Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Sliding in a winter wonderland!

Sleigh bells ring! Are you listening?
I'm a'fallen, the ice is glistening!
a pitiful sight. I'm broken tonight.
Slipping in a winter wonderland!

We have had a crap load of snow dropped on our state in the past week.
It has closed roads, school, and canceled Christmas with family who lived in town.
I have been sliding everywhere I've ventured in the past week.
In my car. On my feet. on my well cushioned arse as it hit the ice and slid down a hill.
I am my own toboggan, thank you very much.
My children love it.
Or they did for the fifteen minutes they were allowed out in it.
After thirty plus minutes of preparation to protect them from the cold and to make bathroom trips an endeavor.
Think of that stupid movie A Christmas Story."
(And, no, honey, mentioning it in this blog does not make it a classic movie, just a pop culture reference utilized to make a point. It is still a stupid movie and a waste of my time.)
Our Giant Schnauzer loves it, but then again, he's an idiot, so it's understandable.
I hate it. I hate the fact that i am now adult enough not to have visions of snowballs fights and snow forts dancing through my head. I hate it that all I can picture is getting stranded with three small children.
I hate it that my first thought was to stock up on food just in case.
I hate it, that when the first snow flake fell, I morphed into an adult with responsibilities who couldn't enjoy the beauty of the snow because I was concentrating on not driving off the road when my windshield wipers froze and wouldn't work.
In short, I really hate the snow.
And getting old.
And "The Christmas Story," just to round out the trilogy.

Saturday, December 26, 2009

Happy birthday Punk!

My daughter, my wee little evil midget, Punk, turns two today.
Seems like only a heartbeat ago that she was in my tummy and I was trying to end our time share arrangement.
She was the surprise baby, the unplanned but wanted child.
She was the last surprise I've really enjoyed in life.
Punk is her daddy's joy, my laughter, and our families only girl grandchild.
She is rotten, spoiled, temperamental, loud, rough, sweet, girly, and in other words, a perfect Punk.
It is amazing, after two boys, how different having a little girl is.
She is definitely feminine, until it's time to get down and dirty. Then she's worse than the boys.
Punk has been practicing her feminine wiles since she figured out if she cooed and giggled, the men in her life would give her what she wanted.
She has perfected it to an art now.
And when someone doesn't capitulate quickly enough, she channels her inner banshee and glass shatters.
Punk is my last baby, the culmination of a family and a dream my husband and I didn't know we had. She is the marichino cherry on our sundae, the Cool whip on our pie. She makes the five of us a whole unit.
She, like her brothers, makes The Man and I laugh so hard we occasionally wet ourselves. And then she curls up and snuggles (once we've changed out pee dampened pants, that is!)
She is Punk. She is Perfect. She is Princess Piss pot.
And we love her.
Whole bunches. (Imagine baby arms thrown as wide as they can reach.)
Happy birthday, Punkin girl.

Monday, December 21, 2009

His and mine

The Man and I have neatly divided our children as though we were King Soloman.
Not by our choice.
By theirs.
Bug has announced with vim and vigor that he is my boy.
Boo has declared his allegiance to The Man.
Punk has been cut down the middle depending on if The Man has food or if she wants to snuggle me.
Boo has declared he doesn't love me--only Daddy--and that he only wants him.
Bug throws a fit when dad picks him up and he's looking for me.
Punk is mercurial. If you have food, she loves you best. If she's tired, she love me best. If she's playing, Daddy's the main choice. If she's sick, Mama. If she's feeling fiesty, Daddy.
Ping. Pong. Ping. Pong.
Truthfully, its bittersweet to watch my now green eyed boy (his eyes change color and have been a very pretty metallic green for a month now) want the Man instead of me.
I birthed him. I nursed him. I have a displaced rib thanks to him.
And I can't even get a hug hello most days.
I know its a stage. I know in time, he'll turn on Scott with the swiftness of a striking snake.
And I'll watch the Man's eye become sad as his boy doesn't want him.
At which time, Bug will throw me over for his dad.
They are consistantly incosistant.
They are passionate in their affections.
And they change their mood more often than their underwear.
And it's fascinating to watch.

Friday, December 18, 2009

P A N T Y!

That one simple word makes The Man whimper and plead for mercy.
And not in relation to my unmentionable undergarments.
But in relation to the fact our daughter will be potty trained very soon and will enter the world of PANTIES.
(I think I just heard him die a little right there. PANTIES! Oh! Dare I say it again?)
He can't stand the fact that his baby girl is taking her fledgling steps towards becoming a woman like her mother.
Who will marry a man like her father.
Who will have the same thoughts about The Man's baby girl as The Man used to have about me.
Used to.
I discourage those thoughts most vehemently now for two very distinct reasons.
1. I know what happens when you let a man have those thoughts. I have three kids and finally figured out how babies are made.
2. The Man is getting older and those thoughts make him excited and that is very hard on an old man's heart.
So I make it a point to respect his heebeegeebee's regarding panties.
I bring it up at every opportunity.
I show him the panties in stores.
And I'm even making up a song to the tune of BINGO to sing.
P! A! N! T! Y!
P! A! N! T! Y!
P! A! N! T! Y!
Panties are what she wears!

Thursday, December 17, 2009

The Generation Gap

The Man and I are currently embroiled in one of our useless, pointless, ridiculous arguments.
Seriously, when were engaged, we almost broke it off because of an argument over whether or not a certain sandwich was on McDonald's menu.
We don't argue about the big stuff. Never have.
We argue about inane things that don't matter at all in the greater scheme of things.
In case you aren't aware, The Man is a stalwart Christian Republican male. I, most definitely, and none of those things.
The Man is seven years older than I am and a veteran of two wars.
I, if I had been old enough to wear a bra, would have been burning it in protest of war. (The first go around. The second time, definitely old enough for the over the shoulder boulder holder.)
The Man is Conservative. I'm of the mind set you reap what you sow, and it will all come back around one way or another.
We vote for different presidents. We have different religious views. We don't even like the same foods.
And, somehow, we have survived fourteen years of marriage.
Go figure!
Anyway, this morning, on my way to work, we were having our normal discussion and The Man admitted that his generation screwed up the country (Vietnam, etc).
And I responded in my normal fashion. Rather than discussing the war and pertinant details of our discussion, I went for the part I knew would make him sputter.
"Yes, honey, you did screw up the world by getting into a 'Conflict' (I'm driving doing quotations with my fingers). But you really screwed up because you enjoyed people who liked to cross dress, wear platform heels, spandex, and make up."
Him: "Huh?" He is so eloquent.
"Yes, babe, your generations started the whole bring the cross dressers and gays out of their closets and into the main stream. Kind of hard to stand tall as a white republican male when you're wearing four inch stiletto's and fishnets."
Him: "Huh?"
"You know what I'm talking about, honey. Your generation supported cross dressers in their infancy. Way to go. You know, honey, with groups like Queen, KISS, and Elton John. You should really be proud that you made it possible for an entire series of generations to come out of the closet and stand proud."
At this point, he began defending his fave all time rock band, KISS, with all the vehemence of a die hard fan.
"Babe, you enjoy listening to grown men who prance around in tights, platforms, make up, etc. It explains why I find you wearing my clothes occasionally. But, you know what, babe. I support your right to cross dress if you want to."
(Just to clarify, he wears my socks, which he stretches out and ruins, my pajama pants, which right now are pink leopard print, and a few shirts. Not the low cut ones. He doesn't have the cleavage.)
Then, being the admirable debater that he is, he comes back with the witty reply, "Well, what about the New Kids on the Block?"
"One of them is gay, they may cross dress. Don't care."
Hell, we have Boy George and RuPaul.
But it all started with his generation, repressed and looking for an outlet.
And they found high heels, make up, and boas.
That's the legacy his generation gave my generation.
For which we all should be eternally grateful.
If, for nothing else, than for the fashion tips.
"I wanna rock and roll all night! And wear high heels every day!"
Rock on!

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Old Man Winter

The Man turns 41 this weekend.
And, true to form, I must celebrate in true wifely fashion.
No, I do not mean sexy negligees and sexual favors. That would require me to do something involving effort.
Nope, I will put pen to paper and celebrate in a more cerebral fashion.
The Man says 41 is much harder for him to accept than 40, so I'm gonna try to help him along.
The Man has much more hair than he used to. Unfortunately, it's not on his head. But what is on his head is turning a very distinguished gray. As it heads south for the winter.
The Man has great stamina. He naps for the longest time, at the drop of a hat. His narcoleptic tendencies are a running joke between us now.
He has a memory like you wouldn't believe. Meaning he forgets what he was supposed to remember as soon as he's told it.
He is a clean fanatic. His OCD tendencies are becoming firmly ingrained, so that, when we are old and gray, I won't have to do any cleaning, because, aside from naps and bathroom breaks, he will do nothing else.
The Man is aging into a terrific father. He's settling into his role with grace and style (and a touch of child induced deafness) and our children are the better for it.
And he might turn into an acceptable husband in time. Might. He's aging well, like a moldy cheese, and, I'm hoping, as he molds more each year, I continue to like that brand of cheese. If I start craving a sharp, young cheddar, there might be problems.
The Man thinks 41 is old. Well, honey, it is. But I think you've still got a few good years left before we start buying Depends and Geritol.
We'll save that for next year.
Happy birthday, honey!
(And watch me run away now!)

Monday, December 14, 2009


I didn't really want a daughter.
Don't get me wrong, I love my baby girl.
After two boys, a girl was a strange and frightening thing.
She still is, but I like the strange and frightening quality of my daughter.
But I've discovered another joy of having a daughter.
I can buy her the toys I had as a child that have come back in style.
Cabbage Patch Kids. Check. One will be under the tree.
My Little Pony. Check. Got two of those.
I haven't been able to find Strawberry Shortcake, but she has a birthday this month, so I'm hoping an aunt will take pity on me . . .er, her . . .and buy her one.
Having a daughter is my own personal accepted way to jog down memory lane and relive my childhood.
She can ask for the toys. I can play with them.
Seems fair.
Heaven help her if she wants something I can't play with and don't have fond memories of.
I don't think she'd be getting it!

Friday, December 11, 2009

It's a bird! It's a plane!

No, it's my child running away!
Bug has developed a new twist on his already twisted and convoluted behavior.
He wants to run away.
To New York.
To school.
To anywhere but here.
And I'm not allowed to go, but The Man is.
I want to go to New York, damn it!
I don't know what the deal is, what the allure is, because we simply key lock the doors and put away the keys when he gets in this mood.
No one escapes from mommy.
And he'll tell us it's not because he's unhappy (unless he's mad--then we are all unhappy!). He just wants to run away.
End of discussion.
His logic is childish and irrefutable.
And we're stumped.
If my baby is packing his bags, it makes me wonder . . .
If home is where the heart is, why does my oldest child ream of Broadway stages and escape?

Monday, December 7, 2009

Bribery and the bad parent

Does bribing my oldest to have a good day at school make me a bad parent?
I weigh the moral pros and cons.
Am I teaching him to expect rewards for behavior he should do as a matter of course?
Am I setting him up to expect rewards for every little thing?
Am I just trying to help him and his teachers have good days at school, without screaming, fighting, and battles?
Am I reading too much into it?
I'm not exactly buying him a pony for these bribes.
I'm using an advent calender and the thrill of surprise and chocolate as a reward.
Bug loves to open the door and see what is hidden there, and last week, he had four out of five great days as a result.
But am I teaching him to associate food with joy?
As I spin in circles, catching myself coming and going with every parenting conundrum, I wonder--how badly am I screwing this child up?
And then I head straight for my chocolate.

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

another year older

And not a damned bit wiser am I!
What did I learn this last year?
How to coupon my ass off to feed my family.
How to juggle bills so we have food, electricity, a home.
Patience? (That one earned a big old guffaw)
What have I learned this year that has value?
I have learned that my love of my children has no limits and that I am willing to move heaven and earth to help a five year old acclimate to school.
I have learned that I would cry when my three year old stopped sucking his thumb and suddenly became a big boy.
I have learned that a two year old can win an argument against me more times than i care to admit.
I have learned that, despite days where I want to walk away, walking away isn't an option.
They just follow me.
Asking for milk and telling me they are tired and that their brother is touching them.
Have I done anything worthwhile with another year of my life?
Not really.
I have survived, like the Gloria Gaynor song.
And this year, that was enough.
So pour me a birthday margarita and come sing drunkenly with me.
Because, this year, that is enough.

Tuesday, December 1, 2009


My mother called to talk with me tonight and reminded me of something I'd forgotten.
My birthday next weekend
Seriously. Didn't even register.
I loathe my birthday. who wants to watch the years going by and celebrate that? Who wants to count the days of my mortality? ticking off the days until the end of my time?
As a mom, I spend much of my time worrying about my kids birthdays and holidays to worry about my own.
For example, Punk turns two after Yule, and with the holiday and birthday and normal everyday stresses, I don't think of much else.
Let alone my birthday.
Which seems to surprise everyone.
I often wonder if this forgetting is a protective measure, a sign that I am far too busy, or a sign that I have lost a part of myself to the monster called motherhood.
I suspect its an amalgamation of all three, but still.
It's always puzzling that I forget my birthday, that it sneaks up on me every year unexpectedly.
It's not like its not the exact same date every blasted year after ll.
It isn't like one of those Whack-a-Mole games. I know when it's going to rear it's ugly head.
But every year, it's a surprise.
Maybe the surprise is that I am really another year older.
And not so very much wiser most days.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Today will be three years

Since my dear daddy passed away.
It's hard to believe.
Most days I still expect to see him walk through the door.
Or see him pat my mom's butt when she walks by.
Or watch him watching my kids.
When we are together as family, if I close my eyes, I can almost hear him chuckling.
I can almost feel his hand on my hair.
Or see him touch my babies as they run by.
The hurt never stops. The missing never eases.
Every day, I wish he could just hold my kids. That my baby girl could have crawled into his lap and found the same comfort and safety there that I did.
That my boys could have run to him to tell them about their boyish adventures.
That I could hear the yell Peepaw and see his face light up with a bemused smile.
That I could say Daddy and have him call me Punk in that exasperated tone of voice one more time.
Tomorrow, I will hold my babies close and tell them about their PeePaw in the stars. The one who watches over them every day. The one who loved them so much.
Three years watching my children grow passes in a instant. Three years without my daddy is a lifetime.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Who is that strange man?

Some days, I look at The man and I just don't know.
I don't know who he is anymore.
I don't know what he's thinking.
I don't know what freaking planet he's from.
Those are the days I question the wisdom of marriage. Really. I know it was the idea of a woman, because no man would choose to be saddled with one woman and her growing saddlebags for life.
After his accident, there have been a lot of those days. The ones where I study the man like a strange zoo exhibit and ponder my own sanity. Most days, I find my mental faculties sadly lacking.
But there are also days when I look at him and catch a glimpse of the young man I married.
The man who is one of a handful of people that can make me laugh so hard I cry and pee at the same time--a rare skill indeed.
The one who chases our kids around the yard playing soccer until he hurts his knee and limps to me for the sympathy he knows he's not going to get. (When you are on your deathbed, then I will sympathize. If I do that every time you are sick, you'll just get sick/hurt/maimed more often for attention, you know!)
The man I couldn't imagine my life without almost fifteen years ago (and, yes, I know we've been married 14 years, but December will be 15 years since we met.)
Some days, I want to chunk it all, move to a small, poorly inhabited island, and never have to see him or the heathens again. Especially when his DNA is strongest in our children.
But most days, I realize I don't have much room to complain. (Not that I won't complain, I'll just have to be more creative in my endeavors.) We have little money, but a lot of love and laughter and three lovely children who eventually fall asleep and are blessedly silent.
I am married to a man who likes to do housework, so I don't have to. Who enjoys getting down and dirty with the kids, again so I don't have to. (I am the more cerebral parent.) Who does yard work, again, so I don't have to.
And even though he drives me berserk and makes me contemplate homicide, I realize that, if I did off him, I'd have to do all of those things I don't like to do.
And my mama didn't raise a fool.

Monday, November 16, 2009

My daughter, the mute

Punk has begun a new stage of non speaking.
That's not to say she doesn't communicate, but we have reverted to a strange early form of speech and action that leave me playing charades.
And i hate charades.
Ask her question that doesn't have a yes or no answer? She stares at you.
Ask her a yes or no question? Watch carefully for the small nod or shake of her head.
It's so minute, if you blink, you'll miss it.
And then she screams.
And heaven help you if you try to out guess her.
Then she really screams.
This morning, for example, I was having tea and toast. She was having milk and a breakfast bar. She finished her bar, so I gave her my toast. Which she looked at, grunted once, and waited until I turned my back to eat.
But when I asked her if it was good, I think I saw a small nod.
May have just been a trick of light.
Lest you think she has completely reverted to a nonverbal state, she does still say several word loudly and with great gusto.
Three to be exact.

Friday, November 13, 2009

Woe for the curly headed child

All three of my children have curly hair.
With Bug, it's only in the back, giving him a mini mullet.
With Boo, who has coarse hair like his daddy, it's all over and, when allowed to grow, resembles a white boy's Afro.
Those two are easy. We keep their hair length at 1 inch, tops.
But Punk, poor, poor Punk.
My baby's got curl.
All over, in increasingly tight ringlets.
It's beautiful.
It's wonderful.
It's a pain in my butt to deal with.
To look at her hair, it doesn't appear to be that long. The longest ringlet falls just below shoulder level.
Until you get her hair wet and realize its past the middle of her back.
Her curls are so blasted aggressive that they don't seem to get any longer, just more abundant.
And knotted.
And harder to brush.
and by the end of the day, she resembles a pissed off poodle.
I use conditioners and detanglers. They roll over, show their soft, white underbellies, and plead for mercy.
And I have flashbacks of my own childhood and my mom manhandling her way through brushing my curly hair.
I still hate having my hair messed with to this day.
And I hate the thought that Punk cries every time she sees a hair brush no matter how much I try to make it painless.
I'm considering a Sinead o'Conner look for her, just to end the pain.
And I'm waiting for The Man to turn away just long enough.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Hail to our veterans!

The Man is a Veteran. Twice over.
And while I make fun of one of his wars being about oil and greed, I do appreciate that he felt compelled to serve his country.
I couldn't drive my car without him.
And he was a big boat.
(I just love to hear him scream)
I have a special soft spot for veterans. My grandpa and Daddy were both veterans. The Man, who has a soft spot in general, is, of course, a veteran. Of the Gulf War and Operation freedom.
While I don't agree with the Military (Capital letter--government) I do support the military (small letter--the people). They are simply doing what they believe is right, serving their conscious and their country.
That I can get behind any day.
So when you see a veteran handing out flowers for donations, pony up. They've earned it and more.

Monday, November 9, 2009

When even a margarita won't help

Yes, I had one of those weekends.
Saturday, due to a brief financial windfall, found The Man and I dropping the heathens off at Grandma's so we could go Yule shopping.
Whereas both boys through fits worthy of note, although Boo did recover much fast than Bug.
Bug hid in Grandma's garage, ate breakfast in Grandma's garage, and in general, was a pint sized twirp.
But the Man and I prevailed, saving a whopping $115 dollars on Yule presents ( we got $350 for $235!) It was his first couponing shopping adventure with me (a virgin! Oh my!) and he had a glazed looked in his eyes the rest of the day.
Then off to the grocery store to restock our pantries. The Man has vowed never again.
So my plan succeeded, because I loathe taking him to the store with me.
He messes with my rhythm.
Sunday was just me and the heathens.
And it was not a pretty picture.
The boys were wild and succeeded in interrupting Punk's nap, so I had a screaming, fussing 22 month old all day.
Seriously! I looked at her, she cried. I tried to pick her up, she cried. Tried to leave her alone, she cried. Tried to stay with her, she cried.
It was lose/lose proposition.
Until she finally passed out, in the recliner, at 5:30pm and slept 13 hours straight.
And this morning? She's still giving me the stink eye.
But she's Daddy's problem until 5 o'clock tonight.
I'll take pissy customers any day.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

For the love of a Woobie
My oldest boy, from the time he was three months old, had his Woobie, a beloved Noukie Doudou named Paco that was chewed upon, carried every where, and slept with.
Paco the first was lost on the side of the turnpike in a freak wind related accident.
Paco the Second was throwing away by a two year old.
Paco the third--we just don't know where he went. He ran away from the craziness.
Paco the fourth was lost last year, and after $40 a pop, i deigned not to replace him.
Bug cried. He asked for it. And we diverted like the cowards we are.
After more than a year of looking and admitting defeat, Woobie showed up again this last weekend.
There was a joyous reunion with flowers and protestations of undying love.
A boy and his Woobie--happy days.

Monday, November 2, 2009


We survived Halloween.
We had a zombie soccer player, Frankenstein (mispronounced each day as either dragonfly or Frankestyle) and a pissed off pink poodle.
We called in reinforcements in the form of our willing nephew and set out.
I took pissy poodle, figuring she would wear out more quickly, and The Man and Guy took the boys.
We girls out lasted the boys, but isn't that normally the case?
Punk didn't want to stop. Even when her little legs were so tired she was stumbling. Even when the houses became fewer and further between. Even when her bucket over floweth with teeth rotting goodness.
My girl persevered.
While the boys when back to Grandmas and handed out candy.
Let the girls show you how its done!

Thursday, October 29, 2009

When it rains

I get hit with cats and dogs and step in a few poodles.
Yes, I am being cheezy, but there's not much more to say.
We've hit another wall, a new snaffu, another delay in resuming that path our lives were once on.
If we don't get back on that path soon, we won't be able to find it for the overgrown and grass.
Maybe we're not supposed t resume that path. I don't know. But right now it seems fairly idyllic when compared to our current trail, which is full of worries, budgets, and blasted sticker burrs.
Whatever the future holds, i just wish we could start moving forward instead of inching our way along, wondering what lies around every corner.

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Three days

Bug has had three good days of school thus far--last Friday was a winner, and Monday and Tuesday have been great.
We're creeping into Wednesday hopeful and quaking with fear.
And this morning, he woke up in THAT mood.
The "I don't want to" and "I'm gonna have a bad day" mood that sent me scurrying to the bathroom to take deep breaths and pray toe very deity I could come up with.
Shiva and me--old buddies. Buddha got his belly rubbed. You get the picture.
So i did what every self respecting parent would do when faced with insurmountable odds.
I tickled him until he almost wet himself and oxygen was a luxury.
His mood perked right up then!
Then w danced the good day dance, sang the good day song, and I retreated while I was sort of ahead of the game.
I will spend my day at work worrying, stressing, and waiting for the call to tell me how his day went and if I need to pick up bribes for his teachers to let him come back tomorrow.
His attitude is really affecting my pocketbook.

Friday, October 23, 2009

Bed Bugs

I have bed bugs.
Not the gross, biting kind, but the giggling, wriggling, little boy kind.
Every night to early morning, I end up with an unexpected bed mate.
A very cute one, but still.
They hog the covers, put toes up my nose, fart, drool, and snore.
And I end up not going back to sleep.
I've tried being stern about it.
Which results in tears and wailing from their room.
And I still don't sleep.
I was always very firm in my belief that children should not be in their parents bed. Until Punk came along, and, desperate for sleep, I caved.
And it's been snowballing since then.
And since Boo started school, its become a nightly thing.
I wake up to find him in our bed, on the end of our bed, staring at me from the side of the bed.
I hear his bear jangling as he comes down the hall.
I am sleep deprived because my kids want to be with me, in my bed, and they aren't good bed mates.
They turn sideways, upside down, fling arms, head butt me, and all the while, I'm huddling behind my pillow praying to the blasted Sand Man to knock them out so hard they stay still.
I love my bed bugs, but I'm about to unleash a big old can of Raid on them if I don't get some sleep soon!

Thursday, October 22, 2009

Suck that Thumb!

After 3 1/2 years of avid devotion to the art of thumb sucking, Boo, per the advice of his dentist, will kiss his oppose able digit goodbye.
No, we are not chopping it off, but we will be stopping it from dwelling in his mouth before I have to bankrupt myself on braces in ten years.
I did the research and ordered a product with great recommendations that should be arriving in the mail by this weekend.
If it, unlike my other mail, isn't high jacked by my deranged mailman for some house built out of mail and junk.
So we will enter the fray of a mad preschooler who can't get his thumb sucking fix. We'll suffer through detox.
We'll bounce off the padded walls while Boo wails and moans the loss of his beloved thumb.
We just hope it works.
And that our middle child doesn't fall off the wagon and go on a thumb sucking bender to rival all benders. Think "The Long Weekend" Boo style.
*slurp! slurp!*

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

The sound of . . . .D'oh!

The Man has had some choice parenting moments lately, including but not limited to:
Bathing the heathens then giving them dinner. With ketchup.
Telling me Bug will not run off at school.
This particular piece of parental wisdom resulted in me chasing my five year old, gasping, wheezing, fat flapping in the breeze.
He stopped so I could catch him, kind child that he is.
The Man is really having some d'oh moments lately.
Not that I am perfect. Not that I don't do stupid, boneheaded things that make me slap myself senseless.
I just can't remember any right now.
Convenient huh?
And before he gets his feelers hurt, he is a great parent. With lapses of memory and judgement thanks to the onset of dementia brought on by his ripe old age of forty.
While I am spry and lively and in control of all my faculties thanks to my youth.
(I can hear The Man sputtering indignantly right now!)

Thursday, October 15, 2009

The sound of . . . nothing

Little did I know that my pediatrician would do a hearing test on my five year old.
And one ear would fail.
As I grabbed my child's ear, twisting it this way and that looking for the elusive ear wax that had to have ruined that test, I wondered . .
Could bug have some degree of hearing loss?
And what would that mean?
While I have no illusions I will be playing Annie Sullivan to his Helen Keller, i a wondering what new road this prospective problem might lead us down.
And if this might be a partial cause for Bug's behavior problems.
Or if we are just handing him ammunition for his later years when he tells his wife he didn't hear her say take out the garbage.
What does hearing loss mean for a child? For his family?
I find myself facing the possibility with a sense of surrealism.
Ad a hefty dose of maternal guilt.
Bug has had exactly one known ear infection in his entire life. Emphasis on known. Did I miss one? Did I ignore the signs?
Or is this all because The Man listens to kiss, Led Zeppelin, and all other hair band crap music too loud and it damaged my baby's hearing?
That's the answer I'm leaning towards.
The Man? Not so much.
Is Bug deaf? No. Is he disabled? No.
We won't even know for sure until his retest next month.
But I find myself watching my oldest with more critical eye, wondering if his distraction is just because he's not listening or because he's just not hearing.
And wondering where do we go from here?

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

The house of plague

I can tell our family has started the school year.
Yep. Sick heathens.
My kids have always been pretty healthy, but now that they are rapped in the pox plagued halls of academia, not so much.
Their baby in a bubble immune systems are battling every snotty nose, cough, and virus other people's unclean, unsanitary, hog far bred kids bring in.
(And I'm sure their parents say the same thing about my Lysol scented precious babies.)
Boo brought home a cold three weeks ago.
The score now is:
Mommy--2 times
Boo--2 times
Daddy--2 times
Punk--1 1/2 (I think we'll be on two by Friday)
and Bug--1 time
It's kicking our cans all over the place.
We are our own breeding ground of bacteria and germs and funk.
I've murdered multiple cans of Lysol, boiled everything o within an inch of its life (you should have heard The Ma when we sanitized his Little Mister!)
Nothings working.
We are plague.
Hear us hack.
And choke
and cough.
And blow our noses.
This illness has made me rethink my stance on homeschooling just because we wouldn't have to be out there.
With the germs.
Michael Jackson and his ask may have been onto something there.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Damn! It's really been that long?

Last week, the Man and I celebrated fourteen years of wedded bliss.
Aside from a kiss on the cheek and a fly by "Happy anniversary", it was no big deal. I worked. He worked. We chased kids. We did normal "us" stuff.
Hell, we didn't even sleep in the same bed that night.
(He was at work. I was alone. Pervs!)
But I realized fourteen years is a long time.
I was 19 when we married.
When I vowed for better or worse (still waiting on some more better), richer or poorer (waiting on that richer time), 'til death do us part (as we're racing each other to the finish line on that one, assisted by our three heathens.)
Would I change anything? Some days, it's tempting. But then what would I lose out on?
The dumb ass things he makes me laugh myself sick over?
Our babies?
Knowing that while I may want to murder him, I'd miss him when he was six feet under?
Having a man who cleans and does dishes and cooks?
Would I miss out on all the good if I changed one thing?
And would I like what it became?
Fourteen years is almost 1/2 o my lifetime.
After that long a time, I don't want to change.
I want more goodies and an easier life, yes, but change, no.
Because, to quote Aerosmith in "Armageddon", I really don't want to miss a thing.

Monday, October 12, 2009

Play therapy

Bug will be starting play therapy this week to help him cope with all the crazy things in his wee little brain.
No, I'm not saying my child is crazy.
Well, he does take after his father.
But, still, not crazy.
We are hoping that this will help him adjust more easily to school and demands and change.
Although the changes we've already enacted with the school is showing signs of definite behavior improvement.
So crossing all crossables for a positive outcome.

Sunday, October 11, 2009

Brown paper bags and epiphanies

The Man gave me an epiphany while watching "Marley and Me" the other night.
I said epiphany, you dirty minded lechers!
We were watching the movie, and Jennifer Aniston was reading Owen Wilson's past columns.
And she said that, during a really bad day where everything has gone wrong, she always has that.
And it's five minutes of him.
The Man turned to me (probably thinking sweet talk would get him something later one) and said that's how he feels about my blog.
It's a conversation he can have with me without heathens, dogs, or demands.
And asked why I hadn't been writing lately.
My response? I have nothing positive to say.
I am spinning in a world of my own making, wrapped up in concerns over my oldest, the Man's hand, and money worries.
And I've wrapped myself in it so tightly, I can't find a way out.
Damned wet paper bag.
But I also realized that by not writing, I was letting him down, which in fourteen years of marriage is something I've avoided like the plague.
And like the bathroom after one of his sabbaticals.
So I vow, babe, to do better. And thank you for tearing a small hold in my brown paper prison.

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

That's my boy!

Picture this:

The Man taking the heathens (yes, all three) for flu shots.

Child two and child three down.

Bug takes off running down teh hall.

Yells: "You won't get me, copper!"

Okay maybe it was more like: "I'm not getting a darn shot, this is your doctor dad not mine!"

That's my boy!

Tuesday, September 29, 2009


I've been rather remiss about my blog lately.
Truthfully, I've been having one of those "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all."
It's a far cry from my usual "If you don't have anything nice to say . . . come sit next to me" motto.
For multiple reasons, my life has dropped a big stinky one smack in my lap.
I'm a big girl. Shat doesn't bother me after three kids, dogs, cats, and The Man.
But this last pile left me wondering if I was really that crappy a parent or if I'd just had a bad start off the line.
As I've written before, Bug is having issues at school.
Not light the place on fire pyro issues or walk in wearing an arsenal issues, but issues.
We're saving the other issues for kindergarten.
No, he is having the kind of issues that make you sit back as a parent and wonder, in five short years, how you could have screwed up that badly?
Not that anything is wrong with Bug.
At least not anything that's his fault.
It's me.
And the Grim Reaper.
And me.
And some of The Man on the side. (Yes, he's the condiment parent.)
And me. (The main course)
I remember going into this parenting gig with great intentions.
They died under the onslaught of labor and drugs and having my body ripped open to bring forth life.
I remember thinking I would do everything just right.
That particular illusion crashed and burned in the middle of the night when I didn't know what to do with leaking boobs and a screaming baby.
I remember vowing I would always be there for my child.
Until alone, suffering PPD, I couldn't bear to hear my child cry any more and pondered escape.
And I understood why Bug is having the problems he's having.
He isn't the one failing.
I am.
Because of actions taken the last five years with good intent and wrong implementation.
I look to my child and realize if he's broken or damaged, I'm the one responsible.
A humbling, sobering, horrifying thought guaranteed to send me running for booze.
One The Man and my family and friends would argue with me about.
And one I will carry with me for life.
Wondering what if.
What if I had been better?
Been there more?
Been less busy?
Been more fun?
Been better?
Just . . . been.


Today is my Doodle Bug's fifth birthday.
It's hard to believe it has been five years since he and I shared a body.
It's hard to believe the baby I held is now a boy who barely fits in my lap any longer.
He is my miracle baby, a child I was given after a horrific loss, a child I wasn't sure I could carry to term.
He is his father's mini me and his buddy. He is the first to run outside to play and the last to collapse at night.
He is the first to lose his temper and the last to forgive. But he is the child who gives affection most readily.
Bug is the child least like me, but the child I love so much because he is so much like his Daddy.
Today, I will pick up cupcakes and drinks to take to his school to celebrate.
We will have a family party.
And I will watch my boy take one step closer to becoming teh man he's meant to be.
I just wish he'd slow down a bit.
Happy birthday, baby Bug.
I love you whole bunch!

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

School sucks!

Or at least it's heading that direction.
For Bug.
We're still having problems. He's trying. I know he is. But he has good days and bad days.
But we're having some issues with the teacher and the teacher's assistant.
And we're trying to make steps for a meeting with the principal and the two offenders to resolve it.
I'm trying to control the mama bear that wants to come out when I hear my son say he doesn't think they like him.
I'm trying not to clutch him to my breast and keep him home when he tells me he doesn't want to go to school.
I'm trying to make this work.
But The Man and I feel like we're not getting the same effort in return.
The TA is always gruff with us and with Bug it seems, as well. He says she's always mad at him and he doesn't enjoy being around her.
She's about to get a can of whoop ass unloaded on her.
My son has gone from excited about school to not wanting to go in a months time. While I understand that kids go through phases, this is more than a phase. There are excuses every morning. Some ridiculous. Some legit sounding.
When he has a bad day, the teacher says it in front of him, and he melts later.
He's unhappy. He's hard on himself.
We're trying everything we know to do to improve Bug's behavior.
But we're not getting any input from his teachers. What we are getting is greeted at the door with a brief summary of what he did wrong--and an occasional "he had a great day." This is bad enough, but often its said with out son right there.
This is breaking my heart. Even as the old woman I am now, I remember fondly my early teachers and my excitement for school. I still have a strong affection for those ladies who made learning fun for me.
I want that experience for my kids.
I want them to love school, adore their teachers, and be eager to go every day.
I don't want them to worry if their teacher likes them.
Because that should be something no child worries about.
Bug should be worried about the three R's.
Reading, writing (can people not spell?), and rebellion.
Which is what got us to this point.

Friday, September 18, 2009

Out of the mouths of heathens

Bug: I don't want friends at school. They take your toys and make you share!

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Brotherly love

Boo's teachers have told us its obvious our boys love each other.
They share a playground, and ever so often, the recess gods align to allow our boys to share some play time.
Bug and Boo cry out each other names and run towards each other like a bad 70's movie scene, ending in a hug and words of affection.
The teachers get a huge kick out of it.
Especially since Boo plots to find his brothers classroom after they separate, and then sits with his face pressed to the classroom window.
Or when bug runs over because his little brother has fallen and busted his lip.
What they don't realize is this is the public facade.
At home, its WWF wrestling, no holds barred, cage match craziness.
But at least they remember to behave well in public.
With witnesses.

Monday, September 14, 2009

Still waiting

This is seriously like the pregnancy that never ends.
This court case, I mean.
No, I am not preggers.
It's been over two weeks since we proposed a settlement offer, and, like so many dates, we've put out and never heard back from them.
Our lawyer says they will offer a counter offer. They have to. But they could offer a ridiculously low amount. And we can't touch base with them because we might seem desperate.
I've got news for you, honey, I've got desperate written all over me in technicolor.
Yep, that's me.
The waiting is seriously killing me, inch by inch, complete with Chinese water torture.
I've never been patient. I'm not good at waiting.
I tried to convince my babies to vacate my womb early because I couldn't stand the waiting.
When it finally comes time for me to kick the bucket, the Grim Reaper better not be late or he'll get an earful.
I don't do patient.
So I pace. And wait. And pace. And bitch. And pace. And gripe. And pace.
Why won't they just give me the money?

Thursday, September 10, 2009


Bug is trying so hard to fit into school.
But its like being dropped in a strange country where they don't speak you language and you don't know their customs.
He has good days, great days, and not so great days.
And we're still not even going full time.
But every day, he tries so hard. And on the good days, he glows. On the not so good ones, he stares at us in confusion and melts right before our eyes.
It's heartbreaking watching him.
I alternate between pride at his efforts and the desire to scoop him up and keep him with me and safe from all outside stresses.
We know that would last about five minutes. Max.
But I never thought about how difficult it would be for him to acclimate.
I though kids just went to school and it made sense.
Like a switch that got flipped when it was time.
Bug's switch is stuck halfway between baby and big boy.
And I don't know which way I want it to go.

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

The Land of nod

The Land of Nod and I have parted ways.
Not willingly.
Not happily.
Because Punk is refusing to sleep.
I have returned to the life of a mom with a newborn.
Filling up sippie cups, changing dirty diapers, walking the floors as she cries for no reason I can discern.
Last night it was midnight before she collapsed.
But she woke several times during the night, crying, "MAMA!" until I went in to check.
I'm exhausted. She was still sleeping when I left this morning.
She is cutting her last two teeth, but doesn't seem to be bothered by them.
She is going through a growth spurt, but i made sure her belly was full before bed.
She is being a royal bratling.
And that's where we are stuck.
I have let her cry. She woke up her brothers.
I have brought her to my bed, but she wants to play.
I have put her in her own bed. She shrieks worse than any banshee.
There is no happiness in our house at bedtime.
And you'd think, after three children, I'd be used to no sleep. But no, I'm spoiled. I'd like at least two hours of uninterrupted sleep a night.
I'm greedy that way.
But until Punk realizes nighttime is not any fun, I'll be walking the halls and praying to Inkin, Blinkin, and Nod nightly.
That damned Sandman better show up pretty quick too.
He'd better bring me some dreams of a sleeping, happy child.
Before I go postal.
And attach some beach.
The headline would read, "Crazed mother attacks beach: screams at sand, 'All I wanted some a few hours of sleep!'"

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Out of the mouths of heathens

Me: Bug, you need to shake all the naughties out and act right!

Bug: I've tried, but the naughties 'cided to live in my heart. Guess we're outta luck!

Thursday, September 3, 2009

I need you

"I need you," Boo whines as he reaches for me.
Most days, I simply tuck him into my lap and we snuggle until the need passes.
Some days, I have to look at him and say, "I'm right here but I can't hold you right now."
And then I have to look into his tear filled eyes, because, being only three, he doesn't understand that sometimes, other needs take precidence over his.
Such as the need my bladder has to pee before I explode.
Or the need his sister has to have her nasty diaper changed.
Or the need his brother has to be pried off the ceiling fan.
Or my need for five minutes a day of quiet.
I realized when I started this mothering gig that I would have to subvert myself to demanding wee heathens.
I realized I would possibly lose a portion of myself to the beast called motherhood.
And after a lot of thought and consideration (and five positive pregnancy tests) I went into this job willingly.
I have walked the floor with my newborns, I have sacrficed sleep and breast to satisfy them. I have held heads as they upchucked like Linda Blair, and I have slept on six inches of bed while they had the entire middle section of our California king. I have wrestled them until the laughed so hard they gasped for breath, and I have sang and danced with them until I couldn't breathe.
But some days, "I need you," can be too much.
But most days, i put aside my needs and reach for my child, reminding myself that they won't always need me, they won't always fit in my lap, and their problems won't always be so easy to solve.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009


I am about as unhip as they come.
The fact that I said unhip should give you a clue.
So when The Man told me Boo knew how to Dat, I thought he was mispronouncing a word.
After a conversation reminiscent of Abbott and Costello's "Who's on First?" skit, I finally figure out that a Dat is to slap fists.
I think.
At school, Boo was allowed to pick how he would be greeted each day based upon pictures on a wall, and, of course, being my child, he chose the one that looks like people punching each other. I'm sure he thought it actually meant he did get to punch someone, and was surprised when it didn't work out quite the way he'd imagined.
And so we have been datting (is that a word?) all weekend.
And now the baby can dat.
Everyone but me seems to understand what dat means.
But I, being a semi decent mother, hold out a fist and let him punch at mine, hoping that he will pick another greeting more in line with my own personal mentality.
Like a firm handshake.
A hearty hello.
A wave.
And not something that requires his pants to be around his knees.
Because dat? Not cool at all with this mama.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009


Punk has discovered the joys of the word, "No."
Normally said loudly and with much enthusiasm to any question, comment, or even a look she's taken offense at.
At dinner last night, her uncle tried to give her a bite, and her response, "NO!"
Ask her if she's hungry? "NO!" But she toddles towards her seat.
Walk by and stop to glance at her? "NO!"
Does she want more? "NO!"
Down? "NO!"
Left alone? "NO!"
She stopped and thought about that one.
She is proud of her favorite word and uses it to great effect for every detail of her day.
"Punk, your diaper's on fire. Would you like me to put that out?"
"No" has replaced her earlier obsession, "Mine," although we still get visits from it and its cousin, "Why?"
The Man finds it funny to hear this sweet baby voice yelling, "NO!" for no apparent reason.
So I make him try to reason with her.
You think its cute, you deal with it.
And may the gods have mercy on your soul.

Monday, August 31, 2009

The week in review

Last week was a tough week for our family.
Not only did Bug start school with an unpleasant bang, we had our pre-trial meeting with the attorney and are now waiting for an acceptance or rejection of a settlement offer.
I spent most of last week tied in knots, afraid I would hear from the school, afraid I wouldn't.
Tuesday was Bug's first day and a not so pleasant memory.
Wednesday was his second and I got my first call from the principal, who, although very nice, wasn't someone I wanted to meet under these circumstances.
We decided to take Bug down to 1/2 days for a few weeks to allow him to acclimate
And so we entered Thursday with a new game plan.
The man and I spent two evenings doing little else but building up bug and his school so he'd know what was expected of him. And trying to wear down that mile wide stubborn streak so he could function in a classroom.
Thursday was better, but still rough.
Friday was a break through.
Mostly because bug was running a fever, I think, but four days in, I was taking what I could get.
I spent my week waking up at 4am to worry about Bug's approaching day. While I dressed for work, I talked about his day and activities. While talking to customers, I worried that he was going Rambo on his teachers.
I have shunted my other two children off to the side because they didn't need me as much in that moment.
And I have held my three year old as he melted because he needed me, too, and I just didn't have it to give.
I have excelled as a parent and sucked as a parent. I have tried and failed and tried again.
And this week, I will try again.
And pray my oldest doesn't attack his teachers for some offense, imagined or real.

Friday, August 28, 2009

Fleeting Youth

Boo learned how to do somersaults at school.
So I watched as he rolled all over our yard.
Then, in a fit of parental stupidity, I decided to show off.
And I did a cartwheel.
Something I haven't done since I was about twenty years younger and thirty pounds less Rubinesque.
I pulled something that used to be essential in baby making.
As I limped away, The Man decided to join me in the land of Stupid Things Parents Do Trying to Prove to their children They Aren't Old Farts.
He did a cartwheel.
And messed up his elbow, and made his hand scream in outrage.
And sending him straight for the pain killers.
Our heathens laughed and begged for an encore.
At which time, I grabbed bags of groceries and declared their was work to do as I hobble, bowlegged as a cowboy right out of the saddle, into my house.
And I remembered the times when I would throw myself into a running round off, or a cartwheel, or a flip, when my body responded not with groans and pain, but with lithe movements and grace.
I remember being able to run without my knees causing me pain, and without my boobs slapping me in the face.
I remember how it felt to be young.
And it made me feel impossibly old.
At thirty three.
I'm old.
And since The Man is seven years older than I, he's practically decrepit.
Now that makes me feel a little better.
As I hold ice packs to the baby maker.
And vow I will NEVER do that again.
Unless drunk and dared.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Happy days!

In my little world, it's always a happy day when a favorite author comes out with a new book.
Right now, I'm having happy multiple days (aren't i a lucky girl?) because not one, but TWO favorite authors have new books coming out in the next two months.
One book, by Diana Gabaldon, I have waited two long years for.

The second, Charlaine Harris, was recently discovered and a much shorter wait.

But I am so excited!
I've told my family to leave me alone. They know to expect snarls and growls at any interruption. They know to tread lightly and not to disturb me.
Because I'll be in the zone, racing through pages that are still fresh and crisp, immersed in characters I know and love. The real world will fall away and I will find myself riding the wilds of America or facing down a hungry vampire.
And I will be in literary heaven.
Someone stake me. I'm done!

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

That Kid

Well, Bug's first day of school resulted in many tears and much consternation.
I cried. He was confused.
My oldest child is THAT kid.
You know the one.
The child who won't mind. Who yells at his teachers. Who acts out and disrupts the entire class.
To add insult to injury, he scratched and pinched bother the teacher and the assistant.
And we don't know why.
We have theories.
Which all amount to a big steaming pile of shat.
That I stepped in.
Because, being the stellar mother I am, I was so upset when I found out, I couldn't even pull myself together enough to ask the questions I needed to ask or to handle my child appropriately.
He needed a hug, and I was so shocked and upset, I didn't give it.
I was THAT mom.
I should have hugged my son, listened to him, and then dealt with the problem.
But hindsight is always 20/20.
I had to go back to the school for face time with the teacher.
Which resulted in what The Man and I are hoping will be a workable solution.
First, Bug will apologize. He knows it was wrong. He knows he has to say sorry.
Then we go forward from there.
So I'm sitting at work, my tears glands barely contained and my ulcer on a rampage, hoping for a better day today.
I'm bribing withe the promise of cup cakes.
And praying to any God I can think of for assistance.

The Land of Attitude

My children have attitudes.
I'm okay with it for the most part. I am a firm believer that you have to have a bit of a 'tude in order to survive.
But when my not quite five year old calls me Mother in that tone, we have problems.
When my three year old tells me he's not going to do something in that tone, we have problems.
And when my twenty month old tells me no and sticks a hand on her hip, we have BIG problems.
The Man finds it funny in a sick, twisted way.
Me? not so much. Because I know in a few more years we'll have three teenagers, all with attitudes, and if I don't get my bluff in now, I'm never going to survive.
At least I don't have three daughters.
There's my silver lining.
But I find myself faced with a bit of a quandary.
How do I control the attitude without crushing their spirits?
How do I maintain some semblance of control when I know they have their own minds, spirits, and desires, however childlike?
And most importantly, how do I survive?
The books I've read? Useless. The coping skills The Man employs at work? A joke.
Our kids see through the BS and march right on.
Military schools are starting to look very appealing.
Except them they would be taught hand to hand combat and weapon skills.
Nope. Not a good idea at all.
So I'm back at square one. Two. And three.
And faced with three teenagers in the making.
I'm taking up heavy drinking now.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Bug's first day of school

Like his younger brother, today is Bug's first day of school.
I look at him, and I see excitement and fear and determination.
I'm sure he sees the same when he looks to me and his father.
I got he and his brother up, helped Bug dress and gave him a hearty breakfast, all the while smiling and trying not to grab him and cry.
I fought to tame allthree of his cowlicks so he'd look nice for the first few minutes of his school day, running my hands over his hair more times than necessary to reassure myself.
Th Man and I pack our boys into the van. For Boo, it's just another day. It's old hat to him now.
For Bug, it's a car ride that seems to last forever. I see him craining for that first view of his school and of potential new friends.
We take our middle son to his class, leaving him to his newly comfortable surrounding, friends, and schedule, and begin the walk down the hall to Bug's classroom.
I feel his little hand in mine, slightly sweaty and holding a tad tighter than usual. I brush my hands through his hair, trying to smooth his cowlick for the 800th time that morning. I listen to The Man babble about what we're seeing around us. (When stressed, he babbles)
But all I can see is my baby, almost five years old, as he looked when they handed him to me right after he was born.
And today, I will let go a little, just enough for him to find his feet.
And hope that he remembers that, while my hand may let go, my heart will cling to his as tightly as it can.
And while I worry about him, I know he'll be having many new experiences--some he has longed for, some he never dared dream.
And I'll wait to hear about his first day.
Because, as always with Bug, his firsts are my firsts.

Monday, August 24, 2009

Going Commando

I don't often get to pick Boo up from school, but I was lucky enough to be able to leave work to do just that one day.
I got greeted with a smile and a hug. Then told he's had an accident in his underwear.
No biggee. Shit happens. And we'd sent back up clothes.
Chatted with the teachers aide, gathered up my minions, and headed home.
Only to discover . . .
My son was going commando.
Flying free and easy.
In other words, he didn't have any underwear on.
Because it's just how I am, I immediately went to the bag, discovered that he only had the clean back up pair, and went from zero to livid.
After the Man stupidly tried to diffuse me (he's still recovering), I called the school.
And was told by the teacher what happened.
Boo and another boy went to the classrooms restrooms at the same time (not the same stall!) and when she walked by the sink later, there was a pair of underwear sitting by the sink.
The other boy was close, so she asked him.
And he said they were his.
And he'd pooped.
And he had changed himself because he didn't want to wear poopy underwear.
Boo was conspicuously absent.
They apologized. They also sent then home with the other parent, who I'm sure is as amazed as I am over this whole ordeal.
And she's stuck handling my kids shit.

Friday, August 21, 2009


I sort of rouse myself from a really good dream about me and Hugh Jackman, a deserted beach, and . . . well, I' didn't get to finish my dream because my youngest was yelling.
I wipe the drool from my chin and sit up, hoping it's just a really bad dream and I can lay down and resume my explorations of a day with Wolverine.
No dream. so then, because I have just enough experience to know the minute i get up and got o check on her, she'll either be back asleep or ready to play, I wait through two more "mama" cries.
Then I get up.
My not so beloved at 1am, 3am, and 4:30 am daughter is standing in her crib waiting on me.
And she hands me a sippie cup.
Incredulous, I look at it, then her.
"I don't get paid enough for nighttime waitress duty," I mutter as I fill her sippie. The first time with kitchen water and ice cubes. By the third time, its warm water from the bathroom tap.
Happy, she lays back down, grabs her Bear Bear blankie, puts her butt in the air and sleeps.
While I go back to my bed, try to rearrange my pillows and blankets more times that a dog would (and, yes, I did spin in circles a few time before laying down!), as i searched for cold spots for the body parts that wanted cold and warm spots for those that wanted warmth.
Just to find as soon as I dozed off (after watching one episode of The Nanny and two of Robot Chicken) that I was to be summoned once more.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Downhill slide

Bug will be starting school in under a week.
He's ready.
I'm not.
But what's new?
My kids have always been more eager to see what's over the next hill than I am.
I'm the one dawdling as we walk up the hills.
(The Hills are alive . . . with the sound of Mommy bitching!)
It is very hard to watch my babies grow up, to realize that they are making strides towards becoming self sufficient big people who will one day put me in a nursing home, feed me prunes, and lock the bathroom door. (It's tradition, huh, Mom?)
I'm afraid to close my eyes for fear I'll be in the car while they careen around, newly blessed with a learning permit.
Or that I'll be standing at their college graduations.
Or they'll be showing me the person they plan to marry.
Or handing me my grandbaby.
Or moving away.
All rites of passage, I know. But considering it hasn't been that long since we had a time share arrangement on my uterus, poor slow poke Mommy is having a tough time changing gears that fast.
Things are getting stripped and not in the way The Man enjoys.
Sending Boo off was painful. But he's thriving.
Sending Bug off will be visceral.
He's my first.
He's my miracle.
He's Bug. Temperamental, amazingly intelligent, a fantastic snuggler, and the first person I ever loved wholly and selflessly.
And now he'll be stepping into the halls of academia and leaving me, tissue in hand, staring through the window and hoping he's having fun, while wondering if he misses me.
Because I know I'll miss him.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009


This is the war cry of my youngest child as she dives toward some object she has deemed her own.
She yells this as she's running full tilt toward one of her brothers, her raccoon eyes fixed upon a shiny bauble in their possession.
She whimpers this as I take away my cell phone/keys/Prozac from her greedy little hands.
This is said with a trembling lip as she forces big, fat crocodile tears from her soft brown eyes, staring up at me with a slight pouting lip.
Punk has entered the Mine stage, just in case you'd missed all my subtle clues.
I've lived through it before with the boys. Hell, I'm still in the middle of it myself.
But facing down my tiny terrorist is taking all of my nerve and control.
When dinners is over and I ask her to place her fork/spoon/machete down on the table, she starts to comply, thinks about it, Yells, "MINE!" and the fight is on.
When I have a snack or a meal, I find myself faced with a little girl entreating, "MINE?" and i end up giving her my daily food rations.
My bed? Hers. my shoes? Hers. my Books. Hers. the Man? Not that I really wanted him, but he is most assuredly . . .Hers.
She is firmly entrenched in the land of Mine and I don't think treaties, pleading, or smart bombs will be moving her little diapered butt any time soon.
So I've started retaliating, because you know I love to let my true self out and operate on the level of a twenty month old.
Punk: MINE!
Punk: MINE!
Punk: MINE! Mommy!
Me: I paid for it. It's mine!
Punk: MINE!
Me: Do you pay the bills? Do you work every day, or do you sit around watching Yo Grabba Grabba all damned day?
Punk: Mine?
Me: Nope, girly. My house. My food. My rules. MINE!
Punk, after a moments thought: Share?
Sometimes you have to dig down and get dirty to get even a few steps closer to a truce.

Monday, August 17, 2009

Thou doth protest too much!

I've notice over the years that people tend to protest.
No, really!
And I'm not talking about the sign holding protest.
I'm talking about the people who issue the following statements:
"My job is great! I just love it so much! My boss is fantastic and I'm so lucky to be here!"
"Everyone tells me how beautiful my babies are!" or the accompanying e-mail headed "My beautiful babies!"
"This is exactly where I want to be in my marriage/career/life--I wouldn't change anything!"
And I've got one word for these protesters.
Plain and simple.
People who feel the need to expound on how wonderful something is or how they wouldn't change anything, in my oh so humble opinion, are probably unhappy with something and compensating.
I like my life. My kids are pretty good looking, and I've got a good job.
Would I change things?
Hell yes!
Who wouldn't?
Do I think my kids are damned good looking? Yes, but I don't preface every e-mail, conversation, or sentence addressed to them with a gushing comment on their looks.
I tend to remind them that they will be doctors and presidents when they grow up.
Do I think I have a good job. Yep. But there are better ones out there.
And I would certainly change things. I would have more money, a bigger house, a pool house for Pedro to live in . . .oops! Forgot The Man reads this!
I would be thinner, a bit taller, with manageable hair. I would have published books and an entourage and speaking engagements.
But does that mean I'm unhappy?
Nope. Just that I understand that life is good, but never perfect. I am married to a man I love, but I don't expect him to fulfill my dreams. That I have three pretty good kids who don't scare other children. And that I am secure enough in who and what i am not to feel the need to gush and gloat and try to make everyone else see how great my life is.
Because the people who do that? They are missing something inside of themselves. They are unhappy with something and they divert attention in the only way they know how.
They have some base insecurity that they are not good enough, their kids are not good enough/pretty enough/whatever enough, that their job is not good enough.
And, thankfully, I'm not that insecure.

Friday, August 14, 2009


Yes, we are still waiting.
It's like the eternal pregnancy.
You are uncomfortable, irritable, and it feels like you've been taken over by something outside of your control.
You hand control of your life over to someone else, hoping for the best, fearing the worst.
And you have to wait until nature, or in this case the legal system, runs its course.
So we wait. Not happily. Not nicely. Not patiently.
But we wait.
And hope we're happy with the end result.

Bevy of Bears

As if living with Boo's Bear Bear wasn't enough, we now have to deal with Punk's obsessive compulsive love.
Of half a dozen blankets, lovies, and one Pooh Bear dressed as Eeyore.
All of which she calls Bear Bear.
Every morning, she gathers her friends like a miser gathers money, clutching them as tightly as she can in arms that don't quite surround the items. She holds them through diaper change, through hair brushing, teeth brushing, dressing, and turning her loose.
En route to the living room, they begin to fall one by one.
Which results in pitiful cries of "Bear! Bear!" and pointing.
And if you aren't quite fast enough, a meltdown.
Her entourage includes a pink and brown blanket, a Little Giraffe lovie, two taggies, a Noukie that she stole from her brothers, and Eeyore.
And if she can get away with it, the Original Bear Bear.
It is OCD at its finest.
I'm almost afraid to ask what's next.
I don't know how much more she can carry.
And i don't know how I'll keep all the Bear Bear's organized when they are breeding like bunnies behind my back.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

True friends

The only thing Boo is upset with at school?
That Bear Bear can't go.
Yes, his ratty, patched up Pooh bear has to stay home, and he just can't understand it.
The first day of school, as we raced to pick him up, my hands itching to get at my middle baby, all he saw was the Pooh Bear we brought.
That he missed.
That he kissed and hugged.
Me? Not so much.
Every morning, we have to frisk him to make sure no Bear Bear sneaks out the door and into school.
Every afternoon, he greets Bear bear like its been years.
He says Bear Bear needs to go to school.
He says Bear Bear would like to learn.
He says Bear Bear takes good naps.
I'm jealous of a bear.
Because my baby doesn't care if I'm at his school, just that his Bear Bear is.
Should have let the damned thing cook in the toaster oven.

Monday, August 10, 2009

Smarty Pants

The Man is dancing the jig because Boo's teacher tested him and he is "a very smart little boy."
Evidently he had doubts.
Not me.
I knew my baby was smart.
He takes after his mama, after all.
I understand why The Man is so happy.
All parents want their kids to be the best, the smartest, the fastest, etc.
Not me.
I want my kids to be happy.
The rest? Just icing on the cake.
Don't get me wrong. I love the fact that my kids are smart. I'm human. Sort of. or at least I pretend to be until the mother ship returns.
But more than anything, I want my kids to feel the joy of learning something new, trying something new, doing something new.
I want them to smile at the mentally challenged child in the store instead of turning away.
I want them to hold a door for an older person rather than shoving past them.
I want them to see a hungry bird and share their crust of bread.
I want them to look at a sunset and wait for that first star to appear, knowing that there is something greater than they are. And that something loves them.
Almost as much as I do.

One week down, two weeks to go!

Boo has settled into school in an admirable fashion.
His teacher's just keep telling us how easily he's taken to it.
And he's so excited to go!
In fact, every morning, when The Man drops him off, he forgets to say goodbye and gets right into his daily activities!
The Man's feelings are a bit hurt, but he'll live.
I'm proud of him and sad to watch my baby grow up so quickly.
And I'm caught into the middle of oldest child purgatory, since Bug's school doesn't start for another two weeks!
He doesn't understand why Boo is going and he's not, especially since they attend the same school.
He's the oldest. He should get to go first.
So The Man and I are trying to make Bug's few remaining weeks fun, but it's a toughee!
We've taken him to finish enrollment.
I've made a big deal out of school clothes.
We're making a special day, just Mommy and munchkin, to go get school supplies.
We have a meet and greet with his teacher.
And I'm off his entire first day of school.
But waiting is hard for an almost five year old with dreams of crayons and schoolbooks dancing through his head.
He's ready to learn.
But they aren't ready for him yet.
I doubt they ever will be.

Friday, August 7, 2009

Bad Bear Bear

I guess Boo's Bear Bear was bad and had to do his punishment!

Thursday, August 6, 2009

Out of the mouths of heathens

Boo: I'm gonna play at school. I'm gonna eat lunch at school. I'm gonna make friends at school. I'm gonna go poopy at school. Daddy?

When I'm at school, will you walk with me down the halls?

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

Happy birthday Bubba!

The Man's brother is Bubba.
Today he turns some indeterminate age. Really. I'm not sure how old he is this year. Older than The Man, but that doesn't say much.
Bubba is a photographer extraordinaire. He's the one I call when I want pics of the heathens--mostly because I know he'll have the patience to get good pics even while they are running around like loons.
And because his photos catch my kids as I'd like them to be--clean, well behaved, and not certifiable.
He's an important part of my husband's small family--and he understands the choices we have made regarding that family. While important to me, that support is invaluable to my husband, which would be enough to endear Bubba to me if I didn't adore him anyway.
He also had the good sense to marry my fantastic sister in law. Major points in his favor.
The brothers have excellent taste in wives, if I do say so myself.
Happy birthday, Bubba. I hope you have a wonderful day!

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

The face

Today is the day we meet Bug's preschool teacher.
Today is the day I stand face to face with the woman who will begin my son down his journey of academia.
Today is the day that I look into the eye of the woman responsible for my child's safety and decide if she is worthy of that trust.
It's also the day that I pray that she looks beyond the excited little boy long enough to realize that he has a willing and agile brain to care for him.
I will look her in the eye and decide if she is going to be my partner in this year long venture or if we might as well get the gloves on and have it out.
I have fond memories of my childhood teachers. I want my kids to have the same sort of affectionate and firm classroom setting that I did.
I want them to love books and knowledge and school.
And this woman, one of two, will make that a reality or a dream for my oldest boy.
I only hope that, hen I look into the face of Bug's teacher, I find someone with the same goals looking back at me.
And I remember all of my teachers growing up. I thank them, knowing they put me in good stead for my future.
I hope this woman does the same for my child.

Monday, August 3, 2009

Boo's first day of school

This morning, I woke my middle child, dressed him and got him ready for his first day of school.
While I plastered a smile on my face and chattered happily about how much fun he was going to have, I felt a lump in my stomach and tears in my eyes.
My beautiful blue eyed baby is taking his first step away from me today.
I will hold his hand until they pry my fingers loose.
I will hold back tears until I kiss him goodbye.
And I will look at him and see my chubby, newborn baby. The child who clung to me with fierce determination. I see the child with my grandpa's smile grinning up at me as he cries,"School, Mommy. School!"
I will peer through doors and windows until The Man pulls me away. Or vice versus, depending on which of us takes it harder.
Then I will worry all day until I see him again.
I will worry if he's safe.
If he's eating.
If he's having fun.
If he misses me.
If he knows I'll be back.
If he's making friends.
If he's happy.
If he's afraid.
If he knows I'm thinking of him.
If he knows I love him.
And, despite my ulcers and my breaking heart, I'll plaster on that damn smile on my face and greet him enthusiastically.

Friday, July 31, 2009


in less than one month my oldest will begin his auspicious academic career.
I'm planning on being on a first name basis with the principal within the first week.
Right now, I don't know if child two will be joining him, in which case, I might as well camp out in the principals office.
I am in awe of how far my oldest child has come since he was driving me batty in utero.
Before, I couldn't imagine him not being home with one of us everyday.
I couldn't imagine turning him over into the keeping of strangers.
I couldn't imagine letting go.
And, in less than one month, as they pry my clutching fingers off of him, I will let go.
I'm sure there will be tears--mine, not his--and excitement--both of ours--as I leave him in the care of his teacher and hope for the best.
And I know I will spend the day worrying. Is he having fun? Is he behaving? is he safe?
Because when I'm not with him, that's what i do.
And then I worry about all the little people he's with and hope they are surviving him.
Time has moved so fast. Only yesterday i was laughing at him trying to roll over or walk or talk. Only yesterday I could carry him in my arms without feeling my sockets stretch under his weight.
Only yesterday, he was my baby and I was his world.
As he is still mine.


Thursday, July 30, 2009


Absolutely nothing is occurring in our Workman's comp case.
Oh yeah, we have a pre trial date to see if we are even ready for a trial, and that's a month from now.
Then they'll set a trial date, which some helpful clerk at the court office told me would take quite a while.
So nothing is happening.
Except we're waiting.
We were told a court date within four to six weeks was normal.
We get two months for a pre trial date.
Then we have to wait for a court date.
Because, for some reason, this is the way the Universe works for us.
Everyone else can get in and done in a timely fashion.
Not us.
Our attorney was making a settlement offer before she left for vacation last week.
We've still heard nothing.
The Man is living with daily pain. And we're either going to have to foot the cost of treatment ourselves or wait since the company doesn't have to pay on anything until the court decrees--because we don't have a fracking court date yet!
We can't move on to any forming of retraining for a new job--because we don't have a fracking court date yet!
We can't get closure because . .
We don't have a fracking court date yet!
So we're stuck, all because . . . well you get it.
It's like being stuck on a ride that makes you puke up your guts and you can't get off.
It's like being eternally nine months pregnant with a a nine pounds baby.
It's like having a cavity drilled and the Novocaine doesn't entirely work.
It sucks. And there's nothing we can do about it.
Which sucks even more.

Morality and ethics

Why is it so hard to do the right thing?
My Christian friends would state that temptation and roadblocks are set in our paths to make us work harder to do the right thing. So we learn.
Screw that.
My former boss has his own code of ethics that had nothing to do with what was moral or right.
At least not for anyone but himself.
And I watched him maneuver his ethics to suit his own purpose for six long years.
Which gave me a great example of what I don't want to be.
I know what is right, and I strive daily to walk that path.
I make mistakes. I take detours. But I always end up back where I should be.
I think.
But after the year we've endured, it would be nice just to have an easy, well manicured path to walk instead of the one with the fiery pits and craggy rocks and distracting salespeople hocking their goods.
I want to do what is right.
I want to live a moral life.
I want to be able to look myself in the eye and know I've done everything I can to insure my soul is as taint free as possible.
But I stumble and fall when faced with temptation.
And some days, I don't want to get up.
I want to sleep.
i want to press my cheek to a cool rock and not get up.
And then I remember.
I have three little faces looking to me for guidance.
And that sets me back on my feet and trudging forward.
Because I refuse to let my kids down.

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

The logic of a child's mind

Yesterday, I took the heathens clothes shopping.
It was a unmitigated disaster.
Bug tried to open the door. He was strong enough to open it a bit, but not all the way.
So I reach out to pull open the door.
Disaster strikes.
Bug's foot, in sandals, was under the edge of the door and his big toe was damaged.
Cut, scraped, and falling off (according to him).
The nice ladies at the store gave us bandages and ointment, as Bug sobbed about his hurt toe loudly enough for the entire store to hear.
For the fifteen minutes it took me to grab some jeans, pay and leave.
Then he declared it my fault.
And that I did it on purpose.
In his mind, my helping open the door was a malicious attack designed to maim his innocent big toe. And I cackled malevolently as he suffered.
Because that's the kind of mom I am.
And I wonder about the workings of my child's mind.
I wonder if he's forgotten the nights holding him while he was sick.
I wonder if he's forgotten about all the times I've bandaged him up from his own accidents--and those happened when i wasn't anywhere near him.
For him to state I deliberately hurt him hurts me.
And he's oblivious.
Whereas he can hit me in the face and state it was an accident, in his mind, I'm not allowed to have accidents.
I am deliberate.
And I hurt him on purpose.
But I did get some nice jeans out of it.
For him.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009


I am a firm believer in connections.
Just not to people I don't like.
Since I realized Punk was a girl, she has always been Punk to me.
Okay, she has also been Evil Little Miss Piss Pot, but that was an affection name born out of frustration and sleep deprivation.
My boys have always been Boo and Bug.
But Punk. Her nickname has a story I hope one day she will appreciate.
As the youngest out of a litter of children--last check, I think we were still counting my father's progeny. the man went forth and multiplied!--I was always his Pumpkin, later shortened to Punk.
It was my special name, and as he told me, "There was only one Punk."
it was a sign of affection, and at times, exasperation, when he said it. And I always knew it was solely for me. That none of the other kids was given that special of a name.
And, with Daddy's passage, I also knew I would never hear it said that way again.
So, when I was cursed, er, blessed, with my daughter, I knew in my heart she was Punk II.
And it's fitting since she is a mini me, complete with temper and looks and attitude.
I know Daddy would be proud.
And I know he'd approve.
And I know he'd be laughing his butt off when she blows and lets loose a banshee scream.
mostly because he survived it before, and I have to take Punk II home with me.

Monday, July 27, 2009

Boys will be . . .stinky

Bug came up to talk with the Man and tooted.

The Man: That was pretty good, buddy.

Boo approaches. That's nothing, Daddy. Listen to this!

Did you feel the ground shake. That was my 3 1/2 year old, just so you know.

His dad was super proud.

Friday, July 24, 2009

Makes you wonder

Some things my children do makes me wonder why I ever thought being a parent was a good idea.
Last night, at the grocery store, Boo decided to assert his independence in a remarkably stupid way.
He didn't get something he wanted, so he sat down in the middle of the floor and refused to budge.
I tried all the tricks.
The Bye trick:
"Bye, Boo. I'm gonna miss you! Hope you find a nice new family!" and then wander around a corner to peak at him as he waves bye to me and looks at the stuff at eye level.
The "Get over here now or your ass is grass" threat:
He knew I was bluffing--public place, lots of witnesses. He knew i wouldn't beat him senseless.
The "Use your big brother to get my way" trick:
I sent bug to reason with him. No avail. I'm lucky Bug didn't join him.
The "look at the poor man you're blocking with this silliness" trick:
Boo grinned at him, waved jauntily, and didn't move.
So I broke down. I grabbed his arm, hauled him up, and muttered threats under my breath while we paid and made our way to the car.
I am a word class guilter, and by the time we left the parking lot, I'd received countless apologies and I still didn't feel a bit better.
Until this morning.
When The Man had a chance to talk with his wayward middle child.
And Boo got it.
When you make Mama unhappy, not only do you have to deal with her, which is bad enough, but she has back up.
And when Mama ain't happy, Daddy really isn't happy--cause who do you think I'm taking it out on since the law frowns on murdering my children?
The Man.

Thursday, July 23, 2009

Baby-itis--Man style

The Man has realized our once cute and cuddly babies have become children hell bent on world domination.
And watching our spawn try to overtake the world has left him feeling a bit sentimental.
And he's started listening to my biological clock.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Not that he wants another baby--much--but he misses the fact that our children's childhood is speeding by.
Bug is racing headlong towards school and commitments and new friends, and Boo is right on his heels.
Punk is getting far to big and will soon be keeping pace with her brothers.
And it's just slipping away. Like sand through the hourglass.
These are the days of our lives.
And he realized yesterday that we would never have any of it back.
Not the pregnancy excitement and worries.
Not the soft feel of a newborn in our arms.
Not first steps, first words, first anything.
They are gone.
Before long, we will be greeting our sons, Dr. Bug and Dr. Boo, and our daughter, President Punk, and watching as they struggle with raising their own families.
Our babies are growing up and starting to grow away inch by inch.
In a few years, they won't even want to be seen in public with us.
And, while exhausted and frazzled, both The Man and I know, this is the sweetest time in our lives, when we have our children to hold and they want to be held.
Facing our children's continuing growth and independence makes parents ponder their own mortality. And not just because I think our kids are trying to kill us.
And makes us want to do what anyone facing death wants to do.
And the answer is not pray.
Thank the Gods for my Essure!

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

Bed hopping

The Man discovered yesterday that our wee little midget baby Punk can climb out of her crib.
And she did it several times, in succession, just for him to see.
So it was time to turn our baby bed into a toddler bed and hope for the best.
Punk thought it was fantastic to have a "big girl bed" now. And she climbed in and out of it for several minutes while the Man and I watched all hopes of sleep dash again the rocks.
We knew we were in for a long night of chasing a rambunctious toddler enjoying her new found freedom.
We waited until her brothers were asleep so she would have no one to party with, and then brushed her teeth and put her in bed.
Then I stayed away. simply because every time she saw me, she threw a world class fit.
So i let her dad do battle.
"Punk, no, no. you have to stay in bed," he crooned in the most nauseatingly saccharine voice imaginable. Her shriek was enough answer. "Now sit down before you fall. No. No."
I channelled my inner bulimic to rid myself of the cloying sweetness.
After about fifteen minutes, there was silence.
I figured she was regrouping for the next attack, but The Man came to bed, smiling proudly and like he expected a reward, and announced she was asleep.
There was no reward, because, in my mind, it was just round one.
I expected to be up all night chasing a deranged spider monkey on crack as she toddled through the house defiantly. I expected battles and tears (mine) and bribes and pleading.
I expected to find her staring at me in the middle of the night when I rolled over. (Both boys love that game!)
I expected not to sleep at all.
And you know what happened?
She slept.
Like a champ.
And never got up once.
Meanwhile I tossed and turned, listening for her chubby footfalls in the hallway.
Evil little imp.
She's well rested and I'm a walking zombie.
I played right into her hand.
Damn it!

P.S. Punk got her toddler bed privileges revoked after an especially busy weekend of bed hopping. the Man saw his little girl flouncing from bed to bed and called it quits!

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

The rescue of Bug

Today, I called home on break and was greeted by my oldest boy.
As I greeted him cheerily--cause you know I love work!--his response struck fear in my heart.
"Mama, I'm scared."
"Bug? What are you scared of? Where is your daddy?"
"Where are you?"
"Up high."
"Did you climb a tree?'
"Where are you?" My voice was increasingly becoming more shrewish as visions of broken boys danced in my head.
"On a shelf. In the garage."
"DON'T MOVE! Where's your daddy?" I screamed. So much for reassuring him it was fine and handling a crisis in a calm, controlled manner. Nope, not my style. I shot straight to panic and skrieking.
Okay, I had one of those moments when I had to sit down because I just couldn't handle standing up any longer. All of the shelves in our garage are high, and we have a hard concrete floor guaranteed to result in a trip to the emergency room and a cast or two.
My uterus clenched, my heart rate quickened, and I saw spots flashing before my eyes. I think I even had full on vapors.
My baby was in danger--yes, because of his own stupidity, but mama hormones don't care. At that moment. Later, I'm sure I would care.
Anyway, back to the story. I'm sure you are rivetted.
"Here's Boo."
Great. Bug handed me off to his brother, I guess assuming that the 3 1/2 year old was the cavalry. Bad assumption. Child has never heard of sibling rivalry or culling the herd. Boo's probably just looking for the chance to move on up to number one child. We're a survival of the fittest kind of family.
Pulling back from detour.
"Boo. Where's Daddy?" As if I hadn't already gotten that answer.
I swear I heard the sound of him settling in to watch the ensuing chaos. I think he even popped a brewski.
So, while on the phone with Boo, I'm speed dialing my neighbor.
"Mr. R. I'm sorry to call you but I have Bug on the other line and he's in the garage and stuck on a shelf and The Man is out mowing and I don't know what else to do!"
Mr. R (whose known me all my life and whom I genuinely adore), replied, "Well, darlin', I see the Man in the front yard. but I'll go find Bug and make sure he's okay."
"Oh thank you!"
Right at this time, Boo got tired of talking and said, "bye, mama," and hung up.
So i tried calling back.
Four times.
Until I had to call my neighbor and have the wonderful Mrs. R (who bakes my kids yummy cookies) call over that the phone was off the hook.
I finally heard a wonderful ringing sounds, only to be answered, "Hello, little darlin'. He's fine. He just got himself stuck. We're all all right now."
I love that man.
Which, right now, is more than I can say about my own husband, who waited for what he thought was the cooling down period to call me.
It wasn't. I was still lit.
My umbilical cord is stretched tight and I was two seconds from leaving work to rescue my child and he calls me doing a guilty chuckle.
When my foot finally gets out of his ass, he may be able to sit down.
But I doubt he'll be chuckling any time soon.

Monday, July 20, 2009

Darn it!

My middle child has a potty mouth.
Which isn't entirely his fault, because, like the sailors of lore, I like's me a good swear word.
But i admit to being a bit taken aback when Logan didn't get his way and yelled, "Damn it!"
At least he used it correctly.
So after a long time out to allow me to compose myself--he was in time out, I was in the bathroom trying not to bust out laughing--we had a long talk about grown up words and little people words.
I explained that just because mama says it doesn't mean he should, and if the word sounds bad, to ask me before using it to make sure.
Then we settled on a compromise.
While "damn it" was definitely out for another couple of years, he could say "darn it!' to express his frustration when the need arose.
Fast forward to yesterday.
He'd done something. I don't even remember what the infraction was. But the resulting time out had me listening to "Darn it! Darn it! Darn it!" for several minutes.
The Man, horrified, whispered to me that he didn't think that was an okay term for a 3 1/2 year old to use.
At which point, Boo, being a helpful little imp, changed it to "Dang it!" just for his daddy.
And while I laughed, the Man muttered "damn it!' and walked away.

Friday, July 17, 2009

Where's the soap when we need it?

The Man to Bug: Go clean up your room and pick up your toys.

Bug: No.

TM: Excuse me? You don't tell me no.

Bug; I said no. Whatcha gonna do about it? Cry?

I need good strong soap and a child's mouth washed out right about now.

Thursday, July 16, 2009

Those things we do

As a parent, we do a lot of things we'd never have thought we'd do in life.
Wiping runny bottoms, holding sweaty heads while our child heaves dinner into the toilet, chasing a naked poo covered child through the house, sewing a beloved bear, and giving up all our pillows and bed space to a three foot bed hog, just to name a few, are things I never thought I would do.
I also never thought I would have crabs.
No, not the crabs that involve the joke about shaving, lighter fluid, and an ice pick.
Hermit crabs.
We have three, auspiciously named Spongebob, Mr Krabs, and Squidward.
We have had Spongebob for almost six months now, and we have a previous Mr. Krabs that turned up shell after a few weeks. He was a wimp and not suitable for our house.
The Man and I kept his shell and rotated it in the cage so boo would never know his crab went to the great sandbox in the sky.
So yesterday, I went on a foray for crab goodies--food, substrate (bedding to us okies, or dirt!), shells (cause they change shells every time we turn around!) and such.
The Man put together a crab-itat worthy of three hermit crabs. It also met with the heathens precise requirements.
The end result provided lots of squeals of delight as the boys ran around the crab-itat as the boys detailed every action undertaken by our hermity friends.
I never thought I would have any crabs in my home that weren't served with butter.
But I have to admit, they are kind of cute.
In a creepy sort of way.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Virgin Territory

As a parent of a preschooler, I'm a virgin.
Yep, me and my cherry farm have no idea what we're doing.
Being a mother to an almost five year old is a daunting task.
It's akin to having Bug and being handed this newborn with no real instructions and no way to back the hell out of the deal.
No. Strike that. It's a hell of a lot harder.
I mean really, shouldn't there be a lemon law? So the kid could look at me, declare me not a keeper, and return me to the pool of people who might one day make good parents?
I had a panic attack and PPD when I was given Bug, and I'm still having panic attacks today when I realize I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE FRACK I'M DOING.
Bug is my test child, the one I try out new parenting tips and styles on. the one who does everything first, dragging me along with. I drop to my knees every day and pray I'm not screwing him up too badly because I can't afford the therapy bills.
Some days, I look at him and know I'm a big, fat failure. I'm short on time, patience, and parental skills. I'm not what he needs. If the Man hadn't hidden all the damned towels, I'd be throwing one in.
Others, I go in after he's asleep and curl around him and apologize for not being good enough, patient enough, just enough.
And some days, when I outsmart him, I congratulate myself with chocolate and liquor.
That doesn't happen very often.
Bug, and my other two heathens, rolled the dice and got me. Teach the kid not to bet in the future.
I understand babies now. You feed them, hold them, change them, and talk to them (or in their general direction since they can't see clearly for a while) and they are happy. Been there, done that. Babies I can handle.
I'm fairly adept at toddlers. Chase them. Keep them from killing themselves. Keep their cage locked. Yep, got that down pat.
I don't know shat about preschoolers.
So I sit here, staring at my oldest child, and wondering what sort of torture we will go through next. He's given up peeling the eyebrows and blood curdling screams. He's moved onto psychological warfare now. He plays games with my mind, loving and obedient one day, toilet papering his bedroom the next.
There is no rhyme or reason except that of an all too smart almost five year old bent on world domination. He's already conquered The Man and he's moving on to me.
I am the last barricade keeping him from the world at large. If I fail, you're all screwed.
Just remember that I tried.
Just remember that I stood firm on my bed of quicksand.
Until some dumb shit unlocked the door and I escaped, crying, "He's all yours now!"
I am mom.
Watch my ass jiggle as I run away.