Mother of the Year

As if it isn't bad enough to walk into daycare, and feel like every other parent is judging you. What I am wearing. . . what Mikie is wearing. . . is his face covered in syrup from breakfast. . . is he bouncing off the walls. . . what sugary breakfast did I pack him this morning. . .

The other day, I go to pick Mikie up from daycare. As usual, he doesn't want to put his coat on. Since the car was still warm, and parked two spaces from the front entrance, I figured he would survive the short walk in the cold to the car.

Of course, as soon as we step outside, he starts crying "I'm freezing. I need my jacket". Immediately, someone turns to look at me (their well behaved child was bundled up). So, I respond in a loud enough voice that others could hear "But you didn't want to wear your jacket. We'll put it on when we get to the car."

Not a minute later, as I am struggling to force him into his carseat, he starts screaming "I WANT MY MOMMY!" Now, you can imagine the whiplash people got as they turned to see what was going on. In a desperate attempt to act like this was a normal interaction for us, I laugh "I AM you're mommy, silly".

Obviously, no one at that daycare is nominating me for mother of the year. I just count myself lucky that they didn't call the police.

Why doesn't he pull these stunts when Mike picks him up?

Love,
The Trahans

"You're a good kid. . .

Now make me some eggs." - Mike Cowper

Oh how those words made me laugh evertime I heard them. Mike, four years my senior, was the most entertaining boss I ever had. A Penn State grad, he knows how to party. And so, I dedicate this post to him.

Ever the helper, Mikie decided he wanted eggs for breakfast. So, in a moment of sheer insanity, I let him make his eggs. Right down to scrambling them in the hot pan. Obviously, I was standing guard, reminding him every 30 seconds not to touch the stove or the pan itself.

Luckily for me, he enjoys cleaning even more than he does cooking. Now, if only I could get him to listen to directions, I would have the model child.

Love,

The Trahans

The New Yankee Workshop

Watch out, Norm Abrams. There is a new kid in town:

I don't know how much of a threat he can actually pose with a tape measure that only measures up to 8 inches in length and a wrench shaped like Cookie Monster. But, he looks like a force to be reckoned with, standing in his khakis and flannel shirt. Can we fix it. . . Mikie can!

If your looking for a civil engineer, we may have your man (give or take 19 years and a degree).

Love,

The Trahans

Mikie and the Balloon

We like to eat at a restaurant called "Red Robin" from time to time. They basically serve burgers (that is the majority of the menu) with unlimited steak fries. And, best of all, they give you a stack of onion rings that looks like a kids toy. . . you know, the donuts on a stick. They are also relatively kid friendly.

After a quick dinner at Red Robin, Mikie cajoled the hostess into giving him a balloon. Everyone is deceived by his cute appearance into thinking that he is well behaved. Especially when he says "Please" and "Thank you" without being prompted (it makes every 20-something girl go "Aww"). No sooner do we get home, then he releases it in our family room. . . you know, the room with the 18 foot ceiling. After the fourth or fifth time of jumping up to grab the tail end of the string, Mike ties the balloon to his jeans. That works until Mikie, playing tug of war to get the balloon back, pulls the string off the balloon. Unfortunately, our cat like reflexes are rather slow by 8pm, and neither of us could grab the balloon in time. . .

Fortunately, the balloons are made of latex, not mylar. So, it lost it's helium by the time we woke up the next morning and floated down to the floor.

Love,
The Trahans

The Long Road Home

Mikie has grown to like his new daycare so much that he doesn't want to leave. The same child who, last week, told me "I no play with my friends ANYmore" had to be carried out of school kicking and screaming last night. For almost the entire 20 minute ride home he screamed "I no want go home". Makes you feel loved, huh?

Having read my copy of the Super Nanny, I opted to ignore his fit in the hope that he would calm down. Half way through our ride, he stopped. I turned to him and said "Are you finished?" To which he replied, "No".

He resumed screaming until we pulled into the driveway, at which point he was ecstatic to be home and see Mike.

He is too smart for his own good. Luckily, he's cute, and gives the best bear hugs ever. But, you can now see where he gets his nickname from. . . he is Trouble.

Love,
The Trahans

Dumpster Diving for PJs

My mom will never forgive me if I leave this story out of our website. Over his two years of life, my favorite pictures of Mikie are of him in his Christmas pajamas. His first Christmas he wore these cute green velour PJs with "Santa's Helper" written across the behind:
His second Christmas, he had cute fitted pajamas that accentuated his rotund belly:


This year, I found red long johns (the ones with the butt flap) at RedEnvelope.com. As an added bonus, you could personalize them. On December 1st, the night before we moved, I received the Christmas PJs. Mike was in Maryland for his last day as an employee of Northrop, so I was alone with Trouble. I opened the box to see they were there, then tossed it aside, figuring they would be safer in the box until after the move. By the end of the evening, thanks to Mikie, the box had been kicked into the dining room near the trash can.

The next morning was moving day. We woke up, dropped Mike off to pick up the moving truck, and started loading stuff into the car and driving it to the new house. On one of my return trips, I realized that I couldn't find the Christmas PJs. I called Mike, and he told me he threw the box in the dumpster when he took out the trash. Well, since there was no way I was going to shell out another $40 for pajamas, I raced back to the apartment to see if I could retrieve the box before anyone else threw out their trash.

Luckily, the dumpster was mostly empty. Unluckily, it did not have one of those sliding doors in the side. After setting Mikie up watching cartoons in the apartment, I carried a chair out to the dumpster. I leaned over the dumpster, using a coat hanger to flip the box over with one hand, and trying desperately to grab the plastic bag out of the box with the other. No sooner do I have the bag in hand when I hear something fall "clink" to the bottom of the dumpster. I reach for my pocket, just in time to realize that my keys had fallen out of it.

Being that the dumpster is taller than me, there was no way I could reach those keys without someone dangling me over the side by my legs. I could't even get close to them with the coat hanger. Sacrificing Mikie's step stool to the cause, I threw it into the dumpster and lowered myself onto it (because, with my luck, I figured that I might not be able to get out again without something to stand on). I grabbed my keys out of the puddle they were sitting in (I kept trying to convince myself it was just rainwater) and quickly made my escape.

Amazingly, the pajamas were completely unscathed (although, we washed them a couple times before use just to be safe). And, after a ton of antibacterial hand soap and Chlorox wipes, my keys and I were too.

It was all worth while to see Mikie running around Christmas Eve and Christmas morning in these:

The moral of the story (according to Mike): don't put a box by the trashcan unless you want it thrown out. I think it should be: Send your husband into the dumpster to retrieve what he threw away!

Love,
The Trahans

Belated Christmas Stories

Okay, so I am not only behind in sending Christmas cards, I am also behind in my blog. So, to pacify my mom (who calls to remind me I haven't posted certain stories), I am now trying to summarize "Christmas at the Trahans". . .

Here comes Trouble, awake at 7:30 after only 6 hours of sleep (he usually gets 10), venturing down the stairs to see what all the commotion is about. What you can't see is Mom (me) cheering and trying to drum up excitement that "Santa came" as I simultaneously try to take the pictures. I suffer from insomnia on Christmas Eve. . . I can't sleep from the excitement of seeing everyone open their presents. You also can't see Dad (Mike), Grand Da (my dad) and Pookie (my mom) waiting anxiously at the bottom of the staircase for Mikie to descend. As you can see, the pressure of so many people watching got the best of him, and he had to sit down.

Fifteen minutes later, we finally made it to the family room to see what Santa left. You can see everyone standing around, waiting anxiously to see Mikie's reaction to all of the presents:

Evidently, it was not as exciting as we thought. In a sleep deprived stupor, Mikie surveyed the room full of presents, and immediately attacked the Elmo Tool Bench he got from Gram the night before.

We gave up, and started exchanging presents amongst ourselves. Eventually, we cajoled Mikie into opening some presents too (although the first few were opened with the help of his Elmo Tools). By the end of the morning, Mike inherited the task of assembling the Thomas play table. Unfortunately, Mike's knee is all that appears in the picture. I know my dad took pictures of Mike assembling the table, but they have mysteriously disappeared.

Mikie, later arrested for drinking dairy products while operating a train, puffed over the bridge and around the living room on Big Thomas. He kind of reminds me of a young Richie Rich.

Merry Belated Christmas.

Love, The Trahans

The Christmas Hotdog

When you think of Christmas dinner, most people think of having a ham, turkey, duck. But how many people can say they feasted on a Christmas hotdog. . . anybody?

After a drawn out morning of present opening, a delicious breakfast of eggs, bacon, and homefries, my mom and I prepared a delicious Christmas dinner. We had a honey baked ham, au gratin potatoes, pineapple, corn, crescent rolls (because Mike has issue with holiday meals that do not include breads). And what did Mikie want for dinner? Yes, a hotdog. Complete with ketchup and mustard.

On its own, this would not be an amusing story. However, in the middle of our Christmas feast, our good friends Chris and Christine Ryan called. And Mikie, and their son Matthew (who is also two) had a conference call. You can imagine a conference call between two year olds. For those who can't, it went something like this:

Chris: "Matthew, say 'Hi' to Mikie."

Matthew: "Hi"

Mike: "Mikie, tell Matthew 'Merry Christmas'."

Mikie: "Merry 'Ristmas, Matthew."

Matthew: silence (because he is thinking about his new motorcycle)

Mike: "Mikie, tell Matthew what you are having for dinner."

Mikie: "I eat hotdog with ketchup mustard." (that is an exact quote).

Thankfully, we have unlimited long distance, otherwise I wouldn't have been two keen at the thought of two toddlers running up my long distance to say hi and talk about their dinners. However, with a couple of glasses of wine in my mom and I, this conversation (which, like all conference calls was on speaker phone) was hilarious. My dad kept joking that our friends must be wiring us money at the thought of us being so broke from buying our new home that we had to eat hotdogs on Christmas day.

Rest assured, we are not filing for bankruptcy. We just have a two year old who would live on nitrates if we let him.

Hopefully you all had a scrumptious (and hotdog free) holiday feast.

Love, The Trahans