Life with Kid A... and the YaYa Sister

Superstar Husband: (trying to get Kid A to do his business on the throne a little more expediently) "Come on, Kai, push it out!"

Kid A: (thinks for a minute) "Should I push the poop out with the bottom of my heart?"


Today I had a little talk with the two crazy kids about why we shouldn't pretend to breastfeed on each other's chests. (Kid A: "Can I have some of your num-nums, YaYa? Here, have some of mine!") Mainly I emphasized that num-nums are private. (By the way, num-nums is the word that Kid A not only uses for breast milk, since ever since I had YaYa, he's been calling breasts num-nums too. As in, my bra is for my num-nums.)

Boy, do I love Kid A. He seems to get sweeter and more ornery every day. Sometimes when we're hanging out he gets all mushy and his eyes fog over a little and he starts to heap extravagant compliments on me. "Hey Mama? I like your hair. It's so pretty. Um, Mama? I like your shirt. That's a nice orange color. I like those glasses. Are they new? I like the way your hands look. I like it when you touch my cheek..." Or, like today, he'll simply put one hand on each of my cheeks, stare into my eyes, and say, "I really like you, Mama." Wow. Blow me away. He reminds me of my brother Matty, who even through all our crazy teenage hate-you/love-you years would exclaim, "You're so beautiful!" if he saw me in a new outfit. The YaYa Sister? She's my girl, my little friend, my conspirator. But Kid A? Kid A is in love with me.

All of this flies out of my head, though, when he decides to make a long, drawn-out, annoying and loud issue during Renee's birthday supper about the fact that I, like the cruel mother I am, put SPAGHETTI SAUCE on his spaghetti. Imagine. This is the first time that sauce has ever been an issue. Perhaps his buddy Jed eating plain noodles had something to do with it. Cool kids don't eat sauce I guess.