The milestone cup in the Eldridge household has runneth over.
This past weekend Doug and I were fortunate enough to witness the beginning of Riley's descent into the abyss that is the Terrible Twos and we couldn't be happier. Who needs hobbies or housework when you have a demonic 19-month-old on your hands who is non-stop go from the second they wake up until the second they go to bed at night?
After popping two Zoloft, a melatonin and pounding a glass of wine, I was ready for bed last night at 7. Who needs Sunday night tv to relax when you can self-medicate with such lovely libations instead?
Let's hope that bedtime cocktail continues to do the trick because I am not sure I can handle any other Eldridge firsts in our household for a while.
It all started last week when we discovered that Zoe, our five-year-old Pomeranian, cannot digest rawhide. Let it be said that I am sure it was hanging out of her butt for at least two days before we even noticed. I don't want anything to do with any situation that is poop-related, so imagine my pure elation at the thought of pulling rawhide out of my dog's ass. This incident set the unfortunate tone for the remainder of the week.
One afternoon after picking Riley up from daycare I was unloading the dishwasher and assumed he was in the front room playing with his toys. A few minutes later it turns eerily quiet and I assume he can only be up to no good. After following a trail of toilet paper through the house I find him plopped down in our bedroom eating said toilet paper square by square. By the look of total satisfaction on his face you would have assumed he was eating the forbidden fruit --it was that good.
Two days later the same story happened above only this time switch out toilet paper with dog food.
Riley graduated to his toddler bed which also has a protective rail with it, so really he is now just sleeping in a glorified crib that is easier to get out of. The morning I wake up to him staring at me in my bedroom is the day that someone needs to commit me and throw away the damn key.
Riley also spoke his first sentence on Saturday. "No mama." Pretty sure Doug cried and I was left horrified.
Doug has a new hobby. With 22 trees on our property, and a gang of thug squirrels who consider those trees their home, Doug has taken it upon himself to become a bit of a bird enthusiast. A birder if you will.
He went out a couple of weeks ago and bought a bird feeder convinced he would be able to draw a bird crowd to our home. Everyday he would check the seed level convinced a bird was eating from the feeder (remember this little doozy?) and everyday I would tell him that he was batshit crazy. Fast forward to Friday evening when I finally caught the thug culprit in action and just because I love to prove a point, I had to send Doug a text of the photographic evidence.