store when he sees stacks of them in the toy aisles and yells, "Look my mom, dumb f*cks!" I can no longer comfort him when he accidentally engages the motion sensor and whines, "Dumb f*ck scare me!" It is a sad day here. My little boy is growing up. Sniff, sniff.

"Oh Friggin, please report to lost and found...."

Today we had a good friend and her daughter over for a playdate, and we were discussing our children using our first names. My friend told me a story about how she had been at Target and found a little girl standing in the middle of the aisle, obviously lost. When she brought her to the service desk, the little girl became a little upset and said she wanted her mommy. When they asked her what her mommy's name was, she responded, "Mommy."

Just last night Landon heard me call Noland by his name, and had repeated it. He's called me by my name in the past, although it comes out more like "Prissy." And he can tell you his first and last name. So I thought we were doing ok.

I picked him up and said, "Landon, what is Dadad'n's name?" (Landon has always called him Dadad'n.)

He quickly responded, "Noand," which is close enough.

"And what is my name?"

"My mom."

My friend asked him at this point, "What is mommy's other name?"

He didn't answer, so I asked him, "What does Dadad'n call My Mom?"

This answer came quickly. "Oh friggin!"

Awesome. So if you ever hear, "Oh Friggin, please report to lost and found..." just assume that Landon is lost. And that Noland is in trouble.

Telling time

This weekend, Landon and I made the trip from Virginia to Pennsylvania (or as Landon says, "Pennsylane-ya") to visit some of my extended family. Driving up was a long trip. Made longer by the fact that Landon insists on listening to the same songs over and over. And over. If I had to hear the "Boom boom" song one more time, I think I was going to shoot someone. But, we finally got there just in time for naptime. Or, what should have been naptime.

One wonderful thing about my house is child locks. I have learned that they are not made as much for keeping Landon out of rooms as they are for keeping him in rooms. Like his bedroom. If he can't get out, he has no choice but to take a nap. The family friends we were staying with live in a 100 year old house with those beautiful crystal doorknobs. I learned quickly that those doorknobs are not only pretty to look at, but very easy to open. My little escape artist kept popping out of his room to "investigate." After being with him in the car for seven hours, I just wanted him to take a nap so I could have five minutes of downtime. I finally showed him the clock in his room and told him that if the first number said "two" or "three" he was not to leave his room. I figured this would work, and went down to the living room to collapse.

Five minutes later I heard the thump of Landon getting out of bed, and soon he appeared at the top of the stairs. By this point I was livid, and snapped at him, "Landon, I told you that if that number was a two or three you were to stay in that room!"

"My mom, not a two or three."

I carried him into the room and plunked him down in front of the clock, prepared to show him again that he had time to go before naptime was over. But he was right. There was not a two or three on the clock. Because he had unplugged it.