I wish I had it as together as my daughter does. I hope she never loses her self-assuredness and her who-gives-a-fuck-I-like-it attitude.
Hey all! I have been tired and off my game lately, sorry I haven’t been posting often. My goal is twice a week, but I have been lucky lately to get one done. Plus, I am a little bummed in that with all my talk about Toledo Area Parent, it’s been almost a month and not one word in response to what I sent them. So, sorry if I got anyone’s hopes up. It’s my first rejection as a writer, but I am hopeful I will get more chances elsewhere. I am just proud I put myself out there. The rejection will help me when I finally finish that Great American Novel I am intending to write. 😉
Anyways, I think I can officially state that my 6 year old is a full fledged reader. The best part is, I think he’s going to be just like his mother and read voraciously. He got his first Kindle book (because Dad left his home. I do not share! Hey, I need something to do while How’s It’s Made is on, please don’t make me actually learn about how erasers are made again ). I bought him Diary of a Wimpy Kid and he’s almost done. I asked if he had told his teacher about it, and he told me, no he hadn’t because he was afraid she’d be upset because there were swear words in it. What??? I thought this was safe reading??? Well, apparently the word “stupid” is used a lot. OK – I can deal with stupid, as long as he realizes only the not nice characters use mean words like that. It helps build character I say. As long as he isn’t learning the fine essence of the F-bomb, I can deal.
So anyways, when this came up, I asked him what it was really about. He was telling me the gist of it, and I asked if there is a love story in it, because he knows that if there isn’t a love story, Mom ain’t reading it. He grimaced and said, No Mom! I said there’s got to be a love story, what’s the point? He rolled his eyes and said, “Why do you only read books where they suck each others….” at which point I slapped my hand over his mouth, terrified of what he knew about what the people in my books sucked. I really try to keep these things under lock and key, but he reads EVERYTHING (including nutrition labels), so maybe he found an extremely juicy part when he was using my Kindle for Where’s My Water?
He took my hand off his mouth, and finished (with me cringing in anticipation)…”blood.” Sucking blood. OHH, much better. See – he knows I am obsessed with Twilight, Vampire Diaries, Chicagoland Vampires books, and basically anything vampires. He thinks all I read about is bloodthirsty boyfriends, which is not entirely wrong. It’s just that I have some other books where the people suck, umm, other things.
And with that, I will now be locking my Kindle up, or at least making sure my smut novels are closed before I hand it over. No need to explain to my kids the birds and the bees this early. That, and why birds and bees can be so very very dirty.
Next up…Food Issues. Not having so much luck with this whole losing weight adventure. Am I the only person who LIVES (read: exists) to eat?
Let’s just put it out there. If you have kids, DAYLIGHT SAVINGS SUCKS. It makes me swear. It makes me yell. It makes me put my kids to bed at 6:50 in the evening. It messes with them and they in turn mess with me.
When I was childless, I LOVED the Daylight Savings. Ohhh, the days are longer, more sun, happy happy joy joy. One of the few pieces of legislation I supported that Dubya passed during his reign was when he made Daylight Savings longer. Awesome! Yay farmers! Thanks for needing the light! (See? I knew there was a reason to be one.)
Now, I dread it and for good reason. First, I have to explain why we are leaving the house when it is still pitch black outside. It feels like we are sneaking out in the middle of the night to start our day. They freak out when I turn all the lights in the house off and shut the door behind us and we are temporarily blinded – guided only by the lights of the pre-started mom mobile. Then after a long day, I get to explain why it is still light out when I am putting them to bed, thus making me, not the farmers or the government, the bad guy. As usual.
Tonight was a prime example of how I hate time change. You cannot MESS with my kids’ schedules. They lose their freakin minds. I have two awful weeks every year while my kids adjust. Spring forward is the worst. And once again, I am by myself to witness the devastation. One day, and it will be during a time change week, I swear my kids’ heads are going to swivel all the way around. Green vomit. Glassy eyes of evil. The whole shebang. They cannot handle this.
There also seems to be a growing trend in my house that the sound of my voice is not at a decibel level that my kids can hear. Apparently, only dogs and squirrels can hear my requests, demands, pleas and screams to pick up their plates/clothes/coats/bookbags, put their PJs on, wash their hands and so on. Even questions as simple as what they’d like to drink for dinner and how was their day fall on deaf ears.
Today was the final straw. A zen-like calm came over me. I made up my mind and I stuck to it. One too many, I HATE HOMEWORK AND I HATE YOUs. The camel’s back was broken when the high pitched shrieking whine and hysterical tears came from the living room because she couldn’t find her Barbie’s shoe. The bell was tolled after I put dinner on the table and they looked at it and whined, but we don’t like this! It’s ravioli for the love of God. It’s not like I am making them eat foie gras or duck l’orange for Pete’s sake. They seemed to tag team with each other. An unspoken bond made that one would be quiet while the other went in for the kill.
I had had it. I put them in bed. My six and four year old in bed for the night at 6:50 p.m. 1 hour and 10 minutes before actual bedtime, 50 minutes after we had gotten home for the day. No stories. No movies. Light and sunny day still going on outside.
There was no yelling. Just an eerie calm emanated from my body. I didn’t raise my voice or stamp my feet. There was no manhandling. Just a calm, “Get into bed, this night is over.” I was at my limit, but not fearful of losing it, I just knew I had had enough. Time to assert who’s on the top of this food chain.
I am so proud of myself. It’s not easy when they are whining, pleading, begging, bargaining for one more chance and how very sorry they are for what they said before and that they didn’t mean it. They’ve learned and won’t ever do it again. I stayed strong during red blotchy faces and hitching breath. I won. I fought a battle of wills with a four and a six year old and I won.
If you don’t have kids, you might think me weak for being so proud of winning one argument and sticking to my guns. You might think, my kids will listen the first time, every time. HA! I thought that too, and I was very very naive. These buggers are the most stubborn, tenacious beasts you will ever come across. They will fight until you are in the fetal position hiding in your closet. They know no fear. They take no prisoners. Until you have them and they are your responsibility alone, you cannot fathom how hard this job is. How they suck every ounce of energy from your body, leaving you a flabby pile of mush at the end of each day. I’m in the trenches. I am writing my war story as we speak. I will have battle scars, but this will make me stronger, a better parent, a wiser person.
I win. Today. Kids – 843 Mom – 1 I’ll take what I can get.
Sunday nights are bath night. As I sit and let my daughter play with Ariel and her pal, hotter sexier Barbie mermaid, I brace myself for the upcoming fight. The fight to wash her hair. The shampooing she says she never needs even though her bangs have syrup in them and the top of her part has glue on it as a result of scratching her head during “craft time.” I use this term loosely, as craft time is usually just cutting magazines into itty bitty pieces and gluing them on “paper.” And by “paper,” I mean the back of the kitchen chair.
I let her play a bit, give her a 2 minute warning and then I get down to business. That’s when the screaming and shrieking begin. Like I am trying to drown her on purpose. MOM! DON’T GET IT IN MY EARS. OWWW! YOU GOT WATER IN MY EYES! Me, being the classic abuser, blame the victim. Quit thrashing around like a cat stuck in a plastic bag then!! The girl has more evasive maneuvers than the Air Force. I feel like I am water-boarding my child every time I try to clean her up a little. Dick Cheney would be proud. She gets so hysterical and screechy, it’s a wonder the neighbors don’t call to make sure I’m not ripping her limbs off.
Sometimes I wonder what a Child Protective Service Agency would think if they heard only snippets of my child rearing skills. Like what if Will told his teacher the conversation we had a few months ago. It was during a particularly rough patch with Molluscum, a viral skin condition that gave him tiny itchy bumps that look like little zits all over his body. After some advice from a mom who’d been there, we tried a homeopathic treatment called ZymaDerm, which is simply a topical you put on the bumps twice a day. (Worked like a charm by the way, and for the bargain price of $26 for a teeny tiny bottle! And no, I don’t know which all natural ingredients are in it. I choose to believe it was manufactured solely from fairy dust and angel kisses.) Well my boy was a bit skittish about this topical, which to him looked like pure acid meant to burn them off instead of slowly and not painfully shrink them to nothing. So, in order to ease his fears the first few times around, I would blow gently on the area where I applied the stuff. You know, to neutralize the flesh-eating acid I was putting on him. Now, some of these bumps were near (not on) his groin area, so yes, I blew there too. Can you see where this is going? One night, as we were beginning our ritual, he says to me very nonchalantly, “Mommy, I like when you blow on my pee pee. It tickles.” “Uh….OK, thanks, I think? Saaaay, how about you NOT say that to anyone else please?” What the freak? How do you explain to a kid why another adult would not want to know this particular comfort technique his awesome mom is using? You don’t. You just pray they never say a word and if they do, hope to God his teacher would call ME before calling Child Services.
Likewise, the problem my sister is facing at the moment with her 9 month old son. Apparently, some doctors prefer to not circumcise boys the way they used to. Some prefer to leave a bit more scarf to the kerchief if you know what I’m saying. She was a bit worried that something was wrong down there, and being raised around 99% females, we are bit uneducated in this area. Sure, we’ve seen ‘em, but not enough by any means to qualify either of us as experts. And personally, I’ve never seen one with its hoodie still up. I missed that when Will was born, being they did it before I got feeling back in my legs, which is a long story about lazy doctors and an epidural being left in for 24 hours after he came out. Not a fun first birth experience, but a story for another day, and six years later, I’m still not sure how I’d make that story funny.
Anyways, how does one go about finding out what normal looks like? Google? How do you Google normal baby penises without alerting the authorities there’s a pervert in our midst? What would you search to get scientific results instead of horrible images you could never erase from your brain? Circumcision mistakes? Nope. Healthy baby penises (or is it peni?)? I don’t think so. Baby girth? Who knows, no matter what you search, it’s not going to be pretty, and what if someone checks your hard drive down the road? We’ve all seen SVU, it happens. Lord help me if they check mine at work, because I swear I was looking for Dick’s Sporting Goods, nothing else. I just didn’t realize you had to type in the actual full name of the store.
I just worry constantly about being misunderstood. Adults think crazy things, and they should, there are some crazy horrible people out there. It’s just that I’m not one of them. Most of the time. I’ll admit that first nice spring day when I open all the windows I completely forget I have to keep my yelling to a minimum. Who knows what the neighbors think when they hear me yell, “Will wipe your own butt!! I’m trying to get the nail polish off your sister’s lips!!!”
Please don’t rat me out. Most of this I can explain. It just won’t be much fun and will still make me look like an inept parent. A loving, nurturing, but utterly inept, parent.
My husband just accepted a job which will put him back on the road during the week. For those of you who know us, this is something with which we are familiar. His last job kept him on the road and home every other weekend. It was awful. At the start of the job, we had a 3 and a 1 year old. This lovely period lasted 2 ½ years before he was let go last August.
Now, we start another job with a better company that will bring him home on the weekends. The kids are now 4 and 6, so a bit more manageable on my end. Well, I hope.
Therefore, in an attempt to make myself feel better, I thought I’d make myself a pros and cons list of a traveling husband.
PRO – The bed all to myself (well, along with my long-suffering cat, Ezra, who by the way will be thrilled to have me all to herself again). No loud snoring. No pokes in the back at 11:30 going, “Just real quick???” I would say no bed hogging or cover stealing, but for this transgression, I am the sole perpetrator, therefore placing it on his pros list and not mine. Also, no more hearing, “Why do you have so many freakin covers? I am roasting!” And best of all, no more dutch ovens, you know, the kind that linger, and permeate the sheets.
CON – The bed all to myself. No getting to elbow him when a kid starts coughing and saying, “I got it last time,” even though he totally doesn’t know there was no last time. No one to scare the bejesus out of in the middle of the night by slapping him awake when I hear something crash. “Mark!!! Wake up! Someone is trying to break in, go out there and use your superhero ninja powers to fight them off! I’ll be right behind you with my blow dryer….What? It was just the shower caddy falling off the wall? Oh sorry.”
PRO – No more coming home to such non-diet friendly dinners such as super nachos, hot dogs, burgers, pizza and so on.
CON – No more coming home to such non-diet friendly dinners such as super nachos, hot dogs, burgers, pizza and so on. Now I have to cook my own crap and for the kids too, all in a 15 minute window.
PRO – I can work out every night after the kids go to bed. No reserving my energy for other late night cardiovascular activities. I can work out, shower, and go to sleep.
CON – I can work out every night after the kids go to bed. No reserving my energy for other late night cardiovascular activities. My husband has some SKILZ, which will have to wait until the weekend. (At this point, my family is throwing up in their mouth a little, but hey, what can I say? I don’t have a smut addiction for nothing.)
PRO – I have complete control over my household once again. No one to forget to tell the daycare and/or school something or pack the wrong thing in their lunches. No more forgotten paperwork. No gym shorts on the floor or chip crumbs in front of the TV (after a particularly stressful night of Black Ops). No more doing the laundry or loading the dishwasher wrong.
CON – I am the only one in charge of my household again. I have to do all the above mentioned annoying things ALONE. He might forget some stuff or do it wrong, but at least someone was doing it.
PRO – No more smell of Red Hot. Dude puts that crap on everything. It’s disgusting. Singes the nostrils.
CON – No con, that shit is gross.
PRO – The bathroom gets more “open” time. We were dumb enough to buy a house with one friggin bathroom and this man goes more than anyone I know. He eats, he poops. Every. Single. Time. For like a half hour each time. If I see him with a phone, kindle or laptop heading down the hallway, I know I am on my own for the next hour or so. No more asking the kids to hold out just a bit longer, he’ll be out soon. Once, Will knocked on the door and said, ‘’Dad could you not play your games this time? I really have to go!” All parents hide in the bathroom, but my dear husband does it at least six times a day.
CON – No con, it will be nice to have a semi-available bathroom again. He can decimate the hotel toilets during the week. I will get to go back to my absolutely-no-privacy, 2 kid hug party while I am taking care of business.
So, there you have it, my started list of pros and cons. This did make me feel a bit better, however, I am sure the cons list will grow longer when he actually leaves. I might try to talk my husband to do a guest post, where maybe he can give an honest pros/cons list to traveling.
This was merely a close call, not an actual mistake – so don’t freak out when you read this. Did you know that Flexeril and Focalin pills look very similar? Flexeril is an awesome muscle relaxer prescribed to me after a month of dealing with an annoying pulled neck muscle (which, btw, is the worst place to pull a muscle. You have no idea how heavy your freakin head is until it hurts to hold it up.). Focalin, on the other hand, is an ADHD medication intended for my 6 year old. Let’s just say someone in our home, who is above the age of 35, may have gotten the bottles mixed up and handed our 6 year old a Flexeril. Thank GOD this kid is the most detail oriented person on the planet. He pauses, looks at the pill quizzically, and says, “This is different from my other pills.” At first, we are both like, “No it’s the usual one, go ahead and take it.” Then a pause followed by, “WAIT, DON’T TAKE THAT PILL!!!” Good thing he notices the little things eh?
SIDENOTE: Zyrtec and Xanax are also similarly shaped, but those are just for me, and either way, I’m feeling pretty good, so no harm done right? Can’t say Xanax has ever helped with my allergies, but then if I take the Xanax by mistake, what the fuck do I care?
“Mom! This milk is gross!” What? I just bought it. It smells fine. Crazy kid. “Grace, quit being dramatic, it’s fine, just drink it.” “But MOM, it’s gross!!!” Sigh. “Here let me try it.” Huge swig out of her sippy cup and insert whatever the noise is for spitting out milk and gagging here. “What the???” Note to Self: Always disassemble sippy cup components. If left intact, milk and other debris tends to get trapped between the plastic insert and the cap. I had just let my daughter drink old, dishwashed, moldy milk leavings.
This is an oldie, but goodie. Back in our single kid days, when Will was just starting to really walk around and we were new to the whole wearing shoes all the time business. While baby shoes are adorable, I was far too lazy of a parent to actually put them on just for looks. My kids wore socks only until they set their own feet on the ground. So much for those adorable booties I spent a fortune on before I had children because they were totally NEVER worn. Anywho, my babysitter calls me up one day at work about mid-morning saying Will is limping and he won’t put any weight on one foot. So, as I have shown in previous posts, I am completely calm and rationale in my train of thought. Did he break his foot? Are his leg muscles growing wrong? Am I walking him too much on one side? Is that even possible? Is one leg growing faster than the other? Is it shorter than the other, just like my self-diagnosed one short leg syndrome? So, I call the doctor to see what might be the problem and they are running the gamut of questions when I hear my call waiting beep. It’s my sitter saying she found the problem. My loving cat had left Will a present in his shoe. No! It’s not that! Eww. She’s a good cat, she wouldn’t do that…it was one of her tiny toy catnip mouses (mice, meeces?) that she was playing with and had jammed up into the toe of his shoe. So – that morning in my rush to get us out of the house on time, I unknowingly shoved my poor kid’s foot into a shoe crammed with mice, tied them up and ran out the door.
Last one: This is borrowed from a friend, but I can guarantee most of us have almost done it. The names have been rhymed to protect the guilty.
After visiting with my parents on Sunday, I was driving back home with the kids and rhymes-with-Hobie decides that he needs to go to the bathroom. Of course, we are nowhere near a rest stop, so I have to get off the turnpike in the middle of nowhere. I asked the attendant where the nearest gas station was and he pointed in that direction. The station was under construction and had no indoor plumbing, so we had to settle for the porta potty around the back. So in the dark and cold, we run around the back of the building coatless, and he hurries into the porta potty. While he is going, I am huddling with rhymes-with-Lenzie to keep her warm and Hobie asks if I have extra toilet paper because he pooped and there wasn’t any in there. I dig through my purse, sightless in the dark. I grab hold of a package thinking it’s tissues and grab one to hand to him. Hobie asks me why it’s wet and I say it is a moist towelette and to just use it. I then go to grab Lenzie and smell bleach for some reason. Ummm yeah I made my son wipe his butt with Clorox wipes!!!!
Thanks Megan Ann Leigh for the story. Cracked me up! In my opinion, at least you know you killed all the germs! No need for hand sanitizer after that poop!
That’s it for tonight! Say goodnight Gracie.
PS – I totally woo’d Toledo Area Parent (check them out here). I will be submitting some stuff by the end of the month, where they will hopefully take my sad writing skills and turn it into literary genius. Or they’ll just shake their heads and go, “Nice try kid.” Either way, I gave it my best shot. I’ll keep you posted. Thanks for all the support. KF – I owe you big for suggesting it to me!
So – I’m trying to woo Toledo Area Parent, so I can be a guest blogger on their online edition for the next few months, so here goes…
If you pick me, I can be serious. I can talk about how post partum depression kicked my butt for over two years after my first (and second) baby, and how it took a huge, almost marriage ending, fight for me to realize this is was actually PPD. I just thought this was how all new mothers felt. Boy was I wrong. It sucked. I got help, got medicated and finally realized having kids can be fun. Who knew?
I can turn on the serious if need be, but I tend to be a bummer, so I don’t do it often. I wrote a post about cancer a few months back, after it seemed like every good person I knew in life was getting their butt kicked by it, but I let my husband read the draft, and he felt like jumping off a cliff after reading it, so I left it in the draft stage, so as not to have my very few, but loyal, readers jumping out their windows in hopelessness.
But, I can also be funny!!! This is where I feel I really shine! So I was thinking what I might write about parenting that everyone could relate to. And with the coincidence of some of my most favorite people getting ready to jump into procreating, I thought I’d offer some honest, been-there-done-that parenting advice.
I love my kids. They are the best things that ever happened to me. When I go into their bedrooms at night and watch them sleeping peacefully, my heart swells in my chest until I think it’s going to burst. When I hear their peal of laughter at something simple they find utterly delightful, I have to stop to catch my breath. Watching their minds work while they try to figure out a puzzle or new gadget, I am in awe that these beings were created by us.
But then, real life intrudes and I am left wondering, “What the hell was I thinking?!” People laugh and say enjoy your sleep while you can (wink wink) to every pregnant woman they see, but I think it’s way more than that. For me, both my kids slept through the night fairly quickly and have always been good sleepers. It was the awake time that had me freaking out.
I remember driving my son home from the hospital 6 years ago. My first thought was, why on God’s green earth are they just letting me walk out with him??? I would say it was pretty clear we had no idea what we were doing. But no, they just wheeled us out, upended the wheelchair, dropped me on my ass, and ran back in as fast as possible. Meanwhile, I was a hot mess – a sore, hormonally charged, freaking out woman with a husband who was looking at me with the same deer in the headlights look that I mirrored back, all while this poor innocent baby slept peacefully in a carrier – completely unaware of the danger he’s just been put in by having these two completely clueless adults now solely responsible for his well being.
We had to figure out how to feed him, change him, dress him, wash him (thank God the Johnson & Johnson baby wash came with instructions, which yes, we totally read step by step for the first bath) and so on.
They also assume just because I have had boobs all my life, I was now supposed to know how to feed another human being with them. “It’s the most natural thing in the world,” they say. Yeah, say it again, lactation consultant, so I can rip your eyes out. My introduction to breastfeeding is a whole post in of itself. Let’s just say I wasn’t a natural and ended up in crazy pain, with scabby nipples and a hungry kid who I didn’t want to feed because it hurt too bad. (Relax, I figured it out, he didn’t starve.)
You also get a glut of advice. From everyone. Even the lady in the supermarket will tell you in a tsk tsk tone that your fussy kid should be in bed by now (at 5:30 in the evening). They’ll tell you to watch out for the boys, they’ll pee all over. No one ever mentioned that they can also kick out some pretty awesome projectile poo whenever the diaper is off. The stuff that hits EVERYTHING. We called it CODE BROWN, which meant, all hands on deck. When we got rid of it (4 years later), his nursery lamp still had brown stains on it. They also never tell you girls are just as bad. Gracie peed every single time I took off her diaper, and without the convenient hose that boys have for aim, gravity took a better hold and everything below her got soaked. Every. Single. Time. That’s a lot of clothes, onesies, diaper changing pads, blankets, not mention the carpets and/or beds that may have been underneath her at the time too.
There are also no instructions for introducing solid food, which is a great mystery to the first-timer. Watch out for allergies! Don’t give them honey or you’ll give them botulism (which totally sounds scary), nothing too big or too small, make sure you cut everything up! Start with veggies, no start with fruits, no start with kale and sushi so they will like all foods and have a diverse appetite! We have failed in this area, that’s for sure. My 6-year-old is what you would call “picky.” And by picky, I mean his ONLY food groups consist of chicken nuggets, pizza, rolls/biscuits, peanut butter and jelly, and of course, any dessert imaginable. I know, judge away, but if you are like me, and have attempted the food battle every single night without fail for months on end, you know that your “when I have kids, they’ll eat what I give them and that’s that” bravado will be quickly thrown out the window in a desperate attempt to get them to eat ANYTHING of nutritional value. If Will ever ate kale, sushi, or hell, even a cheeseburger, I’d faint on the spot. And probably hold my breath until he was done eating, just in case my breathing would distract him from eating something different and possibly, healthy.
And don’t get me started on the sleeping thing. Do you co-sleep, let them cry it out, wear them for 4 years like the tribes in Africa do, or something else that forgets that mothers and fathers also have to survive these first years as well?
If you’ve read my most favorite book, Created to be His Help Meet, you’ll know that this loony toon thinks mothers should NEVER be away from their children. Ever. No solo shopping trips, no girls night out, nothing. You are created to serve your husband and raise his kids. God I love that lady. Let’s hope we never meet.
In essence, there are extreme viewpoints coming at you from all angles when you finally take the plunge into parenthood. Everyone has an opinion, and everyone is judging you, no matter what you do. Therefore, after 6 years of experience I have realized one thing. I have no idea what I am doing. The one thing I can say to all parents with confidence is this – Trust your gut. If your gut says go to the ER at midnight on a Sunday because you can’t figure out why they’re crying – GO. If your gut tells you something isn’t right about their behavior – GET HELP. If your gut tells you that maybe that last nugget that just dropped on the floor can be salvaged by the 3 second rule to avoid complete anarchy – GIVE IT BACK TO THEM FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.
Trust your gut. Get some good supportive friends and family. Ditch the negative judgy people. Laugh. At everything. Because if you don’t, you’ll end up hiding in the closet in tears, which won’t stop them, they’ll find you no matter what, so keep laughing and enjoy the small moments of joy, because you’ve got your work cut out for you.
What to post. What to post…
OK – Funny kid stories. I know some of you are walking away already, but come on, my kids are freakin adorable. But, I may be a bit biased. Anyways, here are our latest cute stories.
Mark and Grace were tooling around Costco today just talking. And unloading the kind of cash you can only unload at Costco, buying totally needed things…. like head lamps. But honey, they were only $10!!! Anyways, Mark says, “OOOO Gracie, I want a big TV!” as they were passing the tempting TV aisles. Grace says, “OK…. and a big chicken too?” Mark says, “Whaaat??” “A big chicken that shoots umbrellas at you?”
Of course. Who doesn’t? How did she know?
And then….Will made Mark and me a Christmas present (or holiday, or Hanukkah, or Kwanzaa, depending on the lesson that week) and he made us this.
Awww!!! It’s adorable. It’s Will outside, playing in swastikas! OK, not really, don’t send out the troops, they are supposedly snowflakes. OHHH.
AND finally….We have a lot of trouble with potty words at our house. This may be because Mark and I cannot contain our glee when some rips a big fart when all else is peaceful. I guess we’ve dug our own graves. We are working on it teachers, we promise. Unless you fart unexpectedly, because THAT is funny. So anyways, we were discussing when we could use potty words and when not, specifically the word “penis.” Will tells us you cannot say the word penis outside. We say…sure that sounds about right. Then Gracie very matter-of-factly looks up from her coloring book and replies, “Well, unless you see one. Then you can say it.” Yep. Girl, I pray you NEVER see a penis outside. EVER. Hell, you can’t see one inside until you’re at least 25, no make it 30. And circumcised please. No hoodies.
So – there’s my cute stories for the day. Good night!
PS – My new favorite song. Take Note: I found this BEFORE it got annoying. LOVE IT. NSFW. Watch me imbed this bad boy!!!
Sorry I’ve been MIA this week. Christmas, a full week of work, holiday parties, more food inhaled than humanly possible, combined with a lingering sadness that I can’t quite kick has made the desire to be funny put on the back-burner.
But, my sister is sitting in a hospital room with one sick kid at home with Dad and the other with her in a cramped, non-private room getting roto rootered every so often, just enough so that he screams bloody murder and wakes up just enough to be a squirmy, not-feeling-so-bad 7 month old in a tiny cage of a crib so that she can do nothing but try desperately to entertain him until the next round of suctioning. (which, by the way is awesome. Why don’t they pass these things out to go home? Best snot suckers EVER.). So for her, I have to try to come up with something funny to lighten the mood right? OK, here goes…
I think motherhood is off the table for the moment, as I can’t quite stop kissing on my kids and being thankful for them. So… let’s find bigger game…
Marriage? I can give a brief taste of the book I just finished that I mentioned a few weeks ago. Created to Be His Help Meet was all sorts of fun to read and has made for quite the after the kids go to bed conversation topics.
In a nutshell, Debi Pearl hates women. We are not supposed to have fun, leave our children or our husbands. EVER. Babysitters make you a horrible mother. Don’t even get me started on how much I am a failure for working. If she had her way, I’d be stoned on sight.
In addition to homeschooling our delightful children who are never to leave our sight, we should do all the household work…changing light bulbs, mowing the lawn, taking out trash, painting the shed, fixing the car, hand whittling kitchen chairs, all so our husbands can relax after a long hard day’s work. Not only should we do these things, but we should do them joyfully. Joyfully! HA! THEN after a full day of sheer joy, we are supposed to jump in bed and please him sexually so that he doesn’t stray, as men are wont to do if they aren’t pleased in every way. Yes, ladies, this book has been put in the freezer many a night, which was then followed by a stiff drink and leaving the dirty dishes to SIT in all their glorious dirtiness.
Needless to say, I can’t quite accomplish this attitude in my home. Let’s face it, even if I wanted to turn over a new leaf and be a reverent, joyful slave, my husband would NEVER be able to take me seriously. When you have a solid 17 year relationship built on mutual sarcasm and self-deprecation, being that positive just doesn’t quite fit my personality.
And really, who wouldn’t want me this way? Doesn’t every husband need a bit of ball busting every now and again? Can you imagine if NO ONE ever told him he was wrong? G would be wearing purple polka dot pants and bright pink plaid shirts with mismatched socks every single day. Will would never be allowed to bring his sexy back, put a ring on it, or vogue in any way. He would just be this mash of jerky offbeat gyrations my husband calls dancing. (I love you honey, I worship at your altar of smartness, but let’s face it, Channing Tatum you are not on the dancefloor.)
If I was a reverent super happy wife, who would teach my kiddos the greatest defense mechanism ever….sarcasm? When my husband teases me for being a “rich girl,” and then I break out my tiny violin (which totally does not annoy the piss out of him) when he talks of how SOOOO poor he was, we help to put each other in perspective with a little touch of dry humor and teasing. All in good fun I say.
Ms. Pearl, the ultimate help meet, would just listen and nod enthusiastically when my engineer husband makes the simplest task the most complicated, confusing, full set of blueprints, series of instructions that you ultimately give up and fall asleep while he is “explaining” how this will work instead of just doing it.
She would kiss his feet just for hanging the curtain rods a few inches from the top of the ceiling so the bottom of the curtains have at least a foot of clearance betwen them and the floor.
She would revel in his awesomeness when he proposes gunmetal gray floors because they won’t ever show dirt. She would lovingly buy his 30 different types of saws while she enjoys her one pair of sensible black shoes.
She would of course be supportive of his NEED for fog lamps on his truck while you have a phone my great grandma would laugh at.
OK – so maybe I am not the ideal wife, but let’s face it, I am WAAAY funnier than Ms. Pearl will ever be. I think that’s a much better arrangement. What do you think honey??