Being Mickey

I first heard about him at a birthday party a few weeks ago. This kid with the party had all this stuff -- plates and cups and napkins and balloons and a cake -- and they all had to do with the most amazing mouse -- Mickey Mouse. I didn't know anything about him, but something struck me about this charming fellow -- some common purpose, some shared destiny. So the next day, when my Dadda was picking out a show for me to watch on Netflix and I saw him in a picture about a show and I just HAD to watch it. And it was the most AMAZING show I had EVER seen. All about Mickey and his friends Minnie and Donald and Daisy and Goofy and their clubhouse and all the cool things they do together. I was just transfixed by the CGI splendor of it all. It changed my life.

You see, after beholding the magnificence of the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, I realized something. I could be that cool. I could be that wonderful. I could be MICKEY!!! So I told my Mama and my Dadda and my Aunt K, well, they could just call me Mickey from now on. Mickey played with toys and ate food and went to the potty and got dressed. Mickey knew how to do all sorts of amazing things like climb on pillows and hang from the banister and sing and dance. Mickey was me. And when they got me a Mickey doll to play with, well then there were TWO Mickeys doing things. And that Mickey doll has of course become my very newest bestest friend. He eats with me and helps me go to sleep and kisses my booboos and does all sorts of things. We are two of a kind after all.

And of course, Mama is Minnie, and Dadda is Donald, and Aunt K is Daisy, and my Aunt Juju, well she is their electronic pal Toodles, and I don't know who Goofy or Pluto or Pete are yet, but I'll figure it out. But I am most definitely Mickey, and I will be Mickey, and me and my Mickey doll are all set for all sorts of fine adventuring. I heard Mama/Minnie say it was a phase and I'd grow out of it, but why would I ever want to grow out of being such a wonderful, amazing, mousetastic thing as Mickey Mouse??? I just don't understand how that could ever happen. I am Mickey. Hear me squeak.

Closets are Awesome

So, I know it's been a while since I posted. My Mama and Dadda decided to change houses, and now it's great because we live in MY house instead of that old place that was someone else's I guess. They told me it was mine before we got here and I wasn't quite sure at first but it is totally MY house. So cool! And it's great because now I live so close to my Grandpa and Grandma and cousin My-my and my Aunt Juju and Aunt Mimi and my Aunt K, well, she still lives with us and watches me and I really like it.

But the coolest thing about this new house is that there are so many new places to explore. And you know what one of my most favorite places of all to explore is? Closets. See, Mama and Dadda seem to think that closets are for putting stuff inside or something. But I know their real purpose is to give me stuff to empty out and then for me to climb inside and hide. I LOVE hiding in closets, especially when they had lots of stuff in them in the first place. I like cabinets too, but those are also better when there has been stuff inside. And they are even better than that when they are just the right size for me like the one in my new dining room.

But the bestest closets of all are the ones that are just FULL of stuff like the big closet in the hallway near the bathroom. That one's usually hard for me to open because the handles are way up high, but yesterday, my Mama left it open just a crack and while Mama and Dadda and Aunt K were eating dinner, I got inside and it had so much awesome stuff in there! Towels and sheets and diapers and tissue boxes and toilet paper -- all just ready to be emptied all over the place. And then I found the most perfectest space down at the bottom of it for me to sit and it was SO much FUN!!!

Oh, and as a totally awesome side note, when you line up a bunch of toilet paper packs all in a row, they make an awesome track to walk on, just like a train track except made of toilet paper. I got to be a super awesome train after I emptied out the super awesome closet. And my Mama only sighed a little.

Mama, you tell me "no" most every day
About how I'm not supposed to play
With cat food, cat litter, or cat tails
With glasses, glass bottles, or glasses of ale

You tell me "no" when I try to run
Out into the street with the cars, so fun
You tell me no when I try to dance
With water in puddles when wearing clean pants

You tell me "no" when I reach for sharp things
Or try to tangle myself in strings
I just want to explore everything I can
So I can grow up to be a big man

So why is it, when I say "no", you sigh
And make me try food that I don't want to try
And insist that I wear clothes I don't want to wear
I'm telling you, Mama, it just isn't fair

Why is it when I say "no" you say "yes"
And insist that I walk with you under duress
Dragging me with you when I want to stay
And explore all the things we find along our way

Why is it when I say "no", you complain
That it's time to stop dancing out in the rain
Or that it's time to go change a diaper of pee
I'm fine being dirty, you're just not letting me

I don't understand this double standard
Why you can say "no" even when I get angered
But when I say "no" you deny me my wants
And insist that I wear both my shirt AND my pants

I don't understand that me just being me
Is considered being "persnickety"
And when I'm just trying to play and amuse
You mumble something about "terrible twos"

I don't understand, Mama, why you get to say
Just how I should be and how I should play
I just want to tell you, to make sure you know
That when I say "no", that's how it should go!

Crumbly goodness

Mama seems to think I spread food all over the place just because I'm messy. But what she doesn't understand is how improved the taste of food can be just by spending a mere hour or two on the floor. That special sweetness that a Craisin obtains from resting on the carpet for a few hours, the savory sumptousness of a Goldfish cracker that has been aging for 3 days hidden under the coffee table. My Mama and Dada are all about letting their wine aerate or eating aged cheese -- don't they understand that is all I am doing? But of course, as usual, they just don't understand, they complain and use the vaccuum to suck my culinary delights away into oblivion. They don't understand that when I throw the food off of my tray, it's not ONLY because they are spending too much time talking amongst themselves instead of witnessing the brilliant wonder that is me, but it's also so that I can experience what a hot dog, or a spoonful of sweet potato, tastes like after being left to mature for a certain amount of time. Of course, Mama always has to clean the floor right away, so I never do get to explore the piquant pleasures of an aged macaroni noodle. Something about it being "unsanitary". You know, I could be the next Food Network star like Andrew Zimmern. "Bizzare Toddler Foods with Destructor". I could be -- ooh, stale pretzel. Nom nom nom.

Slave to the rhythm

I am a prodigy of percussion. I am a master of meter, the titan of tempo, "le roi du rythme". I am the captain of cadence, the boy with the beats. And I know, I really do know, that the best way to express my art is to hit everything upon everything else all the time. The ring of my wooden screwdriver upon the air conditioner, the pleasant knocking of toy trains on the table, the timbre of a cast iron pot banged on the floor, these are sounds the world needs to hear, and understand, and appreciate.


And yet, Mama and Dada and AuntK just don't understand. They fail to appreciate the perfection that is pounding a wooden spoon on the table leg, or a sippy cup upon the chair. They don't seem to understand the joy of experimentation that comes from testing what noise a toy car makes when it is hit against the stove, or the soothing sonorousness of pretty much anything hit against the floor. Yes, I know we have downstairs neighbors. Yes, I know it's 7 am. They love me for my art. I'm sure of it.


You see, Mama, Dada, AuntK, these "noises" as you call them are not just bangs, not just crashes, not just booms or clangs or clanks -- they are a part of the music of the ages, the primal beat that rumbles so softly in my psyche and must be released for the world to enjoy.  These are the sounds of my soul. And every time you tell me "STOP BANGING!" in that tone that only just hints of exasperation, know that you are not only stifling my creative instincts, but that you are robbing the world of the craft of my composition, a symphony of such sublimity that even if I had the words, I could just not express it. Sigh. I am a virtuoso of vibrations, unappreciated in his time. 

DON'T keep me from my MUFFIN!

So, I know I haven't written in a while. Life has just been so BUSY. It's hard work learning all this stuff and going all these places. A few weeks ago, we went all the way to a magical, wonderful place called CLEVELAND where my Grandpa and Grandma and cousin Mya and Aunt Juju and Aunt Mimi live, and it was AWESOME. And we've been to the farm and to the pool and to the park and on car rides and the library and the fire station and the construction site and so many awesome places I just can't explain. My life is just so busy.


But today, I need to talk about a VERY important issue. Muffins. Muffins are the best food in the whole wide world except for maybe cheese (especially gouda) and blueberries and chocolate. Muffins are my all time favorite breakfast food except for maybe pancakes and waffles when we have them. And when AuntK makes me muffins, you BETTER not get in my way when I want them. I don't CARE if I just had a really stinky diaper and you want to wash your hands. I don't CARE that I don't have my shirt on yet, or that you want to get my milk ready first. I don't CARE that you're sleepy because I woke up way earlier than usual. I want my muffin and I want it NOW.


And I don't want just ONE muffin. No. I need one in EACH HAND. I don't CARE that the one you just handed me is a big one instead of a mini one. I want TWO. And don't you dare try to take away the bigger one to swap it for two small mini ones. Because you already GAVE me that muffin and I want it, even though I won't eat a whole big one and a mini one. I just don't understand why this is such an issue, Mama. I just don't understand.


And of course once I get my muffins, don't you DARE try to tell me where I need to sit to eat them. If I want to sit right in the middle of the living room floor and get crumbs all over the carpet instead of sitting in my chair, that's my prerogative. I am Destructor. Hear me ROAR!


And later, after I've eaten my muffins, of course I want snuggles and hugs because really, I understand, Mama, that you don't always comprehend the magnitude of my needs. And I'm sorry for your ignorance. Someday, Mama, someday you'll grow up enough to understand that muffins are the most important thing in the world on very specific mornings. And other days it's waffles. And other days I could care less about breakfast, but don't you DARE keep me from playing with my trains. Or my cars. Or my pillow fort. I don't think I'm that unclear about these things. Sigh. Someday, Mama, you'll understand.

Duct Tape Roll, my new best friend

Got my milk, got my duct tape. What more does a boy need?

Last night, Dada was working at the window, doing something that he thinks is going to keep me from dropping my toys between the window gate and the screen (he is so naive), and he was using this neat looking stuff that came on a roll, and I was like -- what is this thing? What is this roll of awesomeness that he is holding? And then they told me it's name. DUCT TAPE. (or as I like to say "duck bape") It is my new most favoritest most bestest friend in the whole wide world.

This is my happy duct tape dance.

This roll of duct tape is just incredible. You see, you can wear it like a bracelet or an anklet or a hat. You can use it to add extra grip to your sippy cup. You can roll it off the table or roll it along the floor. And Mama and Dada seem to think that the tape ITSELF does something. But I don't care about that. I don't know what duct tape does, all I know is that this roll is imbued with some sort of AWESOMENESS that I just can't get enough of. It is the best toy EVER.

The many and varied uses of the duct tape roll. See how cool it is?

I love my duct tape roll so much, I wanted to cuddle it to sleep last night, but Mama distracted me by singing "Wheels on the Tractor" and took it away. But I saw it this morning and I just had to hold it! It was all I could do to put it down long enough to eat my breakfast. As soon as I was done, it was mine to love again! And for some reason Mama and Dada and AuntK all think my obsession is amusing. Like it has some greater meaning. They keep using the word "engineer". I don't know what an "engineer" is, but if it's someone who gets to hold and dance and play and wear and sleep with rolls of duct tape, I am so all about that!

The duct tape roll and I share a quiet moment.