Also known as:  the age at which you can officially rock a fedora.

Fedora by Born to Love: Amazon, $28.50 (also sometimes available via BabySteals.com for way less)

The confidence to pull off the hats your mom keeps sticking on your head:  priceless

Only instead of being a maniacal killer, this one’s a maniacal chocolate addict, torturing her mother with cries of “More?  More?  MORE!!!”  (Can’t imagine where she gets that from.  *AHEM*)

“Well,” thinks Marcy, resigned.  “Better this than a proctological exam.”

Fast-forward more than two years later and what is Skye’s favorite color?  Pink.  What kind of cup did she request yesterday?  Oh yes, a princess one.  “Don’t you want the Buzz and Woody cup instead?” I suggested hopefully, knowing how much she enjoys the Toy Story trilogy.  “No.  PRINCESS!” my daughter declared unequivocally.  Her dolls have been lovingly diapered and swaddled a thousand times over, while the cars have since settled to the bottom of the chest, having been briefly played with then cast aside in favor of tea parties.  The balls we bought do get thrown and kicked, but sometimes…?  They also get swaddled and carried around like a baby, I KID YOU NOT.  I show her a sports team track suit, a gift from an aunt and uncle hoping to brainwash her into becoming a Philly fan, and she scrunches her little two-year-old nose.  “I want to wear a dress,” she says.  “Pink one!”

You hear that?  That’s the sound of my anti-Cinderella flag drooping in defeat.

My unofficial gender-based behavior study became even more interesting when I gave birth to my son ten months ago.  From almost the minute he was born, people would come up to me and say, “He’s all boy!”  As opposed to, you know, one-eighth boy.  Seriously, if I had a dollar for every time someone said that to me, well, I would have at least twelve dollars.

I assume they mean he looks like a boy, which is true.  Not a single person has ever mistaken Drew for a girl, or has even had to ask, as opposed to poor Miss Skye who, for the first year of her life, would have people come up and gush, “Why, isn’t HE just precious!” even if I had stamped “GIRL” on her forehead in hot pink letters.  “Yes, SHE is!” I would respond pointedly, directing their attention to the stamp and the, uh, RUFFLED DRESS SHE WAS WEARING.

I know, I know; I shouldn’t be sexist.  Boys can wear ruffled dresses and hot pink “GIRL” stamps, too.  But I’m pretty sure if I did that to Drew, he would rip the ruffles off with his bare hands and eat them for breakfast (don’t worry, he’s on solids now) and scrape the stamp off with a pocket knife.*  Because not only is Drew “all (stereotypical) boy” in his looks, but in his behavior as well.  Even at ten months old, this much is obvious.  With Skye, we barely had to baby-proof the home or worry about her venturing into danger because she was always too busy diapering her pink princess dolls.   Which leads me to take back everything I’ve ever said about princesses:  THEY ARE AWESOME.  Drew, on the other hand, can barely stand on his own yet is already attempting to climb the stairs and infiltrate the media cabinet.  I try to snuggle with him, but after 10 seconds he is reaching for the floor in hopes of finding something to pound with his fist.  Hard.  I hand him Molly, one of Skye’s dolls, and he throws her on the ground over and over again with increasing intensity — most likely to see if he can get Molly’s head to explode upon contact.  I dump a variety of toys on the floor, including stuffed animals and toy kitchen utensils and a truck, and I swear he makes a beeline for the truck and uses it to crush Elmo’s head and — this is the kicker — laughs when he sees Elmo’s flattened face.

New product opportunity for the “all boy” market:  Flatten-Me Elmo!  (Sure to also be a hit with the “Elmo-weary parents” market, no doubt.)

My point being this:  in the nature versus nurture debate, nature has a way of sneaking in there and demanding a princess cup.  And, although I will continue to encourage my girly-girl and “all boy” to push back against gender stereotypes, if my daughter finds pleasure in baking cookies in her kitchen, more power to her.  At least somebody in this house knows what the inside of an oven looks like.

*To those concerned, I should note:  We didn’t let him play with knives until he demonstrated he could handle a machete when he turned six months old, as most pediatricians recommend.  Better safe than sorry!

So, for my kids, I created this chart of things I hated about myself as a crazy, insecure teenager but now embrace as a crazy, more secure mom, in hopes that they’ll one day be able to have a similar appreciation for their “imperfections.”  And laugh at my permed ’90s hair and un-waxed eyebrows.

I am one of those women who has popped out babies back-to-back.  Yes, in part because of the shrinking window of fertility, but mostly because of too many mai-tais.  Being the mother of a two-and-a-half-year-old and a 10-month-old, and a family columnist-slash-funmaker, some expectant readers have assumed I have wisdom to impart on the subject.  They are, no offense, out of their minds.

Mr. Candy and I were together for twelve years before we decided to have a baby.  Those twelve years of mental preparation totally paid off, helping me hit the ground running when I became a mom and giving me ample time to perfect my Quarters game.  Nothing, however, prepared me for the chaos of becoming the mom of two young kids.

As I previously shared, I cried in the shower for the first eight months of having two kids — a confession that scared the heck out of some of my readers about to be in the same position.  Oops.  “Please share some tips for juggling two kids!” they asked, seeking comforting advice from the very woman who frightened them in the first place.  I figured that coming up with a few tips was the least I could do in exchange for giving them nightmares, so I sat here in front of a blank computer monitor, reflecting.  Just like Skye on the potty:  I sat and I sat and I sat and I sat and I sat and…nothing.

“Do you have any tips?” I asked Mr. Candy.

“Let me think about it,” he said, brow furrowed.

That was two weeks ago.  (Explains that burning smell:  two whole weeks of Mr. Candy thinking!)

So, instead of pretending we have grand advice to share about effectively juggling two kids under two and/or two and under (just saying that is exhausting), perhaps it would be more helpful if I shared what I would have done differently.  To that end:  How NOT to handle two kids two and under…

1. Don’t expect to have any time to yourself.  Downtime is a thing of the past.  Buh-bye!
2. Don’t roll your eyes when your husband suggests hiring a “Mommy’s Helper” to help when you’re alone with the kids during bedtime.  Help is a GOOD THING.  Embrace it.
3. Speaking of which, don’t have family that lives 3,000 miles away.
4. Don’t live in a townhouse with three levels of stairs, and another set of stairs to the sidewalk and yet another set of stairs to the garage, especially if you have a toddler who refuses to climb the stairs herself.  (This has since changed.  THANK GOODNESS.)
5. Don’t be afraid to say you’re overwhelmed.  Sometimes, just admitting it helps lift some weight off your shoulders.
6. Don’t be disorganized.  It’s okay to go with the flow with one child, but having a schedule would really help with managing two little ones.  Or so I imagine.
7. Don’t be afraid to let the kids cry a little bit when you’re juggling nap- and bedtimes (especially by yourself).  I would stress out when one kid would cry as I was trying to put the other one down (and this happened a lot).  Just take a deep breath, give your toddler a big kiss and tend to the infant because his needs are probably more pressing than your older child’s.
8. Speaking of your older child, don’t hesitate to mourn the loss of his/her “babyhood,” because getting a younger sibling does force the toddler to grow up and be less dependent on you in some ways.  And it’s okay to acknowledge that can be kind of sad.
9. Don’t settle for having only two arms.  You’re going to need at least six with two little ones.
10. Don’t worry if you can’t keep up with the mess.  Kicking toys out of the way is good enough sometimes.  (And by “sometimes,” I mean most of the time.)
11. Don’t expect to savor the little moments with your new baby as you did with your firstborn.  You will be pulled in several directions and won’t have the time.  And don’t beat yourself up about that.  I always guiltily felt like I was shortchanging the baby; yet, despite that, Drew is pretty much the happiest, smiliest baby in the history of happy, smiley babies.  Because even though you can’t tend to the second baby with your one-hundred-percent attention, you are now armed with a secret weapon:  your firstborn, whom your baby will think is the most awesome person on the planet.  I cannot wait for Skye to wake up in the morning so she can help entertain her brother.  All she does is shout gibberish in his face (communicating in his native “baby talk,” I guess) and Drew will literally shake with excitement and laughter.  IT IS AMAZING.
12. Don’t forget to carve out special one-on-one time with each child when you can.
13. Most importantly, even on your darkest days, don’t forget there is light at the end of the tunnel.  Ten months later, I’ve gone from crying in the shower every day to glancing back at my two babies in the backseat, making each other laugh, and thinking, “Damn, life is pretty good.”  (Although, every once in a while, a good cry in the shower still feels pretty damn good, too.)

SKYE:  Don’t take my socks off!

ME:  We have to.  They’re smelly.  P.U.

SKYE:  P.U.!

ME:  Yes!  Skylar’s feet!  P.U.!

SKYE:   Mommy’s feet!  P.U.!

ME:  Daddy’s feet!  P.U.!

SKYE:  Mommy’s ‘gina!  P.U.!

ME:  Okay, there’s funny…and then there’s just downright cold.

I am supposed to be the mature one, the one who rises above my toddler’s outbursts and bossiness to impart wisdom and calm.  I know this.  And, despite still feeling like a 12-year-old girl at heart, I do try to fulfill those maternal obligations, putting on my best “Mom Face” and calmly uttering useless parenting phrases like “Use your words” and “Why are you upset?” in the midst of my daughter having a face-down meltdown in the middle of Target because I had the gall to request she sit in the cart instead of underneath the rack of bras.  I usually handle these situations with what I would call an impressive amount of patience [INSERT SELF-CONGRATULATORY BACK PAT HERE], rarely losing my temper and pretending I don’t notice that old lady glaring at me accusatorily, as if I am purposely pinching my child’s arm to make her scream like this.

Then there are the times I break and my inner 12-year-old takes over.

“NO!” Skye screams.

“Yes,” I respond, knowing full well it will make her yell even louder:

“NO!”

“Yes.”

“NO!”

“Yes.”

At this point, I have no clue what we’re even debating.  But I’ll be damned if I’m going to let her have the last word about this clearly very important argument.  The back-and-forth continues until:

“Do you want to go to bed now?”

“NO!”

Of course she doesn’t.  It’s 4 p.m.

“Then you had better learn to be a little nicer.”

The toddler pouts silently, and we all know what that means:  I WIN.  I pump my fist in the air and do an obnoxious victory jig.  IN YOUR FACE, TWO-YEAR-OLD!  That’s right.  That will teach her to be nicer.

If my inner 12-year-old isn’t busy teaching my daughter lessons in kindness, my inner 12-year-old is refining the toddler’s managerial skills.

“Here, Mommy.”

“May I have the brown crayon instead?”

“No, Mommy.  BLUE!”

She expects me to color Dora’s hair blue?  That’s perfectly fine, in theory; no reason Dora can’t have a Katy Perry-esque makeover.  She could actually stand to inject some edginess into her look.  Yet, when I’m told I can’t have the brown crayon, suddenly IT IS THE ONLY CRAYON I WANT – nay, need.

“Please, honey, the brown crayon would make Mommy very happy.”

“No.  BLUE!”

Look at the brown crayon – it’s just sitting there, unused, I think to myself.  There is no rational reason she won’t let me have it.  This chick is just on one major power trip!  Hmpf.

So I do what any “rational” mother would do in this situation:  take the blue crayon with a smile, appreciating that this is about spending quality time with my daughter and not about getting my way…

…And yell out, “LOOK!  CHIMPANZEES ON TV!” then quickly trade my blue crayon for the brown one when my daughter isn’t looking.

Oh, come on.  First Dora goes blue, then what’s next — whipped cream shooting from her nipples?  Marrying Russell Brand on an elephant?  I DID IT TO SAVE DORA, people!  For Dora.

Well, and the elephant.  No animal should have to endure that kind of humiliation twice.

So here it is, guys:  “Fatherhood is…” by my husband (along with a few addenda/interjections from me, as us wives are prone to do).

Fatherhood is having nightmares about the words “Some Assembly Required.”

Fatherhood is having even the toughest day at work melt away when you come home and hear “Daddy!” and get enveloped by tiny little arms.

Fatherhood is giving horsey rides until your back gives out.

Fatherhood is running after your kids on the playground, even if that means stuffing yourself into a tubular slide that was meant for kids half your size.

Fatherhood is being afraid of that day when your kids realize you aren’t perfect.

Fatherhood is hoping that your kids look up to you as much as you looked up to your dad.

Fatherhood is dreading your daughter’s wedding day probably as much as she is dreaming about it.

Fatherhood is realizing that your secret retirement Porsche savings account is destined to pay for college tuition.

Fatherhood is wishing that your kid turns out to be left-handed and can throw a baseball 95 mph.

Fatherhood is watching Phineas and Ferb. . . after your kids go to bed.

Fatherhood is looking forward to Tea Time.

Fatherhood is having 16 years to spend dreaming up ways to intimidate your daughter’s future boyfriend.

Fatherhood is doing everything in your power to make sure your kids grow up fans of your hometown sports teams, even if you now live 3,000 miles away from your hometown.

Fatherhood is finally being able to fulfill your MILF fantasies… only to have exhaustion get in the way.

Fatherhood is being mocked for not knowing the difference between leggings and stockings.  (Seriously, there is a difference?)

Fatherhood is feeling like one of Santa’s elves as you put together toys till 2 a.m. on Christmas Eve.

Fatherhood is never having full control of the TV remote again.

Fatherhood is getting kicked in the back by your irritated wife at 3AM, and willingly taking the abuse, after her fourth breastfeeding session of the night.

Fatherhood is understanding that however you dress the kids, or feed the kids, or play with the kids is NOT how your wife wanted you to do it. Even if it’s exactly how your wife told you to do it.

Fatherhood is boring your colleagues with endless talk about your kids. And not caring when their eyes glaze over.

Fatherhood is gaining a whole new appreciation for your wife, her body and her maternal instincts.

Fatherhood is being the dude in the parking lot with dolls in his backseat.

Fatherhood is feeling pangs of sadness when you’re on a business trip and see other families with small children in the airport.

Fatherhood is having to stop a salesman at Target and ask him, “Where do you keep your nursing pads?”

Fatherhood is not minding when it’s your turn to change diapers because it’s time you get to spend with your kids (not to mention you’ve gotten really good at it).

Fatherhood is swallowing your hurt feelings when your toddler cries, “MOMMY DO IT!” for the hundredth time that day.

Fatherhood is clearing out the beer in your fridge to make space for juice boxes and Dora yogurt.

Fatherhood is sitting on the couch, surrounded by your pajama-clad kids, and thinking, “It doesn’t get any better than this.”

. . .And, two minutes later, having your kids burst into inexplicable tears and scream at the top of their lungs, making you think: “I really wish we still had beer in our fridge.”

ME:  Your brother turns 10 months today!

SKYE (THINKS A MOMENT, THEN TURNS TO HER BROTHER:)  Drew, you almost old!