Coffee Time

Life pre- and post- kids: I'm not the first blogger to reflect on the topic, nor am I the first cartoonist to draw on it.

But it's commented on often because it's not something you truly appreciate until you're there. Every so often, you go through an experience and it hits you how much even the little things have changed since your munchkin invasion. Usually (usually!) we remark on it all with humour. It's a different world, alright, but we wouldn't trade it.

One such example is preparing my morning coffee. Hubs and I rather enjoy a good cup of coffee, and it was quite the ritual to prepare it back in our DINK days.

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Fast-Forward to when Big Bro was born, when we bought one of those automated "home brewing systems" to make our life easier. And, in theory, it has done just that. Although...

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THREE STEPS! DISC! CUP UNDER SPOUT! PUSH BUTTON! Who forgets to put a cup under the darn thing?

Me, that's who. And not even once! FOUR TIMES to date! Rest assured, I am not exaggerating for the sake of comedy. Big Bro found it pretty funny, though. "'member when you forgot to put de cup, Mama?" yeah, yeah. Ha ha. It was ten minutes ago, but thanks for opening old wounds.

Once I've arranged kids and bowls and cereals and toasts and vitamins and bibs and trays and cut-up fruits and milk and spills and spoons that fell on the floor all while hashing out the plan of attack for the day, such a detail might go by the wayside in my overloaded brain.

Following this incident, a friend suggested (jokingly, I think) that the coffee could've been salvaged from the reservoir. Another option, I could add, would've been to just look in the microwave. There's likely a stone-cold one forgotten from the day before in there.

We love life with our kids, of course. We wouldn't trade it for all the fancy-schmancy coffee in the world. I would just like to remember to put in the &$%# cup.

On the Subject of Two-Year-Olds, Part 6

(This is the final instalment of some of my observations on two-year-olds)

6. Two-Year-Olds are very observant; or, to put it another way, they don't miss a thing.

We have officially moved into the spelling-everything stage when we don't want Big Bro to know what we're talking about (it's around the same infamous time that you realize they pick up, and remember forever, any bad words you let slip).

Sometimes I'll instead attempt to communicate in code (i.e., in French or Pig Latin) with Hubs, but Hubs has to get a little more discreet about it.

Me: I put his ALLOWEEN-HAY AG-BAY in the ARBAGE-GAY.
Hubs: WHAT? ... His Halloween bag in the garbage? What Halloween bag??

*Two-year-old bolts upright, meerkat-style*

No matter, because Big Bro already found out I threw out his "Halloween bag" (read: crappy Disney advertisement full of other crappy Disney advertisements handed out at the local play gym) on his own. I didn't do a thorough enough job of disposing of the evidence, and of course it took him all of two minutes to see the handle sticking out of the trash can.

He comes to me with big baby seal eyes:

Dang.

Awww, shucks! Who did that, now?? Heh heh! Fiddle-dee-dee, how'd that get there!

Never mind that he hadn't touched it once it got in the house.

Lesson learned. They are always watching, always noticing, always remembering. They notice when you're not wearing a hat even though you insisted they wear one (argh, but, but, I don't like hats!). They notice last night's empty chip bowl and pop cans and deduce out you had junk food at some point. They notice right away if we have a guest that has no hair. Out loud, I might add. They are always watching.

Being observant isn't always a bad thing, though. Not long ago, Hubs and I were granted a date night, and I decided to dress up a bit for the occasion. It's always nice to have that effort acknowledged, you know, and my dear son did not disappoint. He noticed right away.