Huddyisms, Vol. 2

A day or so after my last post, I was answering an email from Royal’s Auntie C, whom I adore more than I can say. She had told me a funny story that brightened my day and Huds was distracted with his Playdoh set, so I thought I was in the clear for a few minutes.

You know the moment you think you’re clear, you definitely aren’t. Suddenly there is a toddler at my elbow repeating, “I need help! I need help!”

The little dough press toy was jammed. You know, the thing you put the Playdoh in and push down to make different noodles and tube shapes. I took the slider part off and picked out the bit of dried dough, put it back together, and crammed another wad of dough into the machine.

And then I made a fatal error.

You see, as I pushed down, my overloaded brain connected directly to my mouth without a filter in the way. Like sticking a bullhorn in front of a horny sea lion, this is just a bad idea and results in sounds nobody wants to hear but children find hilarious. What came out of my mouth as I made that set of doughy tubes was:

“Pooooooooooop.”

Guess who thought that was brilliant to imitate.

“Christiane, I got a story back for you.”

A few nights ago, Royal was indulging my request for tuna melts. I’ve been trying to eat healthier following some recent health news (I’m even drinking the terrible green powdery stuff every couple of days and I hate it going down but then I feel a little better and that makes me so mad) but I’m exhausted and needed something stupid and simple and calorically decadent. He gets these delicious rolls with cheese baked into them (or the incredible sourdough rolls from our neighborhood bakery lady if it’s one of her streetcorner bread slinging days) and makes up a tuna salad with I don’t know, good things in it, and then layers that with slices of pickle and more cheese on top, broil, and UNF, every few weeks I just crave one. Also nobody makes a sandwich like Royal, I don’t know how, it’s a superpower.

I was, as I am doing this week, in the middle of less of a writing sprint and more of a mad churning writing ultramarathon with bursts of tears, so Huddy was helping Daddy cook. When Royal pulled out the the jar of pickles, Hudson got excited because he loves them. He has a shirt from Auntie Cat’s kids’ hand-me-downs that’s purple with the Portland Pickles logo on it and if there isn’t a dino shirt clean to trade him for it, well, you’re in for the salt. “BUT IT’S MY PICKLE SHIRT.” He loves it, and eating pickles. From the previous edition, you might remember that that Hudson calls olives “water beans,” but we didn’t know what he would do seeing the pickles in a jar instead of on a sandwich or a plate.

“Oh! Pickle beans!”

Pickle beans it is.

It’s really hard not to laugh sometimes when he says something incredibly inappropriate so we don’t get a repeat of the incident, but sometimes it’s just so shocking or weird that the chuckle is hard to suppress.

I’ve had some long weeks recently and he hasn’t seen me as much as he likes. We’re spending time together on weekends, but it’s still hard, for both of us. When my office door opens or I come home, it’s full scale, “MAMA! MOMMYYYYY!” followed by the rapid thudding of feet and a cannonball of hugs and kisses and sometimes just a full on cling. If I’m on a short break and have to go back into the office, he’ll take my hands and say, “No. Pleeeease? Mama, stay.”

Yes, sometimes I close the door and cry my face off before getting back to business.

As hard it is for Huds and his mama, it’s even harder for Royal. He’s using his patient voice to get him to pick breakfast or get dressed, and my sweet boy who was just being a T-Rex with me minutes before is now in full-scale meltdown while I’m trying not to listen through my headphones, because Royal has got this, he is a strong and competent and capable dad, but it still hurts my mama heart to hear him like this. Royal has also gotten way way more than me of a new phrase to enter the toddler’s vocabulary: “I don’t like you.” Oof, this one sucks. This morning, it was, “I don’t like you, you’re dumb.” That’s a new twist and it surprised me so much that I almost laughed but caught it before we corrected him to be kinder. We know he means he doesn’t like or want to do a thing he’s being asked, that it’s not personal, but it still stings. The world’s got enough people out there being cruel for the pleasure of being cruel. We don’t do that, and we won’t have it in our Huddybucket either. He’ll learn.

One night this week, Huddy went to spend a couple hours with my parents, who are alternately Grandpa and Grandma or The Gwagwas, which is a delightful gender-neutral term he ended up using for both of them when he first started asking for them. They have a lovely garden going and Huddy helped them dig up potatoes. Several photos of my proud son holding his potato bounty followed.

“They’re new red potatoes,” my mom said. “You can wash them up, boil them, or put them in a roast or soup.”

“We HAVE seen a potato,” I replied.

“But they’re NEW potatoes.” As though I would look at them and go HOLY CRAP this potato is so SMALL wait I KNOW I will shove the whole thing RAW in my MOUTH and INHALE and CHOKE and DIE and at my funeral someone will say IF ONLY HER MOTHER HAD TOLD HER WHAT TO DO WITH THE POTATO

Clearly my mother is making up for her poor past parental potato pedagogy. I don’t try to pretend it’s for my sake, it’s definitely for Hudson’s, so I may make better tater teachings. My importance in this literal food chain is clear.

Things Hudson says he is:

• Hudson

• A T-rex

• A kangaroo

• A robot (often pronounced bo-bot)

• A bird or a bat, especially after the last Daddy-Huddy zoo outing

Things Hudson insists he is NOT:

• A baby

• A boy (nor a boy of any size, big, little, gigantic)

• A girl

• A toddler

• A potato OR a pancake unless we are flipping him with a play spatula or mashing him with our hands

• Going to eat the thing he adamantly asked for when he insisted he was hungry

• Sleepy

He is definitely sleepy. He hasn’t been sleeping well the last couple nights. Growth spurts hurt, poor guy. But he is at this very moment roaring at pillows and stalking around the living room. This is an improvement over a few minutes ago, where he was slung over one of my shoulders, trying to lick my face. Toddlers. They’re wild.

Good night, sleep tight. I wish you (and us) a night of very good rest. Eventually.