your blog should be about 2-year-old boys

A friend told me today, "your blog should really just be about 2-year-old boys."

It's a good idea. Such a blog should exist.

2-year-old boys are a never ending fount of blog-worthy insanity, and nobody needs more comfort than the mom of a 2-year-old.

I remember when we first had Chicken and I pitched an idea to Ryan:

Me: There should be like a Big Brother show except it follows first-time parents as they like learn how to breastfeed, and they get peed on, and the figure out how to like use the stroller and navigate this life that they've just landed in, you know?

Ryan: That sounds like the worst show ever.

Me: Oh my God you're totally right. 

Ryan: Yeah. Super boring. 

Me: YES.

Ryan: And depressing.

Me: There would be like hours of footage of me refreshing Facebook on my iPhone while Chicken sucks on my boob.

Ryan: Yeah. I don't think that one's going to be coming this fall anytime soon. Nobody would want to have kids anymore if they watched that.

I stand by my instinct.  There should be a depiction of new parenthood that feels true. It's been so long since "Three Men and a Baby" made us laugh and cry as both a delightful sendup of hapless bachelor parenting, and a searing commentary on how it feels when a cherub-cheeked succubus lands on your doorstep one morning and turns your life upside down. 

A blog about 2-year-old boys would certainly be more entertaining than a Big Brother show about newborns, whose personalities run the gamut from enraged to mildly alarmed to sleepy.

Proposed 2-Year-Old-Boy Blog Posts:

"Hey, Ma, I Put Something in One of My Holes!"

THROW ALL THE THINGS

Shit my kid pulled today that has never been a thing before but is super unacceptable and now Mommy has to read a book really fast about how to make sure he never does that shit again.

Meals by Mom: Before and After photos:

Before: A turkey sandwich on whole wheat bread with avocado and tomato, with a side of pretzels, and a cup of seasonal organic fruit. A sippy cup of milk.

After: The pretzels and some of the fruit are gone, except for the cantaloupe which YOU LOVED YESTERDAY but whatever I guess YOLO and I'll be eating 9/10ths of a cantaloupe this week. The top piece of bread has been torn into small pieces and floats, disintegrating, in a puddle of milk like airplane wreckage. The turkey and tomato lie untouched on the bottom piece of bread, also disintegrating. The avocado is smeared, drying into a brown crust all over the handle of the sippy cup.

Things My Two-Year-Old Calls His Penis
Chicken's current favorite is "pieces," as in:
"Mommy pieces?" 
"No baby, Mommy doesn't have pieces." 
"Mommy crazy?"
Unrelated. But yes.

Why We Can Never Return To That Playground

We could also have a "(NAME) LOOK AT MOMMY" counter. And a "Stop. Stop. STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP" counter. And a "Can you say please?" counter. And a "That's not your snack" counter.

We could have a missed connections forum, except it would be for moms to apologize to other moms for shit their toddlers did to each other.

Your daughter had blonde pigtails and was wearing pink Dora the Explorer sunglasses. My son poured a bucket of sand over her head. If you're reading this... I'm sorry. Your daughter took it like a champ, but you know, you might have some grit to clean out of your tub tonight.

or

You were talking to a group of your girlfriends while your quiet dark-eyed, curly-haired son drew with sidewalk chalk nearby. My Chicken walked up to your son, ripped the chalk from your son's hand, and stuffed it down the front of his own diaper. Then he squatted down so his face was inches from your son's face, and whispered "CHICKEN'S TURN." I laughed. It was kind of awesome. But your son looked pretty freaked out, so I'm sorry about that. I'm going through some stuff.

We could just have one-sentence stories about how our boys were both glorious and gruesome on the span of twenty seconds. 

We could have a list of completely innocent words that our kids say that sound like expletives.

At the kitchen table:

Chicken: Fuck.
Me: What?
Chicken: Fuck!
Me: I'm sorry? What are you saying?
Chicken, pointing: Fuck! Fuckfuckfuckfuck!
Me: Are you asking for a FORK?
Chicken: Yeah! 

After art class:

Chicken: Aw shit.
Me: Come again?
Chicken: Aw shit. 
Me: (silence)
Chicken: Aw shit. Aw shit aw shit aw shit. Aw shit. PAINT.
Me: Are you asking me to wash it? To wash the paint off your hands?
Chicken, holding out painty hands: Aw shit.

Wait a minute...

I think this blog might already exist. 

I THINK I MIGHT BE WRITING IT RIGHT NOW.

I THINK... you might be reading it, too. 

Holy shit that's so meta.

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