Nature shows, crime scene clean up, and hog-tying

     You know when you are watching one of those nature shows because you figured it was safe and it wouldn't send you careening out of the room, sobbing, screaming, and cursing the networks for actually thinking that THAT violent nonsense was ENTERTAINMENT?!?!?  And then you realize, it’s NOT safe because they keep right. on. filming. while the wolves/lions/weasels/creatures-with-sharp-pointy-teeth begin to maul the helpless wildabeast/rabbit/deer/creature-with-no-pointy-teeth-that-Disney-likes-to-anthropomorphize-and-you-had-sitting-on-your-bed-until-you-went-to-college?  And then you are forced to sit there, stunned and motionless, until the squealing and twitching stops?  But they were supposed to pan away while playing sad music…. *gulp*  Yeah, that’s about what watching Sprinkles go after her birthday cupcake was like last night.  There was purple icing and chocolate cake guts EVERYWHERE!  She didn’t end its suffering quickly either… she played with it for a while before going in for the kill.  It.  Was.  Brutal.  She loved every minute and morsel.  She even growled a bit while chewing.  J

Nothing says "heartless killer" like finger painting with their guts!

     And then came the REALLY hard part… choosing who got the bath duty and who got crime scene clean up.  Daddy is SUCH a trooper.  He went all dude-in-a-hazmat-suit on the highchair, table, floor, and walls (and probably the ceiling) until not even Grissom would have been able to tell whodunit.  I got bath time.  Bath time is nice, bath time is fun.  Bath time ends in towel snuggles and tooth brushing, right?  My problems started when I realized that, in her kill-frenzy, Sprinkles had dropped a GIANT duce and I got to play the “Is it Cake or is it Poop?” game while I cleaned her up.  Chocolate bits and icing floating in the tub water is one thing…. No one wants to sit in hot, moist poop flakes.   I think even Sass Monkey would draw the line on at that one.  (Yes.  He has lines.  Just not very many.)  Finally everyone got in the tub and the scraping ( I mean scrubbing) began.  Kids have no problem getting cake IN their nose, it’s getting it OUT that makes them howl like they are accused witches and I am the Spanish Inquisition.  Like they don’t pick out boogers with their fingers ALL THE D*MN TIME, and you’d think a soft washcloth would be a welcome change, but NO!  Thrashing, screeching, flailing - and SOMEBODY always get kicked in the face - until I am eventually forced to employ pinning techniques usually used on farm animals at vet check-ups… or tagging….  And then quiet, happy, CLEAN children.  Except now the water is purple with lots of dark bits floating in it so we go for an empty and a refill which THEN leads to fights/scrambling over who gets to play with the water as it pours out of the faucet….  *sigh*  More farm animal pinning…  I’ve got the guns of a Hungarian body builder.

All in all, I would say we had a very successful mini-birthday party.  The REAL pink-encrusted, sparkle-fest for family and friends is on Saturday.  Maybe I should look into renting a pressure washer.....

Sprinkles is 1... and I can't handle it...

     Hear ye!  Hear ye!  Her Omnipotence, the Duchess of Drooly Disaster, Her Royal “Up High” -ness, the Queen of Wiggles and Squeals, Sprinkles, turns 1 on this truly auspicious day.  We will all bow our heads and remember (well, not you guys.  That would just be weird.)her easy labor ( 4 hours total and only 2 stitches!) and speedy delivery  into this world, a world that is a better place because of her arrival….

     Baby girl is 1!  Oh gawd, my baby is 1?  Wait… where did that last WHOLE YEAR go?  I mean, I remember something about her not letting me put her down for 6 months and how she was so big at birth that many of the baby clothes people had bought for her didn’t fit.  And how her shoulder was hurt but that couldn’t, wouldn’t,  AND DIDN’T stop her.  And about how she was colicky and thrushy (we be a thrushy people) but still ate well and GREW LIKE A WEED.  And about how her eyes just got bluer and bluer so as to make the sky on a sunny summer day jealous.  And how, when she first started to really smile, it would get wider and wider until it seemed as if her entire face was one huge, toothless grin.  And how she was such a quiet and thoughtful baby until one day she WOKE UP and it was all shrieks and singing and wiggling and sumo wrestling her brother.  And how when she started walking, she planted her feet wide and stomped the floor as if she was announcing to the world “Here I come!”  And how she learned to wave and say “Hi” and she sounded just.  like.  me. ….  And how she was my little baby and now she’s a big girl with opinions and thoughts and a shout that can shake the rafters… and a whisper that tickles your ear and smells like graham crackers… *sniff*  Okay, so I do remember SOME things.  It’s not ALL lost in the haze of sleep deprivation and tornado-life.J

My baby is 1… but she will always be my baby…

Tuesday Poop Quiz!

Tuesday Poop Quiz  (see what I did there?)

1.  This is funny because:
 
    a.  I have children and there isn't much that can come out of a human body that can freak me out anymore.
    b.  I have made that face.
    c.  I rode in the elevator this morning with someone who made that face.
    d.  At least he isn't eating his boogers.
    e.  All of the above.

2.  This is NOT funny because:
 
   a.  I rode in the elevator with someone this morning who made that face.
   b.  Daddy called "Not It!".
   c.  I waited 3 months to get a session with this photographer and now I am going to have to pay how much  for a framed glossy of my child wrangling a turd?
   d.  Oh gawd... he had prunes.  I did this to myself.
   e.  All of the above.


Please feel free to post your answers in the comments section below and don't worry.... there is no shame here... only truth.  Brutal, questionable substance (Hey, can you smell this?  I think it's poop.) encrusted truth....

Fighting a losing battle…

     Last night, while “helping” me transfer some Mums to pots, Sass Monkey decided it would be a grand idea to go feral.  One moment he was enthusiastically shoveling dirt into a pot with a small hand-trowel and the next waging an all out terra cotta assault.  Sass Monkey – 1, Pot - 0.  While chucking his shrieking  little bum inside to then become his daddy’s problem before I did something horrible (like plant him up to his neck in potting soil) I thought, “Why do I always act so surprised when one of my little wigglers decides to commit decoration-icide?”.   Like when Sprinkles decided that the fall leaf garlands would look much better in her mouth than on the entertainment center or when Sass Monkey thought the Christmas tree ornaments made such a delightful crunching noise when they hit the ground at launching speed.  Sometimes I feel like I am losing the battle for civilization.  Is their perfect world decorated with crayon cave drawings, sticks from the back yard, and bits of tissue from an unguarded Kleenex box like the den of some Neolithic rodent?  Would they rather sleep in a pile of laundry than an artfully decorated bed complete with matching comforter, sheets, and sham?  Would they rather bathe in muddy puddles than in a freshly sanitized bathtub with a cute little froggy shower curtain?  Hells yes they would.   And besides, a good case of worms makes everything more interesting, right?  *sigh*

     So, I guess it is my job to help civilize them.  Scary, considering I love nothing better than a good fart joke and a surprise mooning attack.  It’s up to my hubby, then?  But I caught him teaching them the “Burp Gun” maneuver at the dinner table the other night... 

  Poor little beggers don’t have a chance….

Wow... I mean... wow.

As B-Day approaches, (Sprinkles T-minus 1 and counting!) I have continued to feverishly comb the internet for “The Perfect Birthday Gift” for my baby girl (as if she won’t just throw the toy to the side after happily shredding the wrapping paper) and I have made some… disturbing discoveries.

1.  They can AND WILL put crystals on anything and everything.   For example,

Yeah, it’s what it looks like.  A crystal studded, portable, poop case for potty training.  Now, I know Sprinkels isn’t quite ready for this kind of thing (or this level of bat sh*t) but I just had to share.  I know… there are no words…  Oh, and it’s a total steal for  around $1,100.

      

     2.  Every kid loves a play house.  Every parent loves a play hous, too.... until you realize it is really a luxury Creepy Crawly Hotel that you paid to put in your back yard…. But the kids love it and how many of those spiders are ACTUALLY poisonous?  Right?  Ahem…   Well, wasps and spiders wouldn’t have a chance in this custom-built, air-conditioned, New England-style cottage complete with running water and plumbing….

... for only $54,000. 

      

     3.  How about a $900 “ride-on” stuffed Pegasus?  Oh yeah… they’ve got one.  A really creepy one…  It's "life-size" or whatever THAT means.

It’s the eyes… they’re all beady….

     4.  This was designed by an artist… for children to actually PLAY with.  The $25,000 price tag doesn’t even include the therapy the kids would need after playing with a bunch of armless, blank-eyed Barbie dolls with metal poles shoved through their shoulder sockets…  FAO FAIL.  BTW, I think Charlie Sheen bought one...  

After these few financially challenged diversionary discoveries I am a little afraid to keep looking.  Although, after seeing these, I don’t really feel quite so bad about whipping out the cash for a little Melissa & Doug, you know?

Lizard Thursday

     I feel this guy today, you know?  Pookey little butt, wtf? expression, dry scratchy skin, and everything.  And the fat little tail... I totally get that.  I do love fall so very VERY much but my eyes are so dry, well...  I am starting to envy this dude's ability to lick his own eyeballs... but not the bug eating.  Because bugs are not chocolate...

The time sucking vortex that is my weekday morning.

     Why can I NEVER leave the house on time during the week?  Last Saturday I was up, showered, dressed, and out the door for breakfast before 7:15 a.m. but Monday through Friday… it’s anyone’s guess as to when the last car seat gets bucked and the keys go in the ignition.  Granted, last Saturday at 7:15 a.m., Sass Monkey was in the back seat still in his pajamas and proclaiming loudly that he get “sausage with his pancakes, momma!”, Sprinkles wasn’t even out of her crib, and Daddy was in the kitchen, brewing coffee… but still…  I felt an accomplished and ready-for-anything kind of enthusiasm I never feel on a weekday morning.  Take this morning, for example.  This morning was a free-for-all train-wreck with battle damage.  I was lucky to make it out with clean hair and underwear.

     

     The worst part is I really do plan the night before.  I set out the kids clothes.  I pick out my outfit and lay it out.  I get lunch as set up as possible (I will not make a sandwich ahead of time.  Soggy bread is an abomination.).  I find my sunglasses/purse/keys/ect…  I fool myself into thinking I have it together, and then BAM!  I.  AM.  WRONG.  Sass Monkey looses a shoe.  Sprinkles has a poop-splosion and needs a complete overhaul.  Why did I only set out one earring and where inthenameofallthatisholy is the other one?  I put water in the coffee maker, and I put a filter in the coffee maker, but I didn’t put any actually COFFEE in the coffee maker?  You get the picture.  Why does it always de-evolve into one screechy cluster?

     What are your trip-ups in the morning?  The snag in your pantyhose?  And, if you have a solution, you had better share it because f*ck-it-all-if I can figure it out. (If you say “Just get up a bit earlier.”, I will bite you.)

Over and out.

Pool safety...

As summer lazily draws to a close and the verdant green of the trees slowly rusts to brilliant coppers and golds, I can once again find this funny... safe in the knowledge that I will not have to disinfect the baby pool as it is nestled snugly in the garage....

Nothing like watching your prides and joys roll around in cold hose water mixed with grass clippings and (most assuredly) their own pee.  Makes ya proud.

Your Monday Balls...

Happy Monday!

   Everyone needs one of these.  A fat baby in a sink is a SURE way to cure whatever funk ails ye.  GAWD, I love a fat baby.  Good thing both of mine were little Michelin Men.  J

   Of course, this amusing pic led me to thinking about my roly little polies before they learned to anti-snuggle, which then segued me into all the creepy things complete strangers will say or do with a fat baby…  You know what I mean… you’er walking through the grocery store, focusing on finding the perfect Organic O Cereal handmade by Tibetan Sherpas (because at this stage you are still all freaked out about what they put in their mouths and are in total denial about their oral obsession with the bottoms of flip flops), and BAM!  Some crazy old lady, who tells you to call her “Grandma” because everybody ELSE calls her “Grandma” , (and this should make me feel secure because people who won't give you their REAL names always have the BEST intentions.  Like mobsters...) has got her pointy little fingers firmly imbedded in your child’s abundant pink thigh.  You first instinct is to tackle her to the floor while screaming like a Banshee and beating her head concave with a Mini Wheats Box… but you don’t and the following disturbing conversation ensues:

“Grandma” (heretofor known as Creepy Old Woman or C.O.W.) – “What a precious baby!” (still pinching and squishing whatever pudgy baby limb has the unfortunate position of being within smooshing distance.)

Me – “Thanks.” (Attempt to sound cheerful.  Fail miserably and end up sounding constipated.  Consider slapping her hand.)

C.O.W. – “I could just eat you up!  You’re all sugar, aren’t you?  Aren’t you? “(At this point Sprinkles would be shrieking in absolute fear and even Sass Monkey, who would make eyes at a sock puppet, would be looking a little dubious.)

Me – “Ummmm.  Thanks.”  (Awkward silence while pulling the cart out of groping distance.)

    

 It’s not the attention or the googly eyes that you make at my adorable bundle of opinions and trouble that is upsetting. For all of you who want to compliment me on the perfection of my progeny, please, feel free.  The truth can only set you free, right?  It’s the unsolicited touching that makes me feel all pointy and violent.  I come from deeply ingrained social bubble people.  My children are born with bubbles.  Don’t invade the bubbles, people.  Shouldn’t you at least let them smell your hand first, a courtesy you would extend to any unfamiliar dog, before you go poking and prodding?  What if they bite?  They might!  I have heard the claim that my children were raised by wolves.  Or in a barn.  Or naked.  Which is true.  And Sprinkles is snake-on-a mouse fast and teething, so C.O.W.s… you have been warned. 

On a side note:

   Why are babies always compared to cookies, candy, sugar crusted gum balls, or whatever?  Do you KNOW what comes out of my child… possibly even right this second?  The drool isn’t sweet either.   I mean, it’s flavored, but not in a good way. (You would know that if you ever have been lucky enough to not remember to close your mouth when playing “Up High!”.  Like a chicken in the rain… ) 

Texting and Purple Crayons

All that texting may be hurting kids' grammar - NewsChannel5.com | Nashville News, Weather & Sports

     Ya think?  I will preface the following rant by saying I was raised by a scientist who could also write.  Strange, no?  One of the first things she said to me after I returned home during my freshman year of college was "Honey, your vocabulary has really deteriorated."  She was right.  I blame the beer.  As children, we started out slowly reading-wise in my house.  You know... a little Richard Scary, some Velveteen Rabbit... then *BAM* straight into "The Hobbit".  No pictures, all chapters and each reading session became an intensive vocabulary lesson.  I got double nerded on that one. (And yes, I realize I should have said "I received a healthy dose of nerd on those frigid winter nights while listening to the melodious voice of my Mummy narrate a full and unabridged accounting of "The Hobbit".  Ha! Ha!" while gazing drolly at you over a snifter of port.  Bite me.  The first way is more fun. And less typing.)

     Texting hurts us all, really.  It causes car wrecks, all sorts of misunderstandings (i.e. - http://www.damnyouautocorrect.com/ which I.  FREAKIN'.  LOVE.), not to mention it is a FANTASTIC time waster, but it is not the only grammatically incorrect sword that chips away at our children's spongy grey matter.  Let me introduce "Harold and the Purple Crayon".  (cue ominous dum-dum-DUUUUUMMMM music)  A classic, right?  It is a grammar murderer in a pretty purple clown suit. (I HATE clowns and their nasty painted faces.  What are you really hiding behind that grease paint, Mr. Clown?  Sadness and evil?  I can believe it.) There isn't one correctly placed comma or period in the whole damn book!  Sentences begin and end a random!  It is a vocab CLUSTER!  I have this uncontrollable urge to grab a red pen and bleed all over the pages of that book every time I read it to Sass Monkey.  The worst part is... he LOVES Harold.  How am I supposed to refuse when he so sweetly asks "Can we wead Purple Cwayon, Mommy?"  You see, there's a dragon under the apple tree that he can't get enough of... not to mention the 9 kinds of pie....  (Really Harold, a Porcupine and a Moose?  We all know that, even in *Canada, it would be one angry opossum and feral dog that finished THAT picnic.)  So I grit my teeth, we open the book, and I correct the hell out of that mo' fo' on the fly because, I'll be damned if I give Sass Monkey one more excuse to speak like a Kardashian.

* I'm not sure where Harold is supposed to be from, but :
     1.  He hangs out with moose and porcupines, and
     2.  Caillou is bald and a Quebecer
... so I'm rolling with it.

Birthday... Bliss?

Let the magic, sparkly, fantastic birthday countdown begin!  It’s T-minus two weeks and counting till the balloon and frosting encrusted eructation of Sprinkels's, ALL HALLOWED BE HER NAME, first birthday party!    Let the insanity… BEGIN!  

Lets see... I’ll need:

Cupcakes – Oh gawd.  I need a theme.  I need a theme!  What does she like… um… measuring spoons?  No.  Shoes….  Nah.  She only likes those for their flavor and consistency. Besides, she prefers flip flops and where would I find a "Summer Beach Party" theme at this time of year?  Could I do a “Dust Bunny and Dead Flies” theme because she is always excited to find those.  Nothing too fancy, I guess, as she is just going to go Gollum on them anyway.

"Give us the Cupcakes, my precious.  We wants them... We wants them..."

Decorations – Must go with theme.  Crap.  Those little Target Owls are cute but I doubt she would know what they are.  Those would SOOOOO be for Mommy.  Ug... no Dora.  I detest Dora.  WHY IS EVERYTHING F*CK!NG DORA?!?!?!?  Dora makes me want to stop eating Mexican food… which is serious because I could EAT MY OWN WEIGHT in chorizo.  Lady bugs?  Well… she does like to eat them….

Party food – Yeek!  Okay, here's the ish.  Half of my family is allergic to beef.  Not just “Ride home with the windows down” allergic either, like, hamburger = ambulance ride to the ER, kind of allergic.  Cows could kill a b*tch in my genetic area code.  Okay… hot dogs?  The pork and chicken ones shouldn't prove too deadly… I hope.  Note to self: Get Epi-Pens.  And put Vanderbilt on speed dial.

Presents – Plastic bugs?

*sigh*  I should have started planning in July....

Sharing is not caring!

Oh, my kids are so good at sharing.  They share their boogies, Cheerios, boogie covered Cheerios, and... stomach bugs.  Of course, all Sass Monkey got was a grumbly tummy, a couple of barfs, and then straight back to Spiderman and Leggos. I had 5 straight hours of hugging the porcelain teddy bear while begging for death's sweet release followed by one hellaciously long night of the shakes and the sweats.  My poor husband probably thought he was sleeping next to a meth addict in detox... all twitching, hallucinations, incoherent mumbling, and barf breath.  This morning brought relief from the mind crushing nausea.. as long as I don't eat or drink anything.  Anything.  OH GOD NO COFFEE.  *whimper*  No fair.

There are a couple of good things, though.
1.  The baby didn't get it.. yet.
2.  It wasn't one of those bugs that makes you glad the toilet is close to the bathtub...  You know what I mean...

Irksome

This article made me want to spit kittens.

http://www.ft.com/intl/cms/s/2/0bf95f3c-f234-11e1-bba3-00144feabdc0.html#axzz26I1YZKei

   Apparently, Ms. Katie Roiphe, you don’t get it.  I don’t put a picture of my children’s pudding smudged faces up on Facebook as my profile picture to hide myself from anyone, I put it there because they are cuter than everybody else’s and I want all the other Mommies to be secretly jealous of the perfection smiling angelically at them from my comments/profile/blog/ect...  J  Plus, sometimes I need the reminder that they CAN ACTUALLY BE GOOD.

   But seriously, we are all absolutely certain that we have cuter/faster/smarter/funnier/crazier kids than everyone else, and do you know why, Ms. Roiphe?  It’s PRIDE.  Pride in our families, pride in their accomplishments, pride in our accomplishments as their mothers.  We are not locking ourselves away, we  are  growing, teaching, loving, and playing every day.  It makes for some busy days! I’m sorry that we don’t always have the time to gussy up and take that pretty little pic for our FB pages, but we are too busy raising the next thinking, feeling, growing generation of human beings. The ones who will make all the hard and right decisions.  The ones who will make a difference.  In just a few years, they will be gone, off on adventures that we cannot be a part of, and I have a sneaking suspicion that we will not be bemoaning the fact we could have had more wine and tapas nights with the girls or read that brand new book right after it was released.   Ask yourself,  at the end of my life, will I be comforted by all the albums of vacation pictures that I took or by the soft touch of my children’s hand?  So yes, our Facebook profile photos may not have us in them but take a look a little deeper before judging.  After all, it's not all about the surface, right?  Explore the photo albums full of smiling pictures of parents and children having fun, hanging out, and enjoying each other's company.  No one is pushed to the back, no one is fading away, and no one is lost.  In fact, we are all so very, very found.

   When we have children, Ms. Roiphe, we do not forget ourselves… we just find out a little bit more about what is important.  Well, some of us do anyway.

   P.S. – I don’t know what kind of parents you have been hanging around with, but when the Daddies I know get together, they talk about poop, sleepless nights, teething, and vomit just like the Mommies do.  Maybe you just need some new friends?

Gasp!

I have a really bad case of "Mom Purse" this morning...  At least they are clean, right?

3 things I hate about elevators...

     1.  Crazy People

People say the most horrible things in elevators.  Yesterday, on my 14 floor ride up, a woman suddenly and very loudly says “It’s like we are underwater.  Like we are trapped or something.  Oh goodness!  I guess that wasn’t a good thing to say on an elevator!”  Well, no sh*t, Bubbette.  Next time, let’s not let yer lips flap, m’kay?  Little Miss Sunshine was referring to the blank blue screen in our newly refurbished elevator that will someday report the floor, weather, and other mind control media fed to us by our alien overloards... or whatever.  Either way, I am also a little disturbed that she saw a blank blue screen and thought cold, watery death buuuuut I guess that particular scary is between her and her therapist.

2.  Story Time

Another absolute favorite of mine are those “elevator-of-death-story-time” moments.  You know… the elevator makes some sketchy, gut-wrenching noise and then someone pipes up with a “I heard this lady in New Jersey was completely cut in half by an elevator.” or “One time, my great uncle was in an elevator and the cables broke and it crashed and that’s why we always called him Stubbs.” or some other such inappropriately timed nonsense.  Really?  REALLY?!?!?!?  Here I am, crammed into something the size of an LG Super-Capacity 3 Door Refrigerator (with Door-In-Door.  Gawd, I want one… but I digress) box, forced to smell either your Jean Nate or whatever cheap fried goo you choked down for lunch and have been quietly burping for the last 30 seconds (Oh wait.  You’ve just been exhaling and that’s your ACTUAL BREATH?  Well, f*ck me…) and now you want to totally FREAK ME OUT with gruesome tales of poorly maintained elevators of past, present… and maybe our ffffuuuttttuuuurrreee (say it creepy like Vincent Price)?  Just like the one we are in now?  Fan-freaking-tastic.  And we now know why Bertha over here has decided to substitute the love of another human being with the yowling, litter-box-scented, flea motels she calls “her babies”.  Social skills of a lab rat.  No wait… that’s not fair to the lab rats.  They got skills, they are just forced.  You don’t want to be the odd rat out during the “experimental phase”, you know?  … but again, I digress.

3.  Stinks

There are those of you who may not say anything in an elevator but your B.O. might as well be a board-studded-with-rusty-nails slap to the face.  You are an assault on all our senses but we can’t say anything about it because we are all too afraid to open our mouths because DEAR SWEET JESUS I MIGHT TASTE IT!!!!!  I try and do the quick “stinky people check” before I get on but, as we all know, while some B.O. may make you THINK you are seeing things, unless it’s flies buzzing around Pigpen, you can’t actually see it. 

Ladies… Prada and Coach do not erase funk. Guess what!  You might wear Gucci but your sh*t still stinks and so do you!   I don’t care how cute your shoes are, you can still smell like you have been rolling around on a hog barn floor.  Your bag might match your cutie little outfit but I wouldn’t know because my eyes are watering so badly from whatever reek you tried to cover up with the new Jenny from the Block, that I wouldn’t be able to tell Tommy Hilfiger from a Faded Glory.  (and I like me some jaunty, nautical plaid.  I really do.)((No offense Wal-mart.  Garanimals is great… and so stain resistant.)) 

Gentlemen...  QUIT WITH THE AQUA VELVA… it’s not cool.  And Axe anything.  That stuff’s just nasty.  No sane woman wants to sleep with a dude that smells like Christmas trees and gym socks… we just won’t.  Axe is the equivalent of a perfume chastity belt.  Another little tip: Febreezing a shirt for Day 2 (even after “airing it out”) doesn’t make it a Day 1.  At all.  Ever.  Especially when I am armpit level and you decide to reach OVER MY HEAD and push your elevator button!  Just ask me to push the button next time fortheloveofallthatisholyandgood.  This will save you a death-stare and my fantasizing about sucker punching you as I step off the elevator.  In the balls.

That is all…. For now….

You know you are a Mom when…

You know you are a Mom when…

You can catch vomit in your hand, clean it up, and then finish your dinner.

You reach into your purse for a pen… and pull out a Hotwheels car.

Your car smells like Cheerios and Goldfish.  On a good day.

You can correctly identify AT LEAST 20 different species of dinosaurs by scientific name and era.

You start choosing clothes on “washability” not “wearability”.

You talk about Spiderman and don’t actually mean Toby Maguire.  You MEAN Spiderman.

You feel uncontrollably compelled to pick up small pieces of trash (because someone could choke!)… off the sidewalk.

You will pick someone else’s nose.  In public.

You find yourself unconsciously giving teenagers the shark-eye.

You start referring to college students as “kids”.

You spend more time in the baby isle than the beer isle. 

You know who Eric Carle is.

You don’t even consider the cute little lacy thongs in Target and head straight for the 6 pack of cotton bikini cuts.  No one wants to start a butt-fire.

You buy pasta… in bulk.  Because they will eat ANYTHING on Rotini!

You throw your hands up, start clapping, and yell “Yay!  Good for you!  I’m so proud of you!” when co-workers tell you they have finished a project.

Quality time with your hubby involves a remote and falling asleep on the couch by 9 p.m.

You find yourself going to the bathroom a lot, not because you actually have to go, but because it is the quietest room in the house.

You say “Cut that out!” just … like… your…. Mother… (shudder).

You buy gigantic purses because “I can get diapers, wipes, AND a sippy in here!  And Bonus! There’s even room for my phone!”

You know what I mean when I say “Diaper Fart”.  Worst.  Smell.   Ever.

Ug… weekends

     Ug… weekends.  The former favorite days of the week have now been forced to reside somewhere between Wednesday (the trickster middle day) and Thursday (the bastard step-child of Friday).  Weekends now are nothing like weekends of the past where the hardest thing hubby and I had to do before 11 a.m. was to decide whether we wanted an omelet from Sweet Water Café or quiche from Lost Dog for breakfast.  Was it a Tecate beach day or should we just grab the handle of Firefly and some lemonade? Well rats, my green beach cover-up is dirty… I guess I’ll have to wear my grey one…  poo. 

     Weekends now begin around 6 a.m. with Sass Monkey ricocheting downstairs in full “pancake hunt” mode (and GAWD HELP US if we forget the sausage) and with Sprinkles thumping on her crib, screeching like crazed goblin (yes, goblin).  Once the beasts have been appeased with whatever breakfast we could throw at them before they started to notice that Mommy and Daddy were made of meat (just… like… bacon…  mmmmm, long pig), then come THE CHORES.  Not like the house-triage kind of chores you do during the middle of the week, but the Scrubbing Bubbles, Lemon-Scented, toilet brush wielding, how-the-hell-did-he-get-pee-up-there? chores.  Hubby and I have learned to distract the screeching heathens by picking up their toys first so that they then become temporarily engrossed in the absolute joy of creating new chaos and havoc just long enough to sanitize the bathrooms. Yay!  No one gets Oregon Trail sick! (you know... dysentery or bitten by a rattle snake.  Which is TOATALLY POSSIBLE in that bathroom)   Brave Hubby then feverishly takes care of any yard work that involves using sharpened metal implements (Sass Monkey LOVES them shiny and sharp!) and I am usually able to clean and dry all the floors fast enough that Sprinkles doesn’t have Pine Sol breath (which isn't as bad as, say, potting soil breath but the State REALLY frowns upon babies burping fake pine).  All in all, we are usually done, and done in, around 11 a.m…. just in time for quiche.  Hahahahahahahahaaaaa!

I should be seen and not heard....

Sass Monkey: “Mommy, I need a phone like yours.”

Me:  “Oh yeah?”

Sass Monkey: “But I need one with Spiderman on it.  Yeah.  I think I need a Spiderman phone.” *heavy 3 yr old sigh*

Me:  “Well, okay.  Who would you call?”

Sass Monkey:  “China.  I would call China.”

Me:  “Uh…  Wow…  What would you talk about?  With China.”

Sass Monkey:  “Toys.  We would talk about toys.”

     This was yet another lesson for me about why you really SHOULD watch what sarcasm slips through your teeth in the heat of the moment instead of the four letter laced phrase that you are ACTUALLY thinking.  Are you doing yourself a favor by NOT having the kid who asks the teacher what an S.O.B. is (thank you Grandpa)?  Maybe not...  “Stop pushing the buttons on the side of my phone while you play “Fishy Poots”!  You are going to call China!” then becomes "I'm going to call China.",  an awkward, and possible VERY expensive, mistake.  (The game is actually called “Fishy Farts” but apparently I do have some boundary lines drawn on what I am willing to have repeated in front of teachers and Grandparents)

     Another, more painful, example includes:

Me:  “ If you can’t stop jumping off the coffee table I am going to duct tape you to the wall.” 

       Which then becomes:

      Sass Monkey:   “No duct tape, Mommy.  Don’t duct tape me.” 

        This of course must be said loudly and in public.

  

     Or:

                 Me:  "What is going on in here?  You sound like a bunch of squealing heathens!"

                 This will eventually involve a parent teacher conference with questions about why Sass Monkey is calling  his classmates "Heathens", "Beasts", or (and even more disturbing) "Heathen Beasts". 

*heavy Mommy sigh*

My baby is a bulldozer.

     My baby is a bulldozer.  She is 11 months and 24lbs. of sweet, chubby, drooling determination and CAN NOT BE STOPPED.  Fireplace hearth?  Why ashes are delicious!  Outlet plug?  Why not… the plastic is so soothing on the gums!  Stairs?  Hell yes!  Nothing gets me scooped up faster!  Random crap I find on the floor after Mommy has thoroughly (or so she thought!) swept?  Mommy’s fingers are so delightfully chewy…

     Truthfully, I don’t know why I bothered to “baby proof” anything.  Note the quotation marks.  I don’t know what “baby” these safety companies are “proofing” against, but it ain’t mine.  I mean, she’s not drinking Windex from under the kitchen sink, but she can rattle a baby gate like a lifer in Rikers.  She plants those little chubby feet, grabs that sucker in a grip that would make a grown man blanch, and shakes it harder than beagle shakes a bunny.  It is an amazing thing to see… and frightening.

     And her poor brother…  He is small (but mighty!) for his age and she is probably the reason why he has learned to climb so well.  (My husband and I have speculated that some random traits from our ape-ish beginnings have surfaced from deep within his genetic code.  Nothing like a Vestigial Tail, mind you, but he has some crazy climbing ability.)   If he is anywhere near the floor he is considered prey, and no amount of twitching or frantic squeaking can dissuade her from crushing him to the floor with her Sumo-like lunges.  So, not unlike our early ancestors, he has taken to the heights for survival purposes.  With only 8 lbs. difference between them and her gaining inches and ounces daily… well…   Darwin’s finches have their beaks; my son has the ability to cling to the back of the couch like he is made out of Velcro and stick-tights.  That should keep him safe... for now.

Hidden surprises...

"Snake in the grass"...
"Pain in the ass"...
And now...
"Pokey plastic sharks in the blanket"

It was horrible...

Wake Up Call

Early one morning not, so long ago, I lay in bed blissfully drifting between wakefulness and warm, soothing slumber.....

Then.....

Thump, thump, thump, thump.... (Sass Monkey doesn't walk. He drives his little feet into the hardwood like a jackhammer into pavement so that even China knows when it is time to get up and get his fruity cereal ready.)

Soft little fingers begin tickling my cheek.  How sweet....

"Mommy, I've been playing with my bummy bum.  I need to wash my hands."

A used pull-up plops on the exposed side of my face.

Worst alarm clock EVER.

(In SM's defense, he is learning to wipe alllbymyself!!! and has not yet managed to master the art of the "Clean Wipe".  As you can see, he needs more practice.)