Saturday, February 28, 2009

Out of the mouths of heathens

The Man: Boo, do you want to watch SpongeBob or Sesame Street?

Boo: Daddy, Says and me Street is freaking over!

Friday, February 27, 2009

Lessons Learned

I've learned a valuable lesson this week.
When that pretty little service engine light comes on in your car, don't do anything.
Don't take it to a mechanic.
Don't ask whats wrong.
Just keep driving.
More money that I want to admit, I am bailing out a car "that was driving just fine when I took it in" out of the mechanics.
My Xterra, which has been a tried and true trooper, bailed on me, resulting in the new parts I can't explain or identify. My wallet is now much thinner and I'm sobbing on my checkbook.
So I've learned a lesson. When that light comes on in the future, I'm going to celebrate it in all its pretty orange glowy-ness. I'm going to decorate it and live with it and enjoy it, because if I take it in, I won't have money to enjoy anything every again!

Boo boo'd Boo

Boo is a tad bit clumsy.
He falls over a speck of lint on the floor, and like my brother, lands smack on his face every time.
Child can't land on his butt to save his life.
Yesterday, while outside with The Man and the other heathens, Boo decided to take a tumble off the steps, land on his hand, smash his nose on the hand, and cut his forehead.
When I got home yesterday, he had skid marks on his nose and a cut on his head and a proud, "I fell down and went splat" mentality.
Boys! Next thing I expect is flying body slams and monster truck races.
And The Man will be right in the midst of it, the biggest hillbilly of them all.

Thursday, February 26, 2009


My children are trying to kill me.
This morning, I get up to dress for work, and I do what I do every morning. I went in to check on the heathens.
Number one heathen. Check.
Number three heathen. Check.
Number two heathen---not in his bed.
No worries. I knew Boo liked to crawl into Bug's bed, so I pat down for an extra body. Nope. not there. still not panicking, I look around the house, checking the couch, since he's migrated there in the middle of the night before.
No Boo.
By now, the panic has set in. I have visions of a pedophile sneaking into our home and taking my blue eyed boy and us snoring through it.
I shriek at The Man, "I can't find Boo!" and he, being military trained, jumps out of bed and pushes past me to go pat beds and stare dumbly at the empty spot in Boo's bed.
Meanwhile, I flip on the bedroom light, almost sobbing, as The Man gets on his hands and knees to peer under beds.
Spotting a blue footie clad little boy, whose rubbing his eyes, blinking sleepily, and eyeing me with suspicion as he crawls out from under his brothers bed.
He had reason to eye me. I was shaking and clutching my chest and make fish faces as I gasped for air.
Shove a nitro under my tongue. I'm done.

Holy Molar!

We have molars.
Three in fact.
All broken through in the last day.
My daughter has returned to her normal happy, evil self, which makes the Man and I breathe a sigh of relief.
And they weren't the teeth we were expecting.
Punk has three front top teeth, two front bottom teeth, then skips two places, and has one bottom molar and two top molars.
My daughter has baby Billy Bob teeth.
But my wee little hillbilly is sleeping once more and has stopped schreeching at the moon like a cat in heat, so I don't really care.
I'll invest in baby dentures and call it good.
The world is a happy place once more.

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Doggone exercise

As previously posted, I'm trying to get the inner skinny biyotch out before she smothers in the post baby weight mastodon I have become.
In order to achieve this goal, I have begun walking during my lunch break and on the weekends.
On the weekends, I make The Man's big dog, Harvey Wallbanger, accompany me, much to his dismay.
Harvey is a 120 plus pound giant Schnauzer who is a qualified AKC good citizen and who knows that he is the stronger of the two of us.
He may be the stronger one, but that doesn't mean he wins when we fight.
Hew, like his master, The Man, rolls over and whimpers, showing off the nice white underbelly and praying I don't decide to eviscerate them.
Twice, at about 8 months pregnant, Harvey did something amazingly stupid, resulting in me waddling out into the front yard, snatching him, flipping him, and sitting on his back, head pressed to the ground while I yelled at him for ten solid minutes.
I had contractions. He peed. The neighbors got a good show, thus proving that, yes, I am white trash.
Harvey has since learned not o mess with me. He appeases me in true doggy style (Not how it sounds! Ew! Yuck! Pervert! I'm a redneck but not that kind!). He is subservient and demure. Yeah right. Just like The Man.
Until we go out to walk.
Then he thinks he's the boss.
And he's out to protect the little woman.
Problem is? Harvey a chicken.
"Cluck! Cluck!"
If it came down to it, he'd leave me in a heartbeat. I keep him around because he looks scary--kind of like The Man.
While a madman murdered me, Harvey would be running with his stubby tail between his legs, looking for a place to hide.
To appease The Man, I tell him Harvey is surely tough and would defend me. I thoroughly expect to have Scooby Doo and Shaggy moment--Harvey getting spooked and me staggering under the weight of a big old lap dog.
I feel safer when I have a Chihuahua with me.
Hell, Saki can't see out of one eye and has a screwed up set of Billy Bob teeth, but he's at least got attitude.
As he spins in circles and tries to get you on his one good side.
Moral of this story? If you drive by and see a woman holding a hug black dog in her arms while a rat wearing a sage green sweatshirt weaves in and out of her feet, you'll know its me.
Wave and smile and move on.
Or pick up the madman whose trying not to fall over laughing.
I guess it all counts as exercise, doesn't it?

Monday, February 23, 2009

Between a Rock and A Mad Mama

As if the past week wasn't enough to make me drink hard liquor and binge on chocolate, Punk is teething.
Cutting 5 teeth--three molars.
She's not happy.
Which means:

1. No one sleeps
2. Ear plugs are mandatory
3. The boys have begun researching live chicken sacrifices to appease our wee little demi goddess
4. Punks head is an axis and is free spinning and blowing chunks
5. I know, in baby talk, she called me a very dirty word
6. The Man is threatening to move out, because if teething is this bad, he admits he won't survive puberty

I'm not a novice when it comes to teething. We've done gels, tablets, rings, pops, leather straps to bite on. Nothing works. And my baby is a baby banshee--my windows rattle and ears bleed.
I'm sure my neighbors think we're abusing the child, and, if this doesn't stop soon . . . Never mind.
The boys popped teeth with little thought. It was go to sleep, wake up, get chomped on by a new pearly white.
Punk declares them all with the tried and true heart of a Drama Queen, making sure we all know that she is maligned and mistreated by the Universe as a whole.
She weeps copious amounts of tears, sobbing until he hiccups and sniffles, then peering at us from tear dampened eyelashes to remind us that she is the baby girl and shouldn't we be doing something?
I caught The Man throwing money and promising a car yesterday.
I don't know what to do.
She's miserable.
The males in my house are cowering.
And I'm being deprived of even more sleep, which means the men are trapped between Princess Piss Pot and Big Mad Mama.
Sucks to be them.

Out of the mouths of Heathens

Let me begin this with the fact that my brother and his family have moved in with our mom while their house is being built. The kids room as been taken over by my nephew, whom the heathens call Guy, and the kids toys and stuff was either moved into another room or into storage until Mom gets her house back again.

Bug: Daddy, grandma made me move all my toys out of my bedroom.

The Man: It's to make room for cousin Guy.

Bug: And she took down my bed.

The Man: So Guy would have room.

Bug: I don't think grandma likes me anymore. She's moving me out.

The Man: Grandma loves you.

Bug: So she'll put my bed back?

Saturday, February 21, 2009

Ode to Tequila

Tequila, although a very fine drink, despite its wormy associations, is--was-- my dog. He is--was (I'm working on it)-- a chi-dachshund mix of questionable pedigree purchased by The Man 14 years ago to woo me into matrimony and into the sack.

I took the dog, married The Man. (The dog was the best part of the deal.)

My grandfather, sweet ornery man, named Tequila sight unseen. The name fit.

Two days before Valentines Day, The Man took me to the shelter to get a kitten, and we were immediately barked at by a scraggly 7 pound tan dog with a tacky numbered sticker plastered to his back that was determined to get our attention.

The pound personnel all lauded how sweet he was, how loving, and when they let him out, he flew at me like I was his only chance at salvation. I probably was. The next day was d-day and a one way trip to the doggy after life.

We now know the shelter people lied. Okay, perhaps lied was too strong a word. They told half truths.

He was loving--if he liked you or you had food.

He was sweet--when you had something he wanted.

He was loyal--to me. But that's okay. Despite some early threats of death, dismemberment, and a new home, we eventually settled into the lifestyle Tequila wanted us to have. In other words, we doted on him paw and foot.

Tequila quickly set himself up as Alpha male-- routinely biting The Man's pronounced proboscis and shatting whenever he and The Man fought. By shat, I mean prodigious amount of scat splattered on any substance or person too slow to move out of the way when Tequila became enraged and indignant.

He never worried about repercussions. The Man and I were new in our relationship, and my tears worked well. His threats were empty and Tequila knew it somewhere in the depths of his doggy heart.

He asserted his Alpha dog status by kicking The Man out of the bed. I would fall asleep with the warm 10 pound bundle curled sweetly to my side and awaken to The Man yelling at said dog to "Get the hell off my side of the bed!" and "Don't you growl at me!"

We survive snake bites and living in the country where Tequila was eyed by more than a few raccoons looking for a love bunny. Fortunately, Tequila asserted his stance that he was no ones prison love buddy.

Tequila acted as birth control by hopping on the bed and passing Dog Chow gas while The Man was trying to get his groove on. Nothing like the smell of dog butt and a wife with uncontrollable giggles gasping for air to dampen your libido.

When Tequila finally slept through marital consummation, and my resulting pregnancy ended in miscarriage, my dog let me hold him to me like my lost baby while I wept.

When I was lost in a fog of grief for the following year, he followed to insure that I would find my way back. Or that we'd be lost together, since his sense of direction was a bit lacking.

Wherever I went, be it Hell or the backyard, Tequila was certain to be trailing behind, making sure I never walked alone.

When I was pregnant with the first heathen, Tequila would sleep around my burgeoning belly. Until said child kicked him hard enough to startle him awake, and with a yelp and some canine grumblings, he started sleeping near my backside. Brave dog, sleeping near a pregnant woman's rear when she was craving Taco Beuno's bean burritos. The dog was nothing if not loyal to survive that.

When Bug came into the world, followed by Boo and later Punk, Tequila looked askance at me for bringing new puppies into his house and then took it with style and panache. He accepted his new diminished role on the totem pole and simply patiently waited until said children were eating solid food. Amend that: until they were throwing solid food. Then he would follow them around, faithful as Lassie, to steal a cookie from their grubby hands.

Tequila answered when the mood struck him (when the heathens had something he wanted) to various of Tequila--including, Keela, Keekee, and Hey you!

When we adopted the new rat dog, Saki, Tequila took to him like a mama duck and led our one eyed, mentally challenged rodent size pet around.

When my father died, Tequila let me sob into his fur. I know he mourned the loss as well, since Daddy was his second favorite person in the world.

As old age crept up, Tequila lost his hearing and eyesight, but could still miraculously spot me from a mile away and hear me calling him in a hailstorm.

As cancer crept up and robbed him of good health, he maintained a cheery nature of a tried and true ankle biter.

Last week, I looked at him and knew. It was time. I would have to send him ahead to wait for me.

As hard as the decision was to make, it was time. Keeping him with me, knowing he was in pain and tired, was a decision made solely out of my selfish need to cling to him, to cling to a reminder of a time when I was young and life was easier.

Looking at Tequila, I am greeted with a friendly reminder of the woman-child I used to be.

I am reminded of the new fledgling love I felt for The Man before time, tide, and babies hardened into a thing of beauty with a core of steel.

I am reminded of who I once was and the dreams I held then.

He had been a true and faithful friend, a funny companion, and a com padre in my campaign to drive The Man crazy.

He was one of the four best gifts I have ever received--running close behind my blessed heathens. Some days, he led them in the race for my affections.

So today, I will take him into the vet, and I will walk out with empty arms, a sad heart, and the knowledge that I was the last face he ever saw, the last arms that ever held him, and that he knew he was loved.

Tequila Booger Bear came into my life as a pound rescue on February 14, 1995 and left it a richer place on February 21, 2009. Blessed be, Booger. I'll miss you.

Friday, February 20, 2009


After three days of puke, crap, and hell, the ped said those words every parent dreads, "We're going to check your child into the hospital."

Tears, phone calls, and a wheelchair ride later, Boo and i were settling into the room on the pediatrics floor of our hospital.

After taking the other two heathens to G-Ma's, The Man joined me, scared, worried, and determined to b there for everything, including setting the IV.

Boo was so dehydrated it was 18 hours and 500ml of fluid before he urinated. And he slept for 14 hours straight.

After a bout of diarrhea, we finally got an answer as to why our little boy was so ill.


A virus kicked our collective parental asses ad made our baby boy so ill he lay on the floor and didn't want to move at all. It made him afraid to eat or drink, yet so thirsty he tried anyway, resulting in vomiting.

It made him cry without tears, because his poor body had no liquid to spare.

It made The Man and I cry for him.

Luckily, 36 hours of fluid and he's at home and on the mend. We've still got a way to go before he's back to his normal maniacal self, but the light at the end of the tunnel is no longer a train, but a smiling boy with flashlight.

There is a vaccine now. Punk got it before I even thought about the fact that one of my boys might contract it. they, unfortunately, are too old for the vaccine. But, watching Boo, i am so thankful that she has some protection from this virus from hell.

So we're awash in Pedialyte and Gator juice (gatorade) and dirty diapers. That's okay. He's going to be all right, so I'll live with the shits for a while longer.

Crazy is as crazy does

I am considering another 6 hour car trip with my family this weekend.

Yep. The last go round, just like those myths about childbirth, has become a fog of "Now that wasn't so bad, was it?"

(I've never understood how you could forget about childbirth pain. I love my heathens,but no rapturous moment of parental bonding will muddy the memories having my belly torn inside out by a watermelon sized child any time soon!)

But, because I love The Man, and because I an use it later on for guilt purposes, I am considering making that trek again.

Why? His family.

Why? Because it's important to him.

Why? Because I'm stupid and into pain. (I thought we'd already established that!)

So I will strap the kids into their car seats and The Man to the hood and go barrelling down the road in true hillbilly style, sipping on my spiked Vanilla coke and swerving to watch The Man yell for mercy.

So, once again, when you see a mini van with children plastered to the windows and a sobbing man attached to the front bumper, driven by a woman whose obviously three sheets to the wind, just pull off the road and enjoy the show.

If I get snockered enough, you might just see my lily white ass cheeks flapping the breeze.


Throw money!

Thursday, February 19, 2009

It's beginning to feel a lot like


I don't know about you, but tax time, even though I try to obey all the laws, strikes fear in my heart and makes me dribble a bit in my panties.

I'm sure the IRS hires very nice people who have families and responsibilities and lives of their own, but all I picture is a bunch of demented accountants who are out to get us all.

Did you ever see that episode of Roseanne where they are trying to to do their taxes and they have to go to the local tax office with questions? The evil demented guy behind the counter? Makes me hide under the blankets and pray to the fiduciary gods to just protect me one more time.

We've filed--e-filed, which is a whole other bevy of stress in my life--and we're waiting for our refund with baited breath. I never feel secure until its in the account and I could withdraw it and run for the Mexican border in case of emergency.

(Oh? I was supposed to take The Man and the heathens with me? Oopsie!)

I don't know why it strikes such fear in me. I'm not doing anything illegal or unethical, but still, I can't get over the fact that, one morning, IRS agents wearing flack jackets and carrying audit shooting guns will descend on me in mass and take everything we have--except The Man and the heathens, even though I'm sure I would be begging them to take them too!

So I'm waiting, and worrying, and trying to be patient.

And I'm failing miserably.

P.S. My refund date changed, so I now have more days to stress and to worry and to fret. Ain't life grand?

P.S.S. Payment was supposed to be on the 17th. no payment. Called the IRS and was told actually the 20th. Okay. Clicked today to see if updated, received error reference code 1301. Had The Man called the IRS while I lay down and had palpitations, then frantically Googled the reference number, which could mean anything from the rabbit died to "OMG! They are coming for you." Turns out our AGI was off. It's been fixed. Still on board for the 20th, but this experience is making my ulcer jump up and wave while doing herkey's. So, yea for The Man and I'm gonna go changed my pee dampened panties now.

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Helplessness, thy name is Mama

Boo is still sick.

I'm waiting on the pediatrician to call back to decide if he's severe enough to take in immediately or if we need to wait until this afternoon for a "real" appointment.

I am at work, almost in tears, because I'm not with my child.

The Man is.

I feel so helpless. A stomach bug is what they keep telling me. I'm not a novice mom. I've been around the rodeo before. I can handle a stomach bug with minimal distress.

I have the cape and the emblem for SuperMom.

And this virus is kicking my tail as sure as kryptonite does to Superman.

I'm watching my baby boy get worse, despite our best efforts, and I can't seem to stop it.

I have given him the meds and it doesn't work. I'm pushing fluids and they come right back up. I'm looking at him and he has the earmarks of dehydration--moderate, not severe. Yet.

Boo is laying on the floor most days, not rising unless prodded and cajoled. He's licking his lips and sneaking drinks, then throwing it back up.

He's miserable and hurting and I can't seem to get an answer or a solution.

I am helpless, which is a horrible feeling.

Out of the mouths of heathens

Bug: Mama, I need erections for my new toy!

Makes a mama proud!


Boo has been ill for almost 72 hours.

We're talking blowing from both ends ill.

We've been pushing pedialyte and holding a head over a toilet so often we've become old hands at wiping his mouth and moving our hands before the next round starts.

I lost my temper with the pediatrician from our office (not our regular ped, whom I adore) and got meds to stop the vomiting. Finally. And they seem to be helping. My son woke up this morning and no longer resembles a concentration camp survivor.

Last night, after meds and exhaustion settled the three of us in our bed for the night, I got a reminder of the baby Boo used to be.

When he was little and needed comfort, he would start stroking me from my face to my breast and back again. Last night, laying with him curled to me, he gently rubbed his little hand over my face, neck, and chest, just as he had when he was small enough for me to carry without bodily harm.

We lay there, his sleepy blue eyes staring into my worried and weary brown ones, while he soothed himself. I don't know if he was remembering me holding him to the breast to nurse him, or me snuggling him up when he was upset, or even me carrying him in a pouch most of the time.

All I do know is my not quite three year old remembers that I brought him comfort and he sought it once more in his time of need.

After he fell asleep, I lay there, watching him quietly weeping from relief that he was resting and from memories of a sweet baby that is now an active little boy.

It's moments like that, bittersweet and fleeting, that I remember why I became a mother, and why I have the best wee little heathens in the world.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

Puke and Parenthood

Vomit is just part of being a parent, right?
From baby spit up to projectile vomiting, parents are expected to suck it up, not gaga, and deal with the all night pea soup events and still be up in the morning to go to work or to continue taking care of the sick and afflicted.
Last night, at midnight, The Man and I woke up out of a sound sleep to find that Boo had unleashed cottage cheese projectile spew on his bed and the hallway floor. While I had child's head over the toilet for the next round, The Man was gagging in the hallway cleaning up the mess. He left the bedding to me.
Repeat every thirty minutes all night, until I left for work and the man and Bug dosed off in our bed, thinking Boo asleep. Until Bug starting screaming that Boo was throwing up in our bed.
Being a good big brother, while The Man hosed off our wee little Exorcist wannabe, Bug stripped the bed and doused it with Febreeze to help out. Not bad for a four year old.
Then the other end of Boo began to run amok. My poor blue eyed baby is blowing at both ends and miserable. And I don't blame him. It sucks having your body turn on you without rhyme or reason. It sucks to be so thirsty you will drink anything, only to have it come back up out your nose. It sucks when you realize mom can't hold you because your covered in yuck and she's trying to clean you off.
It sucks as a parent because you can't do anything but hold their head and clean up their mess and wait. You can't make the virus run its course any faster. You can't make their stomach settle.
All you can do is clean up and wait and watch and hope it passes quickly.
And that you don't step in a pile checking on your child in the middle of the night.
Nothing like puke between your toes to make you feel like a real mom.

Monday, February 16, 2009

Jane Fonda Loathing

This morning, I woke up at some godforsaken hour and couldn't go back to sleep. turned on the TV and there was Jane Fonda in The Electric Whore something.

Let me explain that I have been exercising and watching my diet for a month or more now in an effort to shed the baby weight that is stubbornly clinging to the skinny woman inside of me. She's running out of air and I'm running out of time.
I am walking for blocks on my lunch break--in high heels--and denying myself that Reese's peanut butter cup that I so desperately want. I am drinking enough water to float a barge and eating healthy snacks to stave off cravings. I am chewing gum and popping vitamins and doing everything I'm supposed to do since I'm not quite obese enough to qualify for the Biggest Loser--two more pounds and I'm there! Gillian, come whip my butt into shape!

And I look at Jane Fonda, remember her work out videos and that, even with one foot in the grave, she's still built better than me, and I got mad. I started swearing at the TV. I began punching my pillow. I seriously thought about grabbing a canister of ice cream and having a free for all.

I had to run into the store this morning before work. I caught myself snarling at a employee when they told me to stop sniffing the chocolates. His interruption, although dangerous for him, stopped me from stripping down and smearing Hershey's on my body.

I only had two buttons undone when he stopped me.

I have to say, to a dieting woman, seeing Jane Fonda is like waving a red flag in front of an angry bull. Or a donut in front of a hungry one.

I'm being good. I'm drinking my water and chewing my gum and I'll be walking at lunch again. But I really could have used a fat woman on TV this morning as a reminder that, even though my skinny chick is suffocating, at least I'm not her.

Is that too much to ask?

Friday, February 13, 2009

Baby Rage

Punk has some control issues. She has to be in control at all time.
When something doesn't go her way, The Man and I grab out ear plugs and hold on.
It gets loud.
There are tears. (The Man can't help himself!)
And the child becomes the most pitiful, screeching, red faced, weeping, snot nosed baby in the world.
Ya gotta love her.
One of the boys takes sippie cup. She gives him a few warning screeches before unleashing a sound that makes the boy's bowels turn to jelly and making him consider entering a monastery at 4 years old.
The Man tells her no. She stops, waits for him to reconsider, because she simply cannot believe the audacity of him, and then lets loose a wail that has him reeling back and holding up his hands in surrender.
Fifteen minutes later, one of two things happens--he gives in or she wears out.
He normally gives in.
It's amazing to watch a tiny woman in training line up her men and put them in their places.
My sons bring her treats and drinks and toys and ask about her. Yes, they fear her, and in that fear, she has won respect.
The Man, despite all evidence to the contrary, thinks Punk can do no wrong. Even as she takes off her diaper and smears poo on the walls.
I just sit back and watch, proud of my prodigy and hopeful for the future if, at fourteen months, Punk can control the male gender so readily.
I will go to my grave knowing I left the male gender in very capable, controlling hands!

Thursday, February 12, 2009

The Heathens Death Defying Stunt Team

My children are trying to kill themselves.
And drive their daddy bonkers.
I'm not opposed to driving The Man bonkers. It's my life's goal. I've honed it into an art form, so its only natural my children would take up the cause an run with it.
Falling over their own feet and smacking their pug noses on the floor.
Yep. They are their mama's children.
Yesterday, The Man had a rough day.
Boo was running from the bedroom and The Man came around the corner. Boo and The Man collided. Boo went flying back into the corner of a door frame, resulting in a nice goose egg and a sob story. Then Bug threw his SpongeBob toy and hit Boo in the lip.
The Man sprouted two more gray hairs on his poor balding head.
I knew I loathed SpongeBob for a reason.
Punk, being the adventurous midget she is, gladly took a plug in air freshener provided by Boo and worked it like a lollipop. After a call to Poison control and a few panicked moments later, my baby has pine fresh breath and The Man has a new gray hair.
Things seemed to have calmed down until after my return home last night. Then Bug decided to join the act. An office chair, a clumsy four year old, and a hard floor later, Bug was a member of the Heathens Death Defying Stunt Team.
After wrapping all the children in those packing plastics (the bubble kind you like to pop--which I restrained myself from popping and having a moment of sheer orgasmic joy. Barely!) we settled in for the night.
Yes, I left them air holes.
The Man said he was quitting, turning in his notice as a parent. I reminded him that I was sneakier, could move faster, and would halfway to Mexico and a cute Latin lover before he could sputter out a response.
So here I am, on a sunny beach, slathered with sun screen and sipping a Pina colada brought my my new toy, Pedro.

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Out of the mouths of heathens

Bug picked a scab off his cheek, resulting in blood. Runs to The Man.

B: Daddy! I'm bleeding! I need a banage!

TM: You don't nee a band aid. You're fine.

B; What are you try to do--kill me! I'm bleeding here. I will DIE!

TM: You won't die.

B: Will to if I don't get a banage I'll DIE! I'm bleeding! Don't you see!

When asked who his favorite parent was post trauma--Bug's answer? Mama!

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

What's in a label?

Bug will be going for preschool testing next month.
I still haven't figured out what they are testing him for.
I don't think he'll be peeing in a cup or giving blood to check for disease. I doubt they'll care about his prowess as a spitter of far flung phlegm. I don't think they will be impressed by his amazing ability to repeat one word over and over at increasing decibels until even the cats scurry for cover, grabbing their kitty helmets as they flee.
I doubt they will test his bootay shaking ability, which, despite his tender years, is bordering on legendary, or his ability to deflect the blame for any mishap upon his younger brother. They probably will not test for his astounding appetite or ability to sing "House on Pooh Corner" 800 times in a row and never sing the same song twice.
I fear they will not test for a heart that is two sizes too big and full of joy and love for everyone, even a tree, a car, a stuffed animal, and occasionally his brother and sister.
I doubt they will test for a winning smile or ready hug, although the administrator make just get knocked on her rump by one of my boy's beefy bear hugs.
I'm sure they will check for such unimportant things as comprehension, problem solving, and such--things no four year old really needs. Hell, things his 33 year old mother rarely needs!
So I'm forced to wonder . . .what are they testing him for? And does it really matter? In the end, will these scores affect my child on the road to becoming a good, productive member of society, or are they just another tool to label something which cannot be labeled?
Okay, if the educational system must have their label, I'll give them one for my oldest boy.
Age: However old he wants to be
Name: None of your damned business
Identifying traits: His father's ears and mothers nose and a curved pinky toe that came from the mailman--I think!
Characteristics: Talking too much and occasionally with mouth full. Running at breakneck speed, falling over his feet, and attempting to break said neck. Having fantastic legs for wearing mom's high heels. Known for walking by, farting, and running. Will curl up in a lap and fall asleep without warning, suddenly weighing 400 pounds instead of 40. Will bring you a blanket because he's cold, then stand by and wait for the invitation to share. When asleep, mutters and talks and makes a sweet baby face that will melt the hardest of hearts. Does not take no for an answer."
I think that will at least scratch the surface of my boy.

Wednesday, February 4, 2009

Out of the mouths of babes

After The Man walked into the heathens room and found that every toy in the big toy box was out in the bedroom.

The Man: I told you not to get all these toys out.

Bug: Why don't you just go back to the living room and watch a little TV. Nothing to see here! (And begins trying to push The Man out of the room) Move it along, Daddy!

During a trip to the bathroom for #2. Bug is grunting and turning red and trying for all its worth.

Bug: Guess I better pull my shirt up for this one, huh, daddy?