Last week I needed to use my flashlight and of course the batteries were dead. Of course. Maybe you store your batteries in the fridge, some people do. I store my batteries in the flashlight until they die a dark and lonely death with no one beside them to urge them to “Go to the light! Go to the light!” That way I can always find a dead battery if I need one.

Aside: I don’t think I’ve ever a) been able to locate my flashlight when I really needed it and b) consequently found it “not-dead”. The flashlight is like the armadillo – for the most part, useless, and you never come across one that’s not deader than a doornail.

Anyway.

Sean asked me what I was doing as he watched me working to replace the batteries.

“Well, the batteries ran out,” I said, “So I’m putting in some new ones.”

His eyes grew wide with concern. “They ran out?” he asked sounding slightly alarmed as he peered into the empty cannister.

“Yup.”

“Where did they go?”

I stopped to laugh at the mental image of a pair of C-cell batteries with skinny legs running away to freedom, hand in hand.

That boy, he makes me stop what I’m doing and laugh at least once a day — and that recharges my batteries.

I am given to the occasional curse word. It’s probably the thing I like least about myself. But it happens. Especially in moments of frustration, and given that I’m a person who is easily and often frustrated, it happens more than I’d like to admit.

And now that I have a child who is omniscient – is aware of all, sees all, hears all, repeats all – I have really made an effort to do better in that regard. But I fail. Oh how I fail.

This morning I was trying to make a pot of coffee, a reasonably simple and familiar task. Just as I was about to put the coffee grounds into the filter basket, I bumped it on the edge of the coffeemaker and coffee grounds went flying everywhere except into the basket. I had coffee grounds in the silverware drawer, all over the counter, on the floor, down my shirt, in the pan of cinnamon rolls I was about to bake, but not one speck in the coffeemaker. Not a good thing for a person who hasn’t yet had any coffee. And of course I said, “dammit!” And then when I stood up from wiping up coffee grounds off the floor, I bumped my head on the cabinet door. And again I said “dammit!” And then I said “dammit” because I couldn’t quit saying dammit and dammit, I really needed some coffee and the coffee gods were conspiring against me!

When I realized that two little ears had taken it all in with great interest, I told him that “dammit” is not a nice word and that mommy shouldn’t have said it and that he should never say it either. Never tell a toddler that. Just don’t. Trust me on this, unless you want to hear your toddler say “dammit” all day long.

As we were sitting down to eat Coffee Grounds flavored cinnamon rolls (They’re crunchy! Want the recipe?) he pretended to bump his knee on the table and began dancing around and hopping on one foot saying, “Oh damage! I bumped my knee!”

And so, there you have it. Damage! My new pseudo-curse word, courtesy of my three-year-old. And really, in a weird sort of way, I think it more accurately reflects my sentiment on those occasions when I’m picking coffee grounds out of my bra.

This morning I was trying to get Sean dressed for Sunday school and made the mistake of trying to help him put on his socks. After he yelled, “NO! I DO IT MYSELF!” I deduced that he didn’t want my help. I’m intuitive like that.

For three or four minutes, I watched him wrestle the sock onto his little square Fred Flintstone foot and somehow I managed to resist the unbearable urge to DO IT FOR HIM. After he got his sock on, I noticed that he had the heel part in the front and I advised him that perhaps he might want to turn it around.

“You need to turn your sock around dude,” I said, “Your sock is askew. Can you say askew?”

And then without missing a beat he said, “Okay, but then you have to say God bless you.”

God bless you my funny little boy. How you make me laugh.

AM: Sean, do you have poo poo pants?

Sean: No.

AM: Are you sure, because I smell poo poo. Come here, let me check.

(Stands with his back to me and bends over slightly, a pose we call the check for poo-poo-pants stance, one I half way expect airline security personel to add to their arsenal of ways to humiliate the flying public in the coming year. I pull his diaper back to expose the cutest little plumbers crack ever.)

AM: Sure enough, no poo poo, but I smell something.

Sean: Must be you.

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NOT!

Even though Playmobil sounds somewhat like Peemo Boat to the untrained ear, it is in fact not. Christmas is as good a time as any to crush the hearts of little children so that they should learn from the great philosopher Mick – you can’t always get what you want, yet you still have to say thank you. I give it six weeks before this non-Peemo Boat and it’s 78 parts finds its way to the trash heap goes missing.

The most favored toy status has been officially conferred upon the Magna Doodle, a gift from Aunt Annette. Thanks Annette!

And now, this Christmas season, it is finished.

Except for the fight over when/how to take down the tree and and the Discover card bill. Those things of Christmas 2006 shall live on into the coming year.

Antique Daddy: I can’t believe the language Sean uses.

GULP! I get that sickening “Called To The Principal’s Office” feeling in the pit of my stomach. I am mentally beating my breast and tearing my clothes. Where did I put my sackcloth and ashes? I am caught and I am guilty. I knew that one day it would come to this. I knew that one of these days it would come back to bite me in the…. behind. I knew that kids repeat everything. I knew that I had to overcome my love and appreciation of the well-placed curse word. I was in trouble. I cringed and braced myself for a well-deserved rebuke.

Antique Mommy: (coyly) Oh, really? Whatever do you mean?

Antique Daddy: This morning, he pulls out your computer lap desk from under the bed and he brings it to me and says, “Look Daddy. This lap desk is similar to yours, only smaller.” How many 3-year-olds use the word similar?

Sean: (from under the bed) One!

Antique Mommy: (Heavy sigh of relief — comic relief)

It looks like item one on my New Year’s Resolution list will be the same as it has been for the past 25 years.

Last year, it was the chicken wipes mystery, which was later solved, thanks to my astute readers who are fluent in toddlerese. Last years chicken wipes are this years ticket whites. We are making progress.

This year’s mystery phrase is Peemo Boat.

When I ask Sean what he wants for Christmas, he will say, “A boat.” And then I say, “What kind of boat?” And then he says, “A Peemo Boat.” And then I say “A Peemo boat?” and walk away scratching my head.

Anyone have any idea what a Peemo boat is? You’ve got 24 days to figure it out.

* * *

This mystery remains unsolved: http://antiquemommy.com/2006/12/26/look-a-peemo-boat/

Little known fact: The Navajo invented their super-secret code not to throw off the other Indians, but because they had toddlers. Everyone with a toddler knows that they are omniscient — they see all, hear all and are acutely aware of all. Navajo code is the only way to keep information, which they will use against you, out of their hands.

This past weekend we stayed in a hotel and we were enjoying breakfast in the dining room when Antique Daddy leans over to me and almost inaudibly whispers, “Nature calls. I’m going back to the room.”

As Antique Daddy makes his way towards the door, Sean announces to the other diners, “DADDY’S GOING ON A NATURE CALL!”

Anyone know Navajo for Nature Call?

Toddlers are very tactile people. They like to touch things. They must touch things. They can’t not touch things.

Nonetheless, as a parent you strive to teach them to overcome their nature and to not touch things. It is very difficult. It requires the ability to repeat “don’t touch” about 40 billion times or until the hinges on your jaw are worn smooth.

And since you yourself have probably been in a store, you know that they are filled with fantastic, wonderful, delightful, sparkly, glistening, visually delicious things that scream at you “Touch me! Go ahead! Touch me! I promise ya, you’ll like it!” as you walk past. And even though you try to ignore the merchandise that shamelessly begs you to publicly fondle it, you can’t. And then when you can resist no more and you pick up the bauble and turn it over and look at it’s sexy bottom for a price you will hear this announcement over the Emergency Broadcast System:

“MOM! PUT THAT DOWN! DON’T TOUCH! LOOK WITH YOUR EYES, NOT WITH YOUR HANDS!”

Anybody Googling for anything antique, usually end up here at Antique Mommy sooner or later — undoubtedly disappointed to find the only antique around here is me.

Today, however, Mr. Google dispatched someone searching for antique coffee urine. There’s plenty of that around here of a morning. I just didn’t know there was a market for it.