Toddlers Funny Quotes

It's funny that we think of libraries as quiet demure places where we are shushed by dusty, bun-balancing, bespectacled women. The truth is libraries are raucous clubhouses for free speech, controversy and community. Librarians have stood up to the Patriot Act, sat down with noisy toddlers and reached out to illiterate adults. Libraries can never be shushed.

I used to wonder why I had hair on my legs, but now I know it's for my toddler sons and daughters to pull themselves up off the ground with as I scream in pain.

The average adult hates being treated like a child, unless it suits them.

The toddler started making this whine/moan noise while pawing at Tabitha. I know as a woman I'm supposed to have this innate love of babies, but the truth is, they kind of remind me of zombies. They stumble around, arms out, moaning. And if they get a hold of you, they suck the energy out of you.

Brains are like toddlers. They are wonderful and should be treasured, but that doesn’t mean you should trust them to take care of you in an avalanche or process serotonin effectively.

I'm sure the other kids wouldn't mind not being lectured by another toddler over the virtues of sharing and the mental benefits of toy blocks.

It is a sign of immaturity to believe that being older than someone (automatically) makes you more (mentally) mature than them.

Daddy,” said the toddler, now seething with righteous indignation, “you are a poo-poo head!” Feigning outrage, JFK lowered his voice. “John,” he said, “no one calls the President of the United States a poo-poo head.

Our parents would not be ‘The best parents in the world’ (to us) if they were not our parents.

Pritkin, it’s a hotel room, not a death trap!” A glance over his shoulder showed him impatient blue eyes under a fall of messy blond curls. “Anyway, you’re here.” “I can’t protect you from everything,” he forced himself to say, because it was true. It was also frankly terrifying in a way that his own mortality was not. He’d never had children, but he sometimes wondered if this was how parents felt when catching sight of a fearless toddler confidently heading toward a busy street. Not that his charge was a child, as he was all too uncomfortably aware. But the knowledge of just how many potentially lethal pitfalls lay in her path sometimes caused him that same heart-clenching terror. And the same overwhelming need to throw her over his lap and spank the living daylights out of her, he thought grimly, when she suddenly popped out of existence. “Cassie!

So…you're not going to tell me what they mean? C'mon. What's the Hob? Why Forks?” When I stand, I switch to my blatantly rude, you're-an-idiot tone. This is the one that always pisses off my mom. To be sure he's not missing my insult this time, I also cross my arms and speak very slowly like I'm speaking to a toddler. “The Hob is from The Hunger Games books. It's the underground market where the characters trade food and information. Forks would be the town in Twilight. The setting. In boy-speak, Forks equals the planet Tatooine for Star Wars. You know—Anakin Skywalker's childhood home? Or are you not familiar with any global blockbusters? I suppose I could use Sesame Street or Pokémon for a reference—if it would help you understand better?” Bam. That should seal it. I couldn't have sounded more like a total bitch. He nods. “No, I've got it. My bedroom was Tatooine for all of third and fourth grade. Boy-speak…that's funny.” He laughs again, and it sounds warm and—and—not at all offended!

New Rule: Bring back a little pubic hair. Not a lot, I'm not talking about reviving that 1973 look that said "I'm liberated" and "I'm smuggling a hedgehog."I just want a friendly, fuzzy calling card that's a middle ground between toddler smooth and "Dr. Livingston, I presume?" It's supposed to have some hair on it. It's a pussy, not Dr. Evil's cat. Call me old school, but there's a name for a guy who needs it hair-free: He's called a pedophile.

It was like a nightclub rave… at 10 am… for moms and toddlers… in a library.

In a fool, education can be like a full box of matches in the hand of a toddler that is home-alone.

I’m terrible at being one of those moms who can sit in the bleachers or dance studios and make forced small talk with parents who all seem to know (and secretly hate) each other and who never seem to show up in pajamas or mismatched shoes. I’m continually saying something awkward and inappropriate, like “I thought this was just for fun” or “No, actually I don’t think that toddler is too fat for ballet.

The world never slows down so that we can better grasp the story, so that we can form study groups and drill each other on the recent past until we have total retention. We have exactly one second to carve a memory of that second, to sort and file and prioritize in some attempt at preservation. But then the next second has arrived, the next breeze to distract us, the next plane slicing through the sky, the next funny skip from the next funny toddler, the next squirrel fracas, and the next falling leaf. Our imaginations are busy enough capturing now that it is easy to lose just then.

You make me better on the field, but off the field, too, Sky. I love how you make me feel. Being around you is intoxicating and freeing, but it's also the first sense of home I've had in such a long time. You're funny and sweet, and you don't seem to mind that I told you for the first time while that I love you my toddler is singing a cartoon theme song in the background.

Another day at the funny farm. Jeremy and Megan were eleven months apart and in constant conflict these days. Pam hadn't decided which stage of motherhood had been the most challenging, having two toddlers in diapers at the same time, or having two fresh-mouthed teenagers at the same time.

God damn you!” Alfred said. “You belong in jail!” The turd wheezed with laughter as it slid very slowly down the wall, its viscous pseudopods threatening to drip on the sheets below. “Seems to me,” it said, “you anal retentive type personalities want everything in jail. Like, little kids, bad news, man, they pull your tchotchkes off your shelves, they drop food on the carpet, they cry in theaters, they miss the pot. Put ’em in the slammer! And Polynesians, man, they track sand in the house, get fish juice on the furniture, and all those pubescent chickies with their honkers exposed? Jail ’em! And how about ten to twenty, while we’re at it, for every horny little teenager, I mean talk about insolence, talk about no restraint. And Negroes (sore topic, Fred?), I’m hearing rambunctious shouting and interesting grammar, I’m smelling liquor of the malt variety and sweat that’s very rich and scalpy, and all that dancing and whoopee-making and singers that coo like body parts wetted with saliva and special jellies: what’s a jail for if not to toss a Negro in it? And your Caribbeans with their spliffs and their potbelly toddlers and their like daily barbecues and ratborne hanta viruses and sugary drinks with pig blood at the bottom? Slam the cell door, eat the key. And the Chinese, man, those creepy-ass weird-name vegetables like homegrown dildos somebody forgot to wash after using, one-dollah, one-dollah, and those slimy carps and skinned-alive songbirds, and come on, like, puppy-dog soup and pooty-tat dumplings and female infants are national delicacies, and pork bung, by which we’re referring here to the anus of a swine, presumably a sort of chewy and bristly type item, pork bung’s a thing Chinks pay money for to eat? What say we just nuke all billion point two of ’em, hey? Clean that part of the world up already. And let’s not forget about women generally, nothing but a trail of Kleenexes and Tampaxes everywhere they go. And your fairies with their doctor’s-office lubricants, and your Mediterraneans with their whiskers and their garlic, and your French with their garter belts and raunchy cheeses, and your blue-collar ball-scratchers with their hot rods and beer belches, and your Jews with their circumcised putzes and gefilte fish like pickled turds, and your Wasps with their Cigarette boats and runny-assed polo horses and go-to-hell cigars? Hey, funny thing, Fred, the only people that don’t belong in your jail are upper-middle-class northern European men. And you’re on my case for wanting

Worse than a toddler,' she thought, and stretched out beside him. He flicked her a glance that said, 'I'll allow you to pet me.' Except, when she reached out to stroke the soft fur behind his ear, his glare said, 'But only with your gaze.

Being with Tracy and Colston distracted me from all of the unresolved issues I felt about Iraq, about my injuries, and about my uncertain future. She also helped me cope with the little moments when I forgot to be distracted. She cut up my steak for me when we went out. One time when I couldn’t open a jar I got very mad. But she just came over and opened it for me. She didn’t make a big deal about it; she just did it. I told her, “You know how hard that is as a man to have you open a jar for me? I am supposed to be doing these things for you and I can’t.” But she told me that was no big deal. And she made me feel like it wasn’t. I struggled a little with Colston as well. I was capable of taking care of him in many ways, but it was hard and little things would trip me up. Putting a sock on a toddler with one hand will absolutely stress you out. It’s funny now, looking back. But back then I really struggled to get a sock on that boy.

Lisa added, "The big trigger for Rache is mistreatment of dogs. I think you could kick a toddler in the face, and she wouldn't flinch. But if you kicked a dog in front of her, she'd probably kill you on the spot. "I'll, uh, keep that in mind," I said. Then, double checking that nobody was in a position to overhear, I figured it was as good a time to as as any, "Has she killed anyone?" "She's wanted for serial murder," Brian sighed. "It's inconvenient.

An old man with overalls walked by; I don't think old people should wear overalls; it makes them look like shrivelly toddlers.

Why don’t we consider moving in together? While we head for this event?” She gulped. “What?” she asked weakly. “Let’s clear the debt, get Kid Crawford out of the picture, I’ll take on your upkeep rather than Vanni and Paul shouldering your food and board, and we’ll evolve into…” He cleared his throat. “We don’t have to explain anything. People will just say, ‘Dr. Michaels likes that nice pregnant girl.’ We’ll share a house. I’ll be your roommate. You’ll have your own room. But there will be late nights you’re worried about some belly pain or later, night crying from the babies. You don’t want to do that to Vanni and Paul and—” “I was just going to go home to Seattle. To my mom and dad’s.” “They have room for me?” he asked, lifting his fork and arching that brow. “Oh, for God’s sake,” she said, slamming down her fork. “You can’t mean to say you plan to just follow me and demand to live with the babies!” “Well, no,” he said. “That would be obsessive. But Jesus, Ab, I don’t want to miss out on anything. Do you know how much babies change from two to six weeks? It just kills me to think you’d take them that far away from me. I mean, they are—” “I know,” she said, frustrated. “Yours.” “Yeah, sweetheart. And they’re also yours. And I swear to God, I will never try to take them away from you. That would be cruel.” He had just aimed an arrow at her sense of justice. The shock of realization must have shown on her face, but he took another bite, had another drink of his beer, smiled. “Live together?” “Here’s how it’ll go if you stay with Vanni and Paul. Toward the end, when you’re sleepless, you’ll be up at night. You’ll be tired during the day, but there will be a toddler around, making noise and crying. And you’ll have all those late pregnancy complaints, worries. Then you’ll have a small guest room stuffed to the ceiling with paraphernalia. Then babies—and grandmothers as additional guests? Newborns, sometimes, cry for hours. They could have Vanni and Paul up all night, walking the floor with you. Nah, that wouldn’t be good. And besides, it’s not Paul’s job to help, it’s mine.” “Where do you suggest we live? Here?” “Here isn’t bad,” he said with a shrug. “But Mel and Jack offered us their cabin. It’s a nice cabin—two bedrooms and a loft, ten minutes from town. Ideally, we should hurry and look around for a place that can accommodate a man, a woman, two newborns, two grandmothers and… We don’t have to make room for the lawyers, do we?” “Very funny,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Abby, we have things to work out every single day. We have to buy cribs, car seats, swings, layette items, lots of stuff—it’s going to take more than one trip to the mall. We have to let the families know there will be babies coming—it’s only fair. We should have dinner together every day, just so we can communicate, catch up. If there’s anything you need or anything you’re worried about, I want to be close so I can help. If you think I’m going to molest you while you’re huge with my babies—” “You know, I’m getting sick of that word, huge.

Tell our children their father loved them more than they will ever understand. Poppy, our beautiful firstborn with her perma-frown and her impossibly small fingers. My memories of her are endless and wonderful. Her tiny body in that first white bodysuit, the way she’d nuzzle into my neck on dark nights, her warm, chubby toddler body starfishing when she snuck into our bed, trick or treating dressed as a ghost running around the streets on Halloween or curled up in my lap as we watched Frozen for the billionth time. Now she is talented and funny and fiery and has her own secrets, her own opinions. We get flashes of the woman she’ll become and it takes my breath away.

enjoyed

I imagined the situation was like when a toddler said fuck. It was absolutely hilarious, but no respectable adult in the child’s life wanted to validate the kid saying the word, so they tried their best not to laugh no matter how funny it was.

I knew it was bad. When my jeans screamed in protest that’s one thing— I can blame the dryer. But when my toddler comes in and slaps me on the belly, giggles and calls me “daddy pig” that’s an entirely different story. That pink, pain in the arse, Peppa is officially barred from the house.

Mark had more trouble keeping his dick in his pants than a toddler who discovered how fun it is to play with that funny thing inside his Pull-ups.

You are their favorite audience member. You are the balm for every boo-boo, a light when things are darkest, a hero when things are scary, an advocate, a cheerleader, a happy place. You are pure magic.

Once you realize that nothing you do will ever be “enough” because kids are programmed to push boundaries and to always want more, you’re forced to realize that your relationships are not about what you buy or give. They’re about who you are to that other person. You will never do enough, maybe, but you ARE enough.

I consider this book as my first. I have released many other projects before. But I didn't have full control in the revenue process. So, if I were a hip-hop artist, everything else I have released before would be my mix-tape.

Not everything has to be taken seriously. But not everything is funny either.

Toddlers are like the worst inmates. When they're not lying to your face and tearing up your shit, they're napping, pooping, or trying to think of different ways to fuck with you.

Toddlers are like the worst inmates. When they're not lying to your face and tearing up your shit, they're napping, pooping, or trying to think of different ways to fuck with you.

I think of this whenever someone says to me, “Jerry Lewis says women aren’t funny,” or “Christopher Hitchens says women aren’t funny,” or “Rick Fenderman says women aren’t funny…. Do you have anything to say to that?” Yes. We don’t fucking care if you like it. I don’t say it out loud, of course, because Jerry Lewis is a great philanthropist, Hitchens is very sick, and the third guy I made up. Unless one of these men is my boss, which none of them is, it’s irrelevant. My hat goes off to them. It is an impressively arrogant move to conclude that just because you don’t like something, it is empirically not good. I don’t like Chinese food, but I don’t write articles trying to prove it doesn’t exist. So my unsolicited advice to women in the workplace is this. When faced with sexism or ageism or lookism or even really aggressive Buddhism, ask yourself the following question: “Is this person in between me and what I want to do?” If the answer is no, ignore it and move on. Your energy is better used doing your work and outpacing people that way. Then, when you’re in charge, don’t hire the people who were jerky to you. If the answer is yes, you have a more difficult road ahead of you. I suggest you model your strategy after the old Sesame Street film piece “Over! Under! Through!” (If you’re under forty you might not remember this film. It taught the concepts of “over,” “under,” and “through” by filming toddlers crawling around an abandoned construction site. They don’t show it anymore because someone has since realized that’s nuts.) If your boss is a jerk, try to find someone above or around your boss who is not a jerk.* If you’re lucky, your workplace will have a neutral proving ground—like the rifle range or the car sales total board or the SNL read-through. If so, focus on that. Again, don’t waste your energy trying to educate or change opinions. Go “Over! Under! Through!” and opinions will change organically when you’re the boss. Or they won’t. Who cares? Do your thing and don’t care if they like it.

longing to suck that bottle of warm, delicious milk. I hadn’t been weaned off it for very long. I couldn’t resist. I pulled the bottle gently out of my brother’s mouth and hands, popped it hastily into my own mouth, lay back on the sofa and enjoyed the trickle of something warm down my throat - something I still enjoy today. Warm milk is heaven for a toddler, a pleasure beyond measure. That was until my younger brother’s legs began shaking, his fists clenched and his breath started puffing away. This was not a good sign. I turned my head to look at him, the bottle still locked in my mouth, when all of a sudden his face turned red and distorted, like he was about to poop. Instead, he let out a high-pitched scream that didn’t quite shatter the front window – though it must have come close – but shattered my eardrums and froze my whole body. Unfortunately for me, it also ignited my mum and dad, who both dropped whatever they had been doing in the kitchen and came running immediately into the living room. ‘What the hell is going on?’ shouted Dad. ‘Brett’s taken Trevor’s bottle,’ shrieked Mum as she ripped it out of my mouth – with my only tooth still stuck in the teat. She shoved it straight back into my brother’s mouth to disable the alarm. ‘He needs a bloody good hiding.’ ‘Little bastard. Get up and come here now!’ bellowed Dad. He yanked me off the sofa and held me dangling in the air by one arm as if he were holding up the biggest fish he ever caught, but with much less pride. My world was spinning and so was I as Dad whacked my petite bottom. I must have blacked out from the pain as I don’t remember anything after that. What I do remember, however, is resenting my little brother for making me lose both my tooth and my taste for dairy products. I also learnt one of life’s important lessons: be very careful what you put in your mouth.