What's so new about it?

     This morning was the first day of skewel after Christmas Baycation! No more waking up wit Bubbas to feast on cereals, and fwoot bars and watch Team Titans and play with my Waygoes. No more watching Bubbas play Minekwaft while Mamma and Dadda sweep. Instead, Mamma waked me up on a day that was too cold to put on shoes, and it wasn't time for breakfast yet and so I couldn't eat it. It was so cold that I only ate it a little bit and I left a crumb of waffle on my plate to show my disdain for the cold and offer the cruel god of winter a sacrifice in rebellion of his presence with me at breakfast lo these darkened days.

I can build whatever I imagine. I imagine a lot of abstract art.

     Mamma came downstairs and told me to put on my shoes. I told her I couldn't. When she asked me why, I explained gicuz I wasn't wearing any socks. She told me that was why I was cold. So the winter god is defeated by socks. My sacrifice must have appeased him. I had to hurry to put on my shoes because it was time to go. It's always time to go gicuz we're going to be late. I can buckle my own car seat and it's still Christmas outside some of the houses, but not all of the houses. Like my house, it only still has Christmas inside gicuz Dadda took off our lights outside. I often marvel at the ability to manipulate the season and time of day the way adults do. As if by magic they know when it is time for everything and how am I to argue when I don't have the info? Is anyone planning on providing me with a schedule? I try to tell people what's on my schedule, but grown-ups tell me my schedule is wrong and it's time for their agenda. When I get bigger I will tell everybody, we're late for playing. C'mon let's go! We're late! It's time to go!

     

I know what time it is.

      Skewel was just like I remembered it, a whirlwind of directions and activities and impulse control and coloring and playing with my friend Wacy and Joshua #2 and that's all the friends I have in my kwass. I had peanut butter and jelly sandwich, fwoot snacks, applesauce, and juice, but I was hoping for chocolate milk. One time Mamma gave me money for chocolate milk and sometimes after school they gots chocolate milk. Sometimes when we go out to eat I can have whatever I want to eat. Sometimes Dadda makes me what I want to eat. All the rest of the times no one gives me a menu. So all this coloring, whole days of coloring, and I don't even get to pick which meal I want at lunch. School has the worst kid's menus. 

"Out to Eat" - Joshua '13

Pokey the Cactus, an underrated mascot for the modern homeowner.

     When Dadda picked me up from school, my foot was hurted. I don't know how it got hurted, but it keeped on being hurted for awhile. Dadda told me I had marker on my face and to sit down and he taked off my shoe. He said the tongue was hurting my foot and that it's reepost to go on top of my foot, not down by my toes. Obviously Dadda doesn't know that the top of the foot doesn't taste like anything, it's the toes that have the real flavor. We drived home and it's still Christmas outside some of the houses. Mamma did Science with Bubba's and then Bubba's made me Mac and Cheese, but I wanted chips. There was too much Mac and Cheese and if I eated it all, then I wouldn't have room for the chips that I wanted, and I wasn't done watching the Waygo Movie and so Dadda said it was time for bed. When I went upstairs, the movie was already over and I didn't get to watch some of the parts. In the mirror I saw marker on my face and Dadda cleaned it off with my spider-man toothbrush after he brushed my teeth. Then we read a Waygo book and I went to sweep even though it was time for me to watch the Waygo Movie again. Dadda didn't bother to consult my schedule. I miss baycation. 

And Emmet and Wyldstyle and Goodcop Badcop and Unikitty and . . .

Today I am a pawn of the taskmasters back in my routine. Happy 2015!

Speech Delay

Dadda picked me up early from my daycare, Crapacus, right in the middle of pwaytime. I was still excited to see him, and the reassurance that we were going somewhere fun restrained me enough from letting loose a torrent of complaints and whines. I inquired as to our destination, but Dadda said he could not explain. Figures, Dadda has a limited vernacular with which to glean prospective verbiage when requested. I asked him if we were going home and he said no. I asked him if we were going somewhere else to play, and he said kinda. I don't know kinda. I suppose it's some sort of noncommittal response which, if like every other answer other than yes. . .means no. This time, however, it turned out to be yes.


We went to a new place, Dadda mentioned they were called portables, but even though they were much smaller and shabby looking then regular buildings, they looked only slightly mobile by even Joshie standards, what with my herculean strength and all. Some very excitable ladies greeted me, and I reluctantly entered, Dadda's hand firmly clutched in mine. Much to my chagrin there lay a treasure trove of treasures and even some troves, and. . .toys! Boy howdy! First, though, I had to answer some questions about some pictures in a flip book. What? You expect me to read and listen to some polite interrogation when there are new toys and games that need a fresh coating of boogers and some friendly incorporation into my fantasy world? Pshaw! So I quickly answered her queries: there's a wheel, that's a door, this one is crying, pirate, engine manifold, pi r squared, unicorn, whatever, I'm gonna go check out that school bus!


Dadda continued to visit with the ladies while I explored this fun land, then to my surprise, one of them came to join me. So I must do a jig for my supper, eh? I took it upon myself to instruct this kind woman in the proper conduct and procedures of pwaytime.


1. If it's on a shelf, remove it.
2. If it's in a container, take it out.
3. If it has wheels roll it.
4. If things fit in it, put things in it.
5. If it looks like a house, find something to crawl through the window. Not enough things enter through windows.
6. If it looks like food, bite it. Even fake food needs to be chewed on, lest it feels inferior to the real thing.
7. Finally, organize by fun factor, and imaginary rank in toy army and place neatly in rows.


She seemed to get the idea, but when I looked up to check for understanding, the lady had switched places with the other lady. Naturally, I had to start all over again. Finally Dadda said it was time to leave. I said the "potty" word so that I could explore the bathroom, and I found a climbing table with wipeys and such, but Dadda and one of the ladies said, no climbing. Then we left. On the way to the car I fell in the grass and learned that sometimes the ground is a crayon for pants! In the car, Dadda played with his phone and I told him to drive, because that's what you're supposed to do in the car.


Once again, home did not appear to be our destination and so I noticed a pwayspace, but Dadda said no. So I was forced to reason with him through whines and repetition. Finally Dadda calmed me down by explaining our destination did, in fact, include a pway area. That's what he said last time as well so I trusted him. . .this time. Sure enough we arrived at a pwayground, inside a place that served chicken and fwies. I went to play, but Dadda said we needed to get food first. Talk about misplaced priorities! I think if Dadda would play before and after eating, as opposed to. . .well never, then maybe he wouldn't be so tired all the time.


After I declared myself the unquestionable ruler of the pwayspace I came down for some victory chicken, fwies and milk. Afterwards, I tended to my subjects and although I heard Dadda proclaim our time for departure, I simply explained to him that subjects to not give orders to their monarch, to which he caught me at the bottom of my royal twisty slide and bade me step down from my throne. You could tell by the screams and uninterrupted playing of my faithful subjects that I would be missed. I expect a statue erected in my honor before next I return to the land of the Burger King.

Return of the King

After lunch we went to the food tasting store. Dadda bought my weekly supply of boxed milk, and pouched fruit and I tasted applesauce, fruit chews, barbecue chicken, applesauce, fruit leather, and a mango fruit chew. 

Food tasting store and purveyor of precious potables.

Then after a brief stop at some military place where Dadda exchanged a bag of clothing for a piece of paper, we went home for a mid-afternoon pre-nap / post-outing milk and applesauce followed by the most dreadful of activities, a nap.

Military garbage receipt exchange. Not pictured, man with receipt.

Later that evening Dadda and Mamma discussed the results of my playtime in the portable. Apparently I have what is called a speech delay. Heh, I could've told you that, this blog was written almost a year ago!


Today I am delayed, never late, nor am I early. I arrive precisely when I mean to.
  

Does not contain juice

Spring is in the air. It is the time when a toddler's fancee turns to thoughts of warmer weather and climbing the ropes in my imaginary wrestling ring and landing a pile-driver or my signature wrestling move, the "Joshie Collar Grab" on an unsuspecting victim. Given my Latino heritage, I really should consider wearing a mask and going the route of the conquistador. . .or is that luchador? Either way, I'm either gonna smash you or spread germs and wipe out your family with a cold. Fear me. 

Joshie-Libre seen after his controversial victory over the Bubba Brawlers.

I hear talk about the weather not acting right, but seeing as how Dadda doesn't like going outside, as far as I can tell the weather's always seventy-five degrees, or warmer when Mamma says she's cold and goes and touches the wall and then I wake up sweaty in the middle of the night and climb onto the top bunk so I can perform my signature wrestling move first thing in the morning.

Now I know you've heard me say that I love my routine, but I'm afraid that Mamma and Dadda don't always seem to appreciate how important it is to me as they constantly seem to deviate. I may not know how to read a clock, but I can tell time just fine. I know when it's time for you to feed me and play with me and get me more juice, NOW, and change me and get me more juice, and bathtime and naptime and so on. Oh, and juice time.

So in order to enforce my scheduled activities, sometimes I have to drop subtle hints like smacking you with a preferred toy in order to initiate playtime or stripping down to my diapey when I need a change. However, these tactics sometimes fail to rouse lazy Daddas and Mammas. Let it never be said that I am dependent on others for everything. When push comes to wrestle I can change my self! Sure, it ain't so hard. First you take off the diapey. . .I forget the other steps, but rest assured when I come running around in naught but my skin, someone tends to notice. That, or they notice when they find the wet spot on the carpet that I don't quite understand how it got there. All's I know is it's not juice, well, not anymore.

Disrobing has become such a simple pleasure that I find myself developing some exhibitionistic tendencies. Au natural has become more of a state of being than a transitional cue. I admit I have a problem. One moment I'll be watching "Iggy" Mouse Clubhouse and in the process of an innocent hot dog dance I find myself unable to remember the location of my pants. I'll decide it's bath time and strip down and then realize it's still light out, or that the rest of the family is eating lunch, or that I'm outside on the porch slurping water off the ground by the dog's bowl.


However, I'm happy to say that I've kicked the habit and now I keep my clothes on when appropriate. It's really good to be free of impulsive and addictive behavior. The loss of control is unsettling and it is very frustrating to walk into a room naked and see the mix of laughter and fear as someone inevitably chases me through the house with a pair of pants and a diaper. Well, it's looking like this sippy juice cup is running low and after the bottle of juice in the fridge runs out there's only two other bottles in the pantry. Who's gonna make a juice run, Dadda? Tell Mamma to pick-up some more juice on her way home. Goomba? Hello? This sippy cup isn't gonna fill itself! Why am I naked?


Today I need an intervention am well-hydrated!

Green with Broccoli

I hear tales of children who do not eat their vegetables. I am also mystified by my Bubbas' limited appetites for a select group of fruits, vegetables, and an even more selective group of meats, as in two options: chicken, breaded, in nugget form and nice crispy bacon. I'll go ahead and say it, more food for me, that is if Dadda didn't call dibs on all the scraps, the monster. Well, sometimes he shares, that's why they call me the little monster. Speaking of monsters, snakes! Well, not monsters in the traditional sense, but as far as I know, according to legend someone named St. Patrick rid a country of 'em a long time ago. I should know, I'm one eighth Irish on both Mamma and Dadda's side. Well either way, it's time once again for. . .

 In Irish it's called Lá Fhéile Pádraig, a religious holiday in honor of Saint Patrick. Although my understanding of a saint is limited,  I don't think it's synonymous with mischief, so don't go looking for a St. Joshua's day anytime soon. (Note: St. Joshua's day is actually September 1st, I'm registered at The Sharper Image) 

I may be green when it comes to customs and traditions, but I already prefer my beverages to be colored, whether it be green or any other color than clear, and sweet as all get out. I needs mah juice! Dadda and Mamma worry about me but I can quit whenever I want. Anyway, our friend Patrick, according to legend, had visions of God after he was captured by the crazy Irish. Although, I assume it was a vision of just one particular god, since his captors believed in multiple gods, and also because he came from a family of deacons. If I am meant to follow in Mamma or Dadda's footsteps I suppose I better see which jobs require a great degree of skill in yelling and remaining stationary on the couch.

Well, God helped Patrick escape from his captors, only to visit him once again in a vision and send him back. This type of indecision is common in authority figures once they've acquired new information after entering into a situation. The problem here, is how do you maintain authority in light of unstable footing or a grasp of the problem? Because I said so! That's why. *sigh* I can't wait to be older. When I reiterate or repeat my demands I just get a louder version of the original denial and eventually I'm manhandled or forcibly distracted with tickling and/or other amusing diversions. I notice this technique is only used on me, although Dadda does try it on Mamma, but tickling or otherwise amusing her rarely works after she puts on her "no" face. I don't like that face very much.

Mamma, everyone! She's so pretty!

So when Patrick came back the second time he taught everybody about Christianity by using the key to all learning: a visual aid. In this example, he used the shamrock, otherwise known as a clover.

Pictured above: A mutant variant of the traditional three leafed clover.

Through this extraordinary feat of educational execution, something as effortless as picking something up from the ground and using it as an example, Christianity was born in Ireland and after several in-depth lessons and possibly a few night classes, the Irish could now complete a sign of the cross before bedtime and meals just like everyone else in my family. However, history has a way of summarizing the details into a neat package, just as with St. Valentine, it appears St. Patrick is a combination of at least two patriarchs. Things that serve more than one purpose are the backbone of toddler play. For example, the blanket-cape, the plastic golf club-sword and the ninja throwing block, also makes great stacking towers and an obstacle course for late-night barefoot fun!

Turns out there were already people in Ireland who knew how to bless their food correctly but they were outnumbered by the druids, a people who also appreciated the importance of blanket capes and stacking blocks. So entered into legend the story of another St. Patrick, a bishop by the name of Paladius, or the other one, who drove out the snakes. Now this story is interesting for two reasons. One, snakes do not have hands and can no more drive than I can operate a computer ride a two-wheeler, and two as it's not apparently known, there where never any snakes in Ireland, it's too cold. Why that last part matters, I don't know, cause I love cold weather! That's when all the capes come out of the closet and everyone loves to snuggle. So it turns out the "snakes" in the legend were probably the druids, although I doubt they were really robe wearing reptiles as opposed to naughty pagans. In many ways the pagans were the original baybees as they just did whatever they wanted, rarely wore clothes, and presumably disliked naps and being told no. Happy St. Patrick's Day. 

Today I pinch no matter what color you are wearing! had green apple juice!

That's what I wanted you to think!

It could be said that I am a tolerant toddler, a patient preschooler. However, if you hear someone say this, don't believe another word out of their mouth, because that person is an idiot. I contend that there is no such thing, but I don't get out much. In any regard I've had my fill of this new routine and Dadda needs to stop taking me from my cozy and predictable home with my newly refurbished playroom and cartoons to the tooting job. I've officially exhausted all the areas to explore and he spends too much time with the older kids and not enough time taking me outside to play on the wet playscape or with the little doggie.

Take last week, for example, after my fireplace adventure, in which there was no magical land, just what turned out to be filth, I decided there are too many unopened doors in this house. So Dadda locked as many doors as he could and went back to awkwardly demonstrating prime factorization, greatest common factor and least common multiple. Don't tell him I wrote this, but I could've done a better job, well probably since Bubbas picked up math quicker than him.

Finally I gave up and went about occupying myself with mismatched toys and play sets minus the figures and accessories in the upstairs loft disguised as a playroom.There was a wealth of nylon structures, tunnels and tents and such, but I've learned that not only do they get hot and make it difficult to see the teevee, but I lose my competitive edge when I need the physical upper hand against an opponent, er, uh, I mean playmate. Eventually I got bored and came downstairs to pester Dadda, but even I know when someone is struggling with a difficult task and needs time to think. I may not always respect that knowledge, and more often than not I choose to intervene and impose instead. This time I let him alone to teach a subject that was beyond his scope of understanding and help myself to a snack.

I had the kitchen to myself. Should I brulee something, perhaps sautee, or just fromage? Chiz! I opened the pantry, and then it hit me, someone would surely come, they always do. Grown-ups have a sense about these things, that's why you always catch us looking you dead in the eye when we're caught doing something we know we're not supposed to. We're expecting it. However, this time I stood in front of the gaping maw of foodstuffs and kitchen accoutrement and was not disturbed. 

Does anyone else hear a choir of angels?

Originally I came looking for food, but the wealth of strange and exotic items made my head spin, so I dove right in. Of course the privacy of a walk-in pantry with a door made it easier to remain hidden and undisturbed. The first thing I found were boxes that had pictures of many different types of food on it. Was this some sort of magical container whose contents could conjure almost any combination of curious cuisine? I quickly opened it and found a transparent roll of plastic sheets. Hmm, there must be a secret to it. I removed one and found an empty plastic bag with a colorful seal on it. I opened the seal and wished for gummi bears and nothing happened. Undeterred I continues onto the next bag, Nilla Wafers, I imagined. Nothing. I thought to myself I must note the lot number of these magic bags, because after I took out every single baggie, none of them worked as advertised. I'm gonna be a cynic when I grow up!


I moved onto the next mysterious box and found some kind of metal paper. This stuff was cooler than play-dough and much less messier. I had to get some feedback on this! I took out a small sheet to Dadda. I knew if I took out the whole box, I'd have to share. Dadda was now on the verge of tears as he struggled to understand fifth grade math and again I decided not to bother him. Although, he welcomed the distraction and noticed my little treasure. As this was not a mathematical issue, he quickly surmised that I should not have come about this particular treasure through conventional means. He thoroughly investigated until he discovered my pile of broken magic baggies and roll of metal paper and presumably called the manufacturer.


Just before leaving I helped myself to a discarded bag of potato chips. Crumbs may not make for a good snack for a larger person, but in my somewhat smaller toddler hands, they are just right for me. I couldn't tell you where I found the bag, as items such as this were commonly left lying around, but Dadda was amused and concerned.

Notice the primitive squat as if eating a bowl of fruit as opposed to greasy bag of potato chip crumbs.

At this point we both decided this had to stop. Although it was a conscious decision for me, Dadda hadn't admitted it to himself. . .yet. So today I staged a series of low-level meltdowns and frustrations and we left early and for reasons I'm not privy to, though I imagine it had something to do with my persistence and intermittent control of the universe, we stopped going.


And I've never been happier.


Today I am master of the universe happy!

The darkness within

Today Dadda and I went to his toot-or-ring job again in the morning. I've gotten used to this new place, but it seems that I am largely unsupervised, which works well for me. The other kid has someone who watches him, but I should be the one paying her, because she essentially gets him out of my hair so I can play by myself. It's not that I don't play well with others, it's just that if people don't play by my rules, then I sit on them or perform a series of highly complex professional wrestling (or wrassling as Goomba calls it) techniques until my playmates are subdued or otherwise more agreeable and acquiescent.

The house where me and Dadda go is bigger than ours, but that's mostly because there isn't much furniture in it. Still, there's plenty of places for me to explore. The first place I explored was the fireplace. I noticed that their fireplace did not have a large piece of cardboard blocking the entrance, nor did it have the magical chain mail curtain that alerts grown-ups that a baybee or toddler is playing near said fireplace. I mean, I may bear a resemblance to Dadda, but I'm not as dumb as I look. I know fire is Ha! and that I'm not supposed to touch. However a fireplace does not perpetually have fire anymore than a juice cup perpetually has juice, though I wish! (More on that later)

So naturally I took the opportunity to explore an area that was usually off-limits. The first thing about going into fireplaces is that even though it's dark, it's deceptively shallow. Believe me when I tell you I was disappointed when I realized that it was not an entrance to a tunnel where fire comes from, but rather a place reserved for fire. So for once the subtleties of language cast aside their mysteries and reveal a less than elegant truth: it was as the name implied a fire-place.  From here on out I will trust language as a source of accuracy. I look forward to meeting the man made of weather (weatherman) and perhaps one day I can work with fire, as I do enjoy firework(s). Then Mamma and Dadda can go eat a moonful of honey (honeymoon) and leave me under some stranger's butt (babysitter)!


The second thing about fireplaces is that they are not designed for exits, at least not unless you are in the form of smoke or Santa Clause. Now I know Dadda can turn into smoke, cause when ever I need a poopie diaper change and Mamma is around, he seems to be in some sort of invisible vaporous form or otherwise disappeared in a cloud of smoke. So when I tried to leave the fireplace, the metal wood cage held fast onto the hem of my pants. I quickly realized my options were limited and it was time to think fast. Once stuck I began wondering how does fire get into a fireplace? Where does fire come from? Would it turn on by itself or does some mystical being from the sky have to sneak it past his boss/father? Someone must've heard me thinking, it sounded like the panicked cries of a toddler, and Dadda came and rescued me.

Prometheus just before his time-out

 The last thing I learned about fireplaces is that the darkness spreads. Now I have a new theory and perhaps later an irrational fear about fireplaces. They are a source of darkness and we put fire in them in order to fight back the darkness. Oddly enough Dadda washed my hands, face and legs and changed my clothes which he later washed as well. Boy am I glad that he did not resort to fire in the first place in order to scare the dark off my pants. So, lesson learned. Tomorrow we will attempt to discover what, exactly is an andiron.

Today I learned things the hard way am a curious little monkey!

In-house tooting

Dadda and I are on a new routine today. We got up and ready just like Bubbas and Mamma, then we came inside and I only got to watch a little bit of my show, Jake and the Neverland Pirates. I'm considering piracy as a potential career option, as it seems rather simple. For starters you live in a boat or on the beach the majority of the time and all you do is either protect treasure or look for treasure. I already maintain all my treasures on a regular basis. I conform to toddler code, section 1, rule 1, all things are mine regardless of possession, real or implied. In toddler law, possession is also 9/10ths of the law, but desire to possess is the other oneth or 1th well, whichever, if you have to ask, it's mine.

I wrote the rules. . .figuratively speaking.

Anyway, so Dadda turned off my show and before I could get upset, he coaxed me outside with promises of going buh-bye! We went to a new house with a new playroom and a new kid. As in most encounters, I eventually learned that this new kid was smaller than me, but also older than me as evidenced by his advanced communication skills. Psh, communication. I get by fine with my proprietary verbal shorthand. Let's just say everyone understands me fine, if not see my posts on vocabubaby. 

This other kid seemed intent on helping me with my stuff. If I put it down, he insisted on holding it for me or bringing it to me. This would not do. Fortunately Dadda was always a floor away playing school with some much older kids and one as old as bubbas! He called it home school toot-or-ring. I have two things to say about this. Number one (1) why is it that everything about Dadda involves figuring out a way to stay home? First it was joining a group of "Stay at Home" dads, and now it's a school in your own home! 

Number two (2) in my pants! Ha, get it? Seriously, somebody change this. Ok, now the second thing, he doesn't need to go to someone elses house for tooting, he does it just fine at our house and I can't believe someone else would pay him to teach their kids how to do it. Although, now that I think about it, the area where he worked didn't seem to smell all that bad and I never heard very many toots. As a matter of fact, that family had a Goomba of their own and she made me tortillas. I love a nice warm tortilla.


Eventually we left and Dadda played an interesting game on the way home. Every time I would attempt to travel by nap, Dadda would scream like some sort of crazy person or turn around and try to tickle me, once he swerved into oncoming traffic and another time I was riding a rainbow turtle in a giant bubble bath, or maybe I fell asleep. Anyway, as a toddler, nap time is a subjective concept. You see, sleep is relative, wether it's at the designated time and place for a miraculous 4-hour marathon of snoozing and drooling, or a 5-minute power nap on the car ride home. Either one will work for me and count as an official nap in my book. (see book above) So if it's the second example, then sorry it counts and I'm not sleeping anymore until night night. Of course Dadda says without a good nap I have low impulse control and anger management issues, but I usually just climb the nearest dresser, clear off all of the knick-knacks and have a full-blown temper tantrum when I can't get down.


Today I have to be restrained until unconscious am grumpy!