It's Halloween Day!

     Ah yes!  All Hallow’s Eve, Oiche Shamhna, Samhain, Hallowe'en, All-hallow-tide, Hallowmas, Alhallow ene, Hollantide…. Give-me-da-candy Day!  Whatever you call it, it’s gonna be good!  It has always been one of my favorite holidays and I think it is ranking pretty high on Sass’s list these days.  He woke Hubbs and I up with a cheery 6 a.m. “Happy Halloween MomnDad!  It’s Halloween Day!”  Sho’ nough is little dude.  Time to cram you full of sugar till you twitch and pass out.  No puking, though.  Ug.

Know your limit, little dude.

     
     All Hail Halloween! The one night of the year kids can run around overindulging like pledges at a Frat party (But no worries, bud. I won’t sharpie a penis on your face while you lay passed out in your bed... Maybe.) I love the cold weather and costumes (and the fact that most of my “inappropriate costume” days were pre-Facebook. Did you know you can make a Ladybug slutty? Heh.) and I love the fact that I will get to skim off Sass's haul after he collapses in bed. (Sprinkles will be remaining behind with Grandma, a princess in waiting, to"help" to hand out candy.)  I love the excitement and enthusiasm. I love the freedom and imagination. I can't wait to watch Sass stumble up a neighbors steps and yell “Trick or Treat”! (Okay, hon, now what do you say?) This will be a good night full of shrieks and giggles and noses running from the cold. I. Can't. Wait.

What are your little ones dressing up as? Any cool “Halloween Day” traditions you'd be willing to share? Tell me, tell me! I would really like to know.

Not So Happy Veggie Tales

     We like to eat in my house and no food group goes un-molested.  The favorites seem to be breakfast meats (that includes kielbasa, the finest and most versatile of casing-clad meat products) and breads (biscuits, pancakes, loaf breads).  That is not to say that we don't hit it hard in the veggie department (and fruit… but who doesn't like fruit?) as well, it’s just that tastes vary so much there.  Take Sass.  From the first moment the All-Hallowed-Broccoli passed his toothless little gums he pledged his undying love and unwavering masticatory attentions to its cold-loving crowns.  The boy will pick broccoli (or green beans) over a cookie.  We've tried it and it’s true.  Sprinkles, on the other hand, is completely uninterested in the verdant greens of the light seeking veggies and has chosen instead to pledge her allegiance to the dark loving tubers.  (A child after my own heart considering that I too had an almost unnatural affinity for a mashed potato as a baby.  Yeah…. As a baby… *Ahem*) She will continue to shove potatoes and kielbasa in her mouth until her little belly is straining at the highchair safety belt, belch loudly, and then reach for more.  I worry that her one-sided-veggie-ness will become nutritionally problematic.  Not with her iron intake (have you seen her go after a pot roast?) and not with her calcium intake (we are actually considering buying our own cow…. That is how many gallons of milk we go through in a week.) but with all the other important nutrients her little body will need to keep up its astonishing growth rate.  Last night at the table I watched her idly play with a bit of cooked spinach I tried to feed her, (she was putting it in her mouth and then slowly pulling it back out but never actually chewing) and I realized that helping her develop her taste buds may be a bit tricky. 

     I have found myself “sneaking” veggies into things, something I have never had to do before, in an attempt to widen her plant-eating palette.  Peas into every casserole, zucchini finely chopped into pasta sauces… but, in truth, I am only creating one, huge culinary lie.  Now, we lie to Sass about what he is eating all the time!  Green Bell Peppers have been called “Crunchy Green Beans”.  Black Olives have become “Black Pickles”.  But we lie to get him to put the food in his mouth and expose him to the flavor and it usually works.  With Sprinkles, all the veggie-sneaking is just a desperate attempt to make sure we don't have to start grinding up Flintstones to put in her milk in the morning.  Why is it that she will eat meat spiced with Cumin, Adobo, Curry, Thyme, or fresh garlic but acts like broccoli is the most vile and odious of poisons?  Broccoli?  The most delicious of all the green vegetables?  It’s not like I am asking her to eat brussel sprouts (Yummm!) or anything….   She gives me the “Are you trying to kill me, Woman?” look if any of the offenders from her ever growing list of “Things That Aren't Potatoes” ends up anywhere near her food pile on the table at dinner time.   It is a battle and I think I am loosing…. Badly.

     Do any of you have any tips on working with picky eaters or any guerilla-veggie recipes to share?  Because I think if I put peas in anything else Hubs is going to have an intervention….

C'mon Sprinks... Don't be a hater!

Everyone needs a little love...

Oh my... the LANGUAGE!

Sass-isms and excerpts from this weekend:

Sass:  “Throw me!  Ima baseball!”

Sass:  “What you talkin’ about?  Dats Batcrap.”  *sigh*

At 6:30 this a.m., Sass marches in the bathroom (while I am trying to take a shower) and declares that:

Sass:  “ I'm mad at Daddy!”

Me:  “Why?”

Sass:  “He won’t give me dinner.”   

     We are still waiting on Sprinkles’s little nuggets of wisdom, but it seems that she prefers to remain silent as Sass does all the talking for her.

Sass:  “Sister wants a cookie, Mommy.”

Sass:  “Sister wants her milk, Mommy.”

Sass:  “Sister maybe wants to go pway wif me upstairs now, Mommy”.

     Of course, Sprinkles goes along quite happily with everything Sass Monkey suggests… well, except for when he decided she wanted to have a pillow fight and he blindsided her with a decorative throw pillow from the couch.  Nope, she was NOT down with that.  No worries though, she gets him back by taking his toys and sitting on his head while he is trying to watch Mickey Mouse Clubhouse.  Dats mah gurl….

No, Sweetie... THIS is Batcrap....

Slamming Hobbits and Bilbo's Berries

*Nerd Alert!*  You have been warned....

     The level of my obsession/love for the books The Hobbit and LOTR is frightening.  I am borderline bat-sh*t on this and the first step to recovery is realizing you have a problem, right?  Having been raised on the books I am a bit of what I would call a "Tolkien Purist" but what others might call "Oh Gawd!  Do NOT bring up the Ents... especially in public."  Apparently, I can be a little embarrassing ...
     I had a few issues with the LOTR movies (I still own the entire boxed set complete with HOURS of extras) and have been trepidatiously awaiting "The Hobbit".   I've been reading the rumor sights and looking at all the pictures that are beginning to dribble out and I thought sexy dwarves were going to be the worst thing I had to deal with... until Hubs showed me this...

Oh, Denny's...  "Hobbit Slam"?  "Seed cakes and Shire Sausage"?  "Radagast’s Red Velvet Pancake Puppies"?  I....   But....  Why,  Denny's?  Why?  And what the f*ck is a "Pancake Puppy"?
It's like my breakfast choices are roadkill or Hobbit Porn.  I feel like I need to go wash my eyes out or something.  Keep your Shire Sausage away from me!  I am a married woman, you know!  Slamming Hobbits... ewwww....

Other menu items include:
Frodo’s Pot Roast Skillet  (Oh...  no.....)
Bilbo’s Berry Smoothie (Not his BERRIES!) 
Gandalf’s Gobble Melt  (Can you put Purell on your brain?)
Hobbit Hole Skillet  (A coma sounds really good right about now...)

Oh, and there's more.  There's this...

AAAAAaaaaannnd this....

And dearsweetjeezusmakeitstop.......

This is almost as bad as seeing Frodo's nipples in ROTK.  Ack!  Nooooooo!  Hobbit's don't have nipples!  I need to go sit in a closet, curl into the fetal position, rock, and cry.  (Though not as damaging as having my Hubs, then boyfriend, set up Harry Potter in a full frontal photo from "Equus" as my "surprise screensaver".  He's a keeper, that one.)

So... happy Friday.  I guess...  *shudder*

Morning Aire... um I mean Air....

"Mommy.  I hafta fart."

This is what I heard while getting my lunch together this morning.  Sass was sitting at the table, munching happily on his cereal while Sprinks was alternating between shoving fistfulls in her mouth and gleefully throwing handfuls on the floor.

"What?"  I wanted to make sure I'd heard what I thought I'd heard.  

You see there was the "function incident" a few weeks ago when Sass was trying to tell us that something mechanical wasn't working.  "Mommy, Daddy... it not fuck... fuck... " (by this time our eyebrows had climbed to our hairlines and you could hear the crickets chirping in China).  "It not fuck-tion."  Big smile.  "OOoooohhhh, okay.  It doesn't function?  It doesn't work?", we said.

"Yeah, it's not working."

*Phew*

Anyway, back to this morning....

Sass:  "Mommy, I hafta fart" (looking concerned)

Me:  "What?"

Sass:  "I hafta fart."  Rubs his tummy.  I walk over.

Me:  "What's going to happen?"  Still playing dumb in the hopes that this is a "function incident".

Sass:  "It rolls around in here (points to tummy) and comes out down here (points to his underwear)."

Fair enough...

He start to look a little desperate, throws himself out of the chair (his normal mode of dismount), and trots toward the bathroom.

Me:  "You mean pass gas?"  

Sass:  Yeah, Mommy.  Pass gas."  As he opens the bathroom door, he looks back at me.  "And the gas is gonna come out!".  *triumphantly slams the door*

*sigh*

                                                                 He's gas powered....

Spiderman Pixie Dust

     Last night, while Sass was watching Jake and the Neverland Pirates (For those of you who have never seen this show it is about 3 children in Neverland who have adventures and are constantly harassed by a very toned down Captain Hook.  Disney basically took out all the darkness, the fear, and the sudo-pedaphilic undertones, slapped some racially obscure kids on the front and let ‘er rip.  Sass can't get enough.) and marching around in nothing but his red bandana and a Pull-Up, he declared that “Mommy, you be the pink one.  The pink banana girl.” (He has some trouble with “bandana”.)  “Okay, I do like pink.  Do I get the boots too?”  I asked.  “You get Pixie dust, mommy.” And he stopped for a second and thought and then said “I get Spiderman Pixie Dust.”  Because regular Pixie Dust is for girls, you see.  And only to use in emergencies like mace or bear horns.  So he had to man it up with some Spidey?  I guess so.  But the dude wears spandex and stays a virgin for how long?  He is a nerd with anger management issues.  He wears SPANDEX... but I digress….

But you can see his junk...

     What does this mean?  My little man doesn't want anything girly because “I’m a man, Mommy.” (yes, he has said that.).  I was concerned in the beginning.  He regularly identifies anything pink or sparkly as “princess stuff” or “Dat’s for girls!”.  He has a group of boys that he rough houses with now at school instead of girls (like at his old school … *ug.  Hipster jeans*).    He knows there is a difference…  Does he equate girly with weaker?  Lesser? 

     As I watched him squash his sister flat and then get squashed in return I realized that, no, he doesn't think of girls as lesser or weaker, just different.  He has no compunctions whatsoever with flattening a girl.  He isn't “man-ing up” he’s just putting people into categories.  “Boy” doesn't equal “better” or “stronger”, in fact, this boy refuses to touch bugs, snakes, lizards, and pumpkin guts.  (You should have seen his face when I tried to get him to help me gut the jack-o-lantern.  I thought he was going to puke.  All this while his sister is busy filling her gullet with grass and who knows what else she’s ripped up from the yard.)  Different is okay.  Different is good.  Because we are different.  He is starting with the largest grouping – male vs. female – and putting his world in order.  Order is good.  Understanding is good.  Defining is good.  We are going to have to work on the pink stereotyping though cause, honey, that boy (with his bright blue eyes and his peaches-n-cream complexion)  looks fabulous in a pink polo shirt….

Facepalms-n-Eye Rolls All 'Round

One of the many reasons Hubs and I decided to move from Charleston, SC to Nashville, TN was that the, ummm... accepted social practices of the, ummm... older established communities were, ummm... antiquated.  Parts of that state haven't seen the light of anything since 1842 and we weren't all that comfortable exposing our children to that sort of thinking.
That being said, there are parts of Charleston that will live in my heart forever as wonderful happy places. We met fantastic folks, ate mind-blowing food, and were toasted brown by the time we left (not to mention just toasted).  But I digress...
Now, Hubs and I realize that Stupid (with a capital "S") is not regional.  It knows no geographic boundaries, which is why I was not so much surprised as saddened by the hot-load that showed up on the news last night...  

Retired Professor Running For VP on Controversial Platform - NewsChannel5.com | Nashville News, Weather & Sports

Meet Virginia Abernethy... hey ya... meet Virginia.  I can wait to....

Seriously?  There are so many facepalms-n-eye rolls on this for me I don't even know where to start.  In fact, my eyes may actually get stuck in the back of my head and I know my nose will be hella bruised... but I have to do this...

1.  In this day and age.... really?
2.  Way to make Nashville look racist and backwards... again.
3.  "European American" - You wanna dance with words, lady?  Okay, well, hows about the fact that all those white people you are trying to try up in a neat little word package may not have originated from Europe?  Apparently Russia (you know, the GIANT COUNTRY TO EUROPE'S RIGHT ON THE MAP THAT IS FULL OF WHITE PEOPLE) doesn't count.  Try calling a Russian a European and see what happens....
4.  Most "European Americans" are not "pure-blooded" anything thanks to a convoluted and sometimes ugly history.  
5.  What are you again?  A professor... of what?  Oh, Anthropology?  Then you should be well aware of the fact that we all came from Africa (unless you cotton to the Multiregional Hypothesis, in which case, migration and early interbreeding have us all as a mixed bag anyway). 
6.  Since the first permanent  "European American"  settlement didn't happen until 1565 (The Spanish at St. Augustine), we could still be considered an Exotic Invasive, and therefore a Non-Native species.  You know, like Kudzu.
7.  Gah!  Why must you make it suck for those of us who ARE really proud of our heritage that just happens to be mostly from Northern Europe?  And NOT because most of my ancestors were melanin-deficient... it's because there were castles, and sword fights, and dragons (there were TOTALLY dragons).  It just makes me want to go all Viking on ya....
8.  Nut up or shut up, woman, and call a spade a spade.... or a white supremacist a white supremacist   "Ethnic Separatist" (insert disgusted noise that involves a raspberry) ... Coward!  We all know you've got a white hood in your closet!  Quit being weak and own your stupidity   This is America... you are allowed to have an opinion... allbit a bad one.  It happens all the time.  I mean, just take a look at the Tea Party.  A walking, taking bunch 'o' warmongering silly.  (to any buddies I have who are members or supporters of aforementioned party please remember... I love you for reasons other than your political affiliations and I am totally for your believing what you believe.  But I am still going to give you a facepalm.  Feel free to give me one in return.)
9.  She says she is "speaking" (I call it mouth-diarrhea) for those who are too afraid to speak up.  Like, all those old white dudes busy making money by standing on the backs of the minimum wage earners?  They must be too busy making money to give their opinions.  Yeah... soooo busy.  (And btw, go look in the back of your favorite restaurant and tell me what you see.  Not at the front of the back, where the servers and the hostesses hang out, but in the hot, sweaty back. Yeah... Oh. )
10.  I am so mad at this point, all I can do is spit expletives, but you get the picture.

As you know, a rant may be finished.... but it is never over.  :)  I am starting to think Natural Selection may have slipped up on this one...

Biological Attacks

     Yay!  Monday vacation!  I can sit, drink my coffee, and think my work thoughts… completely uninterrupted.  And pee by myself…  THAT is such a luxury now that Sprinks is mobile and has an agenda.  Time to wind down after the weekend mayhem of pumpkin pancakes, fall festivals, apple eating, jack-o-lantern carving, and general not-still-ness…  We had fun, mind you, tons of it.  The kind of fun that gets you good and dirty and has you asleep before you hit the bed… which is why I am happy to just sit here and pow-wow with Mr. Dunkin.  J

     But the weekend wouldn't have been complete without SOMEONE getting sick, right?  Enter Sass…. in grand style.  One minute we were in the Wal-marts buying groceries and begging for an Angry Birds tee-shirt (Really?  You have played that game, like, 5 times on my phone.  Total.  Ever.) the next he was sitting quietly (warning bells!!!) with dark circles under his eyes in the middle of the toiletries aisle.  He went from 98.6 to the-surface-of-the-sun in about 2 minutes.  While we checked out, he wandered around the nearby Halloween department in my green Pashmina knock-off, all hollow eyed and miserable, still trying to pull all the costumes off their displays.  It was like the virus had taken over and, in a desperate attempt to infect the greater population, was instructing him to cough/sneeze/drool on all the masks the kids would be putting directly on their faces this Halloween.  Soooo Michael Crichton of them.  (Eeek!  They can read!)  We quick scooped him up, got him in the car, and began to drive home.  Poor little man...he just laid in his car seat all silent and slack jawed…  and we knew it was REALLY bad when he refused the offer of freshly baked chickey nuggets and tater tots…  It was time to worry.  He must be near death.

      Straight into bed he went with a large dose of grape flavored Ibuprofen for his 103.9 degree fever.  Go Buddy, go!… when he does it he does it right.  He didn't move for the rest of the day.  At all.  It was very unnerving.  From the bed to the couch for some movie time and that was it.  He wasn't even this still when he had Salmonella… and THAT was ugly. (Sass has always been hard core.  He doesn't get a chest cold, he gets croup.  He doesn't get a stomach bug, he gets Salmonella…) Coaxed out of his stupor with a bowl of chocolate ice cream around dinner, he then began to perk up.  Once his fever began to respond to the medicine we all began to feel better… except for Sprinks who saw this as an excellent opportunity to “pay it forward” if you will, and harass and harangue her strangely still older brother as much as possible.

Stillness and quiet is always so disturbing with children…..

Whoa!  Look at the size of that Rod!

Diplomatic Reverberations or "Why I am the Ambassador of Awkward"

     Let me start by saying that I work for a government organization.  I won't go into more detail because, truthfully, it would be terribly dull and you wouldn't be interested anyway.  Suffice it to say that we help people.  I work in an old and ugly building, with old and ugly cubicles, and bathrooms that should be investigated by the CDC.  But we help people so it’s okay.  And it helps to build the immune system, right?  (At this point I should be immune to 7 different kinds of Dysentery, Smallpox, and the Bubonic Plague.)  Right.  So anyhoo, I have set the scene for you.  There I sit, typing away in my little Hell Hole… er… officable (or awficable) when one of my cohorts receives a call from Security downstairs.  There are people here who want to speak with someone.  Just that… people.  Said cohort and I ride the elevator down discussing the best escape techniques in case these are crazy people… which is TOTALLY possible.  Turns out they aren't crazy… just French.  Cool.  They all work for a comparable program in France and want to talk to us about our program.  Even cooler.  I am all about sharing some information.  Globalization and all that.  Time to practice what I preach and bring down some walls, people! 

     Oh, I was feeling puffed up and important all throughout our meeting.  I pulled out and dusted off my best “Love me and Despair” routine which I developed specifically for the stickler customers when I worked as a server for so many, MANY years.  I could even get old people to tip me if I whipped this act out.  Un-freakin-heard of, I know.  (There was also the “I Have A Ring On My Finger But It DOES Come Off” for tables of dudes/lesbians, the “Non-Threatening, Slightly Awkward But Endearing Younger Sister” for tables of women in their 30’s and 40’s, and the “I Think Your Kids Are Adorable Even Though They Are Throwing Food And Smearing Boogers On My Booth” for families.”)  Needless to say, I was helpful, capable, and confident.  Ooooo, I gots my mojo back!  Work it GIIIIRRRLLLL! 

    We are talking (sort of) and exchanging e-mail addresses and then it is time for them to leave.  I am all smiles and gentle (but firm!) handshakes...  but I begin notice that, when they shake my hand, they will move forward as if to kiss my cheek, and then stop.  Always one to want everyone to feel comfortable (and to help dispel the stupid/uncultured American rumors) I decide to go in for the kill.  As I am shaking the last gentleman’s hand (who I suspect is the leader and doesn't speak a lick of English), I go in for the big double kiss-kiss… *SMOOCH*  *SMOOCH*

     I hear “OOoooo” and “Ahhhh” and even a little giggle.  I pull back and this guy has a smile plastered on his face like the one Sprinkles gets when she finally unloads a turd she’s been wrangling for 20 minutes or so…. complete joy and not a little pleasure.  My brain starts to scream a little.  Wait, they don't normally double kiss, do they?  Did I… Did I just proposition this guy?  This guy who turned out to be the PRESIDENT of his Organization… with a capital “O”?  Yeah… I think I did. 

     The interpreter then gave me a big hug and an open invite to stay in the apartment complex he owns… in New Orleans... anytime I want.    What they hell did I just say to these people?

Well, I made an impression….. I’m not sure which one… but it was an impression.  

Exactly....

My life among the Banshee Garden Slugs

Why is it that when the wigglers get sick they are down for, like, a day… tops… and then, when Hubs and I get it, we need IV fluids and enough cold medicine to drop an African Elephant?  Their noses ooze green goo but our lungs stop working, crammed full of contagion, and both of us walk around the house gasping like carp in a cow pond.  We can barely muster the energy to shower while they are still launching themselves off the furniture with a 103 degree fever.  They become hot, cranky little fireballs comprised only of unnamable green substances and viruses, they whirl around the house leaving snot trails on the walls.  Oversized banshee garden slugs … woe to those who cross their paths!

Not that I don't get why they are cranky.  Being sick and unable to take the “fun” drugs has GOT to suck.  Daddy and I get Supa-Happy-Cold-And-Flu and they get… Ibuprofen.  *crickets*  They totally get gypped on that one.   Cause it is BAD for them… right?  *Sigh*  The only downside to being able to take said happy pills is that afterwards, all I want to do is lay on the couch in nothing but my fluffiest bathrobe and a thick blanket of my own misery, moaning and crying… but I can't… because I'm an adult… damnit.  I feel bad for them, I really do, but a small (but very loud) voice in the back of my head keeps shrieking “You did this to me!  You brought it in!  We are all DOOOOMED!”. 

But is it really their fault?  Nah.  Like rats off a plague ship, someone else’s kids snuck into town overnight and infected us all.  And now down we go, oozing buboes and all, completely blindsided and praying for it all to be over.  We all weather the storm and the kids start to feel better.  They eat like starving men and are ready for a snuggle while Hubs and I are still downing decongestants like they are candy and have noses like leaky faucets… for the next two weeks…  Of course.  Because that’s what makes it fun.  Now, where’s my Mucinex?

Da widdle owls make me feewl better...

Daycare update...

I would like to report that both children are doing very well at the new daycare. Sass comes home filthy and exhausted.  Sprinkles let strangers touch her without beginning the Countdown... ah-mazing and miraculous to be sure.  She barely screams when we drop her off these days...
The wigglers are doing so well in fact, they have managed to bring home ANOTHER lung clogging, mucus dripping, fever inducing virus.  How nice.  Ma and Pa are both going to the Non-Drowsy party today.  So this post will be short but don't despair!  I have this..

This pleases me on so many levels...

By the by, you know what might help me feel even better?  You "Like"-ing me on Facebook...  :)

Your Board becomes you...

DISCLAIMER:  If you like uncomfortable furniture, skinny jeans, or are a hippy and love everybody for reals.... stop reading now.

     Let me start by saying that I LOVE PINTEREST!  It was instrumental in helping hubby and I choose and entire house’s worth of paint colors IN 5 DAYS, some of the recipes are halfway decent, and I have found some things that I desperately want…

It just makes me laugh....

In short, it’s faboo.  In long, well, you know when you get on, and someone with an obscure, dark, and artsy moniker has posted photos like this….

Wha?  Why...? Huh?

And this…

Just... no.  No!

And on and on and on… (make it stop)

Well, I know we could never be friends, and that is judgy buuuuut I’m cool with it.  They get the *Mom sigh* and I wonder who raised them.  I am pretty sure they would think I was raised in a barn by redneck coyotes, my only companions a bale of hay and some cranky field mice, with a rusty nail for a pacifier.  They would be wrong.  I never had a pacifier.  Maybe I'm wrong about them too?  Nah.  And besides, if you put yer snooty sh*t out fer all us mouth breathers to peruse, you hafta expect to have us pass a little judgment, eh?

Judgment 1:   Picture after picture of dudes in skinny jeans.  

     Having spent some time in the deep south I have developed an extreme aversion to clothing that clings and doesn't breathe.  This just CAN'T be healthy for their boys and it makes me despair for the next generation’s fertility rate.  I know, I know.  Ya'll can make new cowboys but honey, you put a tarp over crabgrass and it’s still gonna die eventually… and grow fungus.

You can almost hear them screaming from here... 

Judgement 2:   Pictures of furniture you are trying to pass off as art.

     I know… poor me.  I just don't get it.  But, some of those “couches” look about as comfortable as a bed of nails.  Not cool.  It's supposed to eventually be for your butt.  If I wanted to sit on something hard and scratchy I would go to the bus station and sit on a hobo.  At least then I might get some interesting conversation.

That looks "pap smear" comfortable AND it's ugly.

Jugement 3:   This.  

     What the?  I mean, c’mon!  Nothing says tasteful like a fake, grey, pressboard deer head mounted over your bed.  Or anywhere, for that matter.

This is what you get AFTER the screaming in your skinny jeans stops.

Judgment 4:   DIY ideas that seem like good ideas but are really bad ones.

     Note the kids boots on there.  Do you really think 2 cookie sheets full of colorful stones would remain unmolested (or digested) in any space occupied by anyone under the age of 18 for any length of time?  Me neither.  It's cute, right?  Cute like an ER bill.....

DIY Choking Hazard.

     So, I judge.  A lot.  And I expect to be judged by my pins in return.  It's nature and it's natural, I suppose.  Chimpanzees judge other chimpanzees by their actions, looks, and I'm sure they would judge each others Boards if they had wi-fi in the jungle. The difference is they either drive away or eliminate those who are deemed different, weak, or unsatisfactory.  We have to let them be, free to reproduce (if their skinny jeans will let them), and call them "hipsters".  :)

BFFs and Tasmanian Devils

     There is nothing sweeter than watching your baby grow up and make friends.  No one will ever quite get you (or fight with you) like a childhood buddy.  I know this, because I met mine my sophomore year in high school and she was infinitely cooler than I was.  Tall, dark haired, and ragin’ against that machine with all the camo, doc martins, and teenage sneer-power she could muster.  She.  Was.  Awesome.  She gave me a Tolkien Calendar for Christmas that year and I knew we would be friends forever.  Not only had she braved the nerdy side of the bookstore to find said calendar but she hung out there as much as I did!  We liked the same music, hated the same cheerleaders, and were (mostly) blissfully unaware of exactly HOW awkward we both really were.  I had never met anyone like her.  She accepted me in all my painfully dorky glory… and would walk beside me down the hall even when I wore my Jurassic Park tee-shirt.  Do you remember typing class?  We don't either (I still can't type without looking at the keyboard) because we spent it writing snarky poems (that’s right, I said poems) back and forth to each other for the entire class period.  She had class before me and would leave a disk (yeek!) hidden away under the desk for me to find the next class period.  We never used our real names, of course.  We even had symbols to go along with our carefully thought out pseudonyms.  She was a safe place in a world that didn't always seem so safe.

     We roomed together our Freshman year of college.  Bad.  Idea.  The masking tape line that ended up on the floor will live in infamy and, for the record, that funk we found under the mini-fridge… totally not my fault.  I followed the beer and the boys and she got way better grades than I did and then we changed schools…  Life took over and we had no choice but to ride the wave to stay afloat.  As time went on and we went our separate ways, I worried that we would forget each other.  Silly me.  I have always worried too much.  Even though hundreds of miles separate us and we are both now “adults”, (note the quotation marks.  I REFUSE to own up to being a grown-up) anytime we are on the phone or we get a quick face-to-face during the cluster that is the holidays, it is just like old times.  There we are, the same girls who wrote those terrible, TERRIBLE poems so, so long ago.  (Gawd, we are old.)  She is still a safe place.

      As I watched Sass ride his bike in the backyard with his BFF over the weekend, both of them wearing nothing by Spiderman tee-shirts, underwear, and shoes (Spiderman, of course), I wondered if he had found his safe place.  Now, I know he is only three, but the budding bromance between these two boys is wonderful and powerful and completely unstoppable.  Just like Spiderman.  They have a Superhero friendship that would blow your mind.  It certainly amazes the Mommies and has a ferocity that, at times, leaves me breathless.  There is even a little brother for Sprinkles to harass.  One day they will fall in love and our families will be joined…!!!!  *Ahem*  I am getting ahead of myself here…

     Anyhoo… here’s to childhood friendships.  Complete with whispered secrets and fights that would make a Tasmanian devil blanch in fear…  Here’s to the bond.  And a safe place….

"No!  It's my turn to ride the bike/ kick the ball/ wear the boots!"  ... really it could be anything 

Huns 'n Linebackers

     Sass is teaching Sprinks how to tackle.  Not the sweet, fall into your arms, snuggle tackle.  The berserker, scream-like-you-mean-it, head first, no-blood no-foul kind of tackle.  Sass has always been a physical being.  He doesn't want a hug, he wants a full body smash with his legs wrapped around you and his arms firmly locked around your neck.  Breathing for you is optional, in his opinion.  Even when he was just a tiny baby, he wanted to put his face in your face.  He would press his knobby little forehead into yours as hard as he possibly could and then, nose to nose, he would just look at you and smile.  It was an all out face hug. 

     Knowing that he was brutally affectionate, hubby and I were very sure to keep a close eye on him when he was lovin’ on da Sprinks after she was born.  She was so fragile and tiny.  For about 6 minutes.  Now my baby girl and my big boy roll around on the carpet squealing, pounding, smooshing, and laughing.  Sprinkles loves nothing better than being put in a good head lock or smashing her brother to the floor with her considerable bulk.  Now that she is fully mobile and upright, her true training has begun… and Sensei Sass is a ready and willing teacher. 

     Fast-forward to last night as a shrieking, drooling, pink pj wearing Sprinkles launched herself at me as I lay helpless on the floor.  There was fire in her eyes and purpose in her heart.  Mommy was going down.  Add some Sass to the onslaught and it’s all I can do to protect my vitals and shield my face as a hurricane of giggling linebackers descend upon me and show no mercy.   It is powerful and full of pointy little elbows and slimy kisses… and joyous squealing.  Then it is Daddy’s turn.  He fairs no better than I do and is completely overrun by mini-Huns.

     As I watch them cream their father I realize that I will never have quiet, sweet, obedient children.  It’s just not in our genetics… which is probably for the better as I wouldn't know what to do with one anyway.  The wigglers complement each other in their ferocity… and size.  Never a dull moment, you know?

Oh Gawd… just wait until they're teenagers… *shiver*

And so, I will leave you this Friday with Fairy Kitten.  Because I can.  I need one of these...

WARNING: Rant-tastic-ly Delicious

     If one more person over the age of 40 gives me that “You can't possible know what you are talking about, little girl” sneer... well, I cannot be held responsible for how massively huge I brake stupid on them. 

Yes, I am a full cup of adorable today in my cowboy boots and my little pink satin dress.  I DO have a forehead like a Precious Moments figurine, big blue eyes and I am roughly the height of your average garden gnome but I HAVE A BRAIN AND I LIKE TO USE IT!  Sorry I can't say the same for you.  Pink does not make me clueless.  Short does not make me weak.  Young does not make me inexperienced.  Blonde does not make me stupid.  Cowboy boots make me DEAD sexy.  Girly does not make me allergic to technology.  Come ON, people.

     It’s like I need to develop a nervous tick, wear Star Trek tee-shirts, and stop bathing to get taken seriously.  Never underestimate someone who can see your nose hair.  And trim that sh*t, fool.  I keep saying “ I'm sorry, can you repeat that?” because all I can think about is the nearest escape route in case that crusty little Tribble in your left nostril decides to jump ship and begin the invasion.  And grow some social skills.  When I have politely suggested that you are full of sh*t several times, and you soldier on like Sherman through Atlanta and then really screw things up… do NOT act surprised when I not-so-politely suggest you go take a long walk off a short pier.  I have to fix enough of my screw ups that I DO NOT have time to fix yours.    I did not give birth to you.  I am not wiping your butt.

Moral of this rant:  People should be on their knees, thanking whoever, that I cannot shoot lasers out of my eyes or spit fire.

Lock and Load, B*tches...

Dr. Mom and Mrs. Hyde....

   Before Sass was born, I had this very defined image of what a Mommy should be.  This completely unattainable goal of nurturing perfection.  Soft words, hot meals, intellectually stimulating discovery play (that just sounds bad, doesn't it? *snicker*) … Everything was going to be Martha Stewart, Baby Einstein, and Organic.  Then, Sass was born.  Yikes.  “It’s a good thing” takes talent and time, neither of which I had,  Baby Einstein was “boring”, and Organic is freaking expensive.  Most days, it seemed like I couldn't do anything the way (I thought) I was supposed to.  Fast forward a bit and we added Sprinkles to the mix (you like what I did there?) and I was even less like the Goddess of Motherly Everything-ness that I thought I should be.  Why wasn't I perfect?  Why couldn't I be perfect?  I MUST be a bad mother! Begin the tearing out of hair and the gnashing of teeth!

Oh wait… I’m human.  Crap.  We are all screwed. 

     

     I had forgotten that our imperfections are what make us perfection.  And that I have sides.   I have my Mommy side that likes to snuggle and read books and tickle and make pie, but that isn't all of me.  When I ignore what I like to think of as my “Primordial Sides” my Mommy side suffers… a lot.  And when Momma ain’t happy, well, you know the rest.  As I emerged from my second round of baby-fog I realized (like Hotweels after playtime) I had left bits of me behind and it was time to go pick them back up.  (It was really more like a bomb had gone off and I was searching for survivors in the wreckage)   Self-evaluation time (insert obnoxious eye roll)!  So far the sides I have rediscovered are:

Vanity Smurf – This side likes to wear tights with boots and paint my nails “Teal-of-Fortune”.  Vanity likes to wear loud colors and show cleavage.  Mommies don't have cleavage, do they?  Wrong!  Everything is still there… it may just need a little extra scaffolding.

Roller B*tch – Roller Derby rocks my socks.  A group of fantastic ladies, gettin’ rink skills, beating the crap out of themselves and others, and we all leave smelling like anti-roses.  Take that b*tch and please ma'am  may I have another!

Nerdy Birdy – I started reading again.  A luxury that anyone with small children will know is hard won or non-existent.  But, you see, it feeds my brain and makes it all sparky and then I get to have ideas that don't involve the best choice for a sippy cup or bed time freak-out strategies.  I get to think the thoughts… and the thoughts feel gooooooood.

    

     There are more, I'm sure (and I am also pretty sure my hubby would add one or two “scarier” sides…) but I think I am doing pretty good so far.  The best part was realizing that my family likes to see these sides too.  Sass has been begging for roller skates, Sprinks appreciates a dark nail polish, and hubby doesn't mind my wardrobe choices.  J  I wonder what is next….

Weasel wrestling and the countdown.

     Ever wrestled a rabid weasel?  Nope?  I have.  It’s called pinning down a 3 year old for a flu shot after you unintentionally lied to him about NOT getting a shot… and going to the park.  I know… I am devil Mommy.  Sass was all violent squirming and teeth and, instead of just shrieking wordlessly when they were trying to give him the shot, he screams “No!  Don’t take my pants off!  You’re hurting me!”.  I can't imagine what all the other parents in the office thought while sitting quietly with their sweet little children, waiting patiently for their turn to see the doctor.  Or maybe I can...   It took 2 nurses and myself to get him still enough to inoculate and it took one nurse and myself to hold Sprinkles still.  My kids be mighty.  Mighty loud.  I don't blame them though… poor Sprinks got 4 shots (No Oregon Trail sickies!  Yay!) and that is just sadness.  I wish they could understand that it will all be over in a minute and then you get a sucker.  Suckers make everything better.  And Snoopy Halloween stickers. (If they can have all these little treats ready for the wigglers, why not a cold beer for Mommy?)  I absolutly hate hearing them shriek in pain… but I would hate it more if they contracted measles, mumps, rubella, diphtheria, meningitis, hepatitis, pertussis, or 40% of the flu viruses floating around at the moment.  That ugly list right there... THAT is why we have chosen to vaccinate.  Momentary pain for lifetime protection.  But I digress to my soap box….  J

     It doesn't help that Sprinkles is terrified of strangers.  She was fine while stomping around the examination room in nothing but her diaper, but when the nurse scooped her up to go weigh her, well, let the countdown begin.  The “Countdown” is a good indicator of scream decibel level.  You'll see her start to turn red, eyes  squinched shut, and her mouth will begin to slowly open wider and wider in a silent scream as she inhales to Let.  You .  Have it.  If you can count to ten while she is readying her lungs, you had better get ear plugs.  We were able to walk out of the room and over to the scale two doors down with her doing a silent Edvard Munch before she let loose.  She was roughly the color of an overripe tomato and ear protection was required.  I think they heard her in Thailand.  And that was just the weigh-in.  You can imagine how she handled having her ears, nose, and throat inspected (the doc didn't need to use a tongue depressor.  At this point, her mouth was so wide you could see her colon).

     Needless to say, I was done in after all that.  Wrestling rabid, angry, (unintentionally) betrayed weasels will really take it out of a girl.  It will also put you in the Preschooler dog house.  Mommy’s name was mud for the rest of the evening, which he spent Velcro-ed to Daddy.  I don't blame him, really.  Luckily, Sprinks is still in that “Wait… what happened 10 minutes ago?” phase so she didn’t hold it against me.  I’m kind of jealous….

damnyouteacherinserviceday.com

I'm playing Warden SAHM today as the wigglers new school has a "teacher in-service' day today.  Crap. I mean, what a lovely opportunity to spend more quality time with my lovely children, one of whom is Supa-Teething while the other one fancies himself  a tiny Napoleon (Waterloo's a b*tch yo).  So, as you can see, today will be a bit of a cluster.. not to mention that Sprinkles has her 1 year old appointment with the pediatrician this afternoon... in the middle of nap time. We all know what that means!  Shots, shots, and one really upset wolverine toddler.  REALLY bad panning on my part...

This will be a  short post for a crazy Monday as I will be busy doing things like:

- Making sure Sprinkles doesn't eat something weird
- Making sure Sass doesn't use the stairs as a launching pad because he thinks he can actually fly when he is wearing his Dragon costume (it has wings, you see)
- Making sure Sprinkles doesn't try to climb the stairs to follow Sass
- Making sure Sass doesn't try to "Run his Sister through" as he has a not-so-mild obsession with pirates and a new plastic sword
- Making sure Sprinkels doesn't eat something weird...

Well, you see where this is going...

Whoa!  Gotta go!  Sprinkles is squishing Sass and his pride has been hurt!  :)

Avast ye scurvy dogs!

From the mouths of babes....

   Sass Monkey is an unstoppable vocabulary waterfall… a vorrent, if you will.   From dawn till dusk, and in between, he has ideas… lots of them… and he is going to share them with you.  Right now.  Or else.  He even talks (and sings) in his sleep.  He talks to the checker at the grocery store, the person in line behind us, and the person 2 lanes over who is male, 20, and desperately trying to act as if progeny/procreation can't ever really happen.  Sass Monkey LOVES to burst those bubbles.  J  That’s mah boy… way to call ‘em out on it.  He tells people about Spiderman, his trains, his favorite costume, his little sister, and his bowel movements.  He has recently begun announcing at the top of his lungs that “I POOTED!”   Not waiting  for a reaction, he just returns  to whatever he was doing as if it is perfectly normal and accepted behavior to give people a “heads up”.  I find this to be particularly effective in crowded public spaces.

     He has the voice of an angel.  Especially when he summons you to help wipe his bum after a BM.  The Mormon Tabernacle Choir couldn't sing it any sweeter.  “I poooooooooped.  Come wiiiiiiiiiipe meeeeeee.”  He’s like a poop siren.  Not unlike the Grecian sailors of old,  you are lured out to certain nose death by a song of astonishing beauty.  Struck dumb by stink, you are easy prey…

     He also has an amazing understanding of the English language.  Astounding, really.  Take the word “traffic” for instance.  Not only can he use and apply the word appropriately while in the car:

Sass:  “Go cars!  MOVE!  Go faster!  We are in traffic…  *sigh*”,  (it’s not like he sounds like hubby and I while he is yelling at them.  Ahem… *nervous laugh*)

he can also use it in other ways to perfectly illustrate the situation as he sees it in that amazing/scary little noggin:

(While sitting on the window side of a booth in a restaurant)

Sass:  “I gotta go pee.  Daddy get up!  I’m in TRAFFIC!”.

     I catch him watching TV, repeating the big words that he hears under his breath as if he is downloading them for later use.  Which he most certainly is.  Probably in the middle of Target in front of a bunch of other Moms who like to give those horrified/judgy looks.  Come on… like your kid hasn't ever told a perfect stranger that “I have a Pini cause I'm a boy.” and if they haven't...  what are you doing wrong? (And by the way, mortified perfect stranger who had the misfortune of standing in line with us while Sass was all about the differences between boys and girls, the appropriate response is “Way to go!” with a high-5.  There's no reason to be sceeered, now....) 

Daycare Break-ups

    So, here I sit, like a nervous police dispatcher, waiting for phone call from my hubby to come through.  You see, this morning is the dry run for the much anticipated double-daycare-switch on Tuesday.  We made the arduous decision to break–up with both daycares and consolidate.  Break-ups are hard…

    

     Sass Monkey’s pre-school break-up wasn't difficult actually.  His was the private school gateway daycare.  (Faaancy!  Bells, whistles, AND MORE!)  Basically, you pay an OBSCENE amount of money (they take cash, check and internal organs) and they mold your child into the next great President or Billionaire Humanitarian or whatever.  Instead, what we got was a whiney 3 year old who cried about everything and was on the fast track for a pair of hipster jeans and holier-than-thou sneer.  *shudder*  Now, I get that 3 year olds are whiny and self absorbed as a rule, but they were ENCOURAGING it.  It didn't help that his lead teacher was all of 12 years old.  She was all education and no experience.  Sass Monkey probably took one look at her and thought “oooo, fresh meat!”… and he was right.  They also have a woefully inappropriately sized playground and feed my kid salad.  Salad?!?  Seriously?  According to Weight Watchers, Sass Monkey will use no less than 1,256 points a day and you are going to feed him salad?  I guess those skinny jeans are really important to you….

     Oh Gawd, and the parents at that place…  There are a couple who were really great and their kids are great and we will be friends forever.... but the vast majority made me want to vote republican out of spite… which is saying ALOT because right now I don't know that I would brake for Romney (or even slow down a little).  If you coddle you child to the point that they can't actually use real words at 3 ½ then, I hate to tell you, but you are doing something so very, very wrong. 

     Sprinkles’s daycare was the hardest one.  She is at this wonderful in-home daycare with this wonderful woman (Meemaw) who loves her and cares about her… but Meemaw is also 83 years old and having trouble lifting her up these days.  Meemaw was instrumental in Sprinkles recovery from her Brachial Plexus nerve damage and getting that little arm to move… and then to work.  She made sure that all her helpers were shown the proper physical therapy exercises and that Sprinkles got loved and snuggled all day everyday.   But, you see, Sprinkles isn't a baby anymore… she needs to do and try and be… and be with other kids her age.  She is the youngest at that daycare by ½ a year.  She needs friends.  She needs to be allowed to wiggle, and fall down, and get back up to wiggle again. 

    

     So … it’s just not working out.  I didn't Dear John them.  I broke-up face to face and it was so, so hard.  I had forgotten how hard it is to say those words “We’re/I’m moving on.”

     

     We have made the right decision.  The new daycare is older but has several huge playgrounds.  They make mud pies and slime as science projects.  They want the kids to get dirty and try new things.  They feed them actual food instead of rabbit fodder.  There are lots and LOTS of kids to play with.  This should be good.

     

UPDATE:    

I have gotten a report back from Hubby.  He’s not sure how he is going to get Sass Monkey to leave as he already has several best friends (this took all of 10 minutes).  Sass told my hubby that "I don't like my old school.", and when he was asked why he had decided this, he said "They don't have juice."  Fair enough.  Sprinkles is nervous but her teacher is a very nice lady who has been working with this age group, in that home room, for 11 years.  She already has a friend.  A sweet little boy who just walked up to her, plopped down beside her, and tried to get her to play.  Those blue eyes will get them every time… J

If they are okay, then I am okay.  Everything will be okay.  Right?

Hell-NO-ween Costumes

I LOVE Halloween.  I love the decorations.  I love the candy.  I love the fact that it means Fall is here and BRING ON THE COOL AIR AND THE BITEY INSECT DEATH! (Except it also means that all those horrible, hairy, eight-legged nasties will be on their way in seeking warmth, shelter, and the bottom of the "Smashin Flop".  My husband got one so big yesterday that he dubbed all the guts "natural floor wax" as he was trying to scrape it up with a paper towel.  I was safely positioned on the ceiling.)  I especially love the costumes...  Kids costumes.  My wigglers are cute incarnate as it is, but couple that with something fuzzy out of a cartoon, and BOOM!   Instant Death-by-cute!  The neighbors won't know what hit them!  I began perusing the interwebs a couple of weeks ago for the appropriate adora-armor and came across... well... you'll see.

It's the rice that bothers me...  My first thought?  Maggots.  That could just be me though.  Nothing says "Give me Candy" like a giant California roll showing up at yer front door.  And really, do you think he ASKED to be sushi?  I think not.

It's... just .... I dunno... wrong somehow.  On the upside, I bet she can make her own taco seasoning!

Do you really think your kids are going to know what this is?  Now, if she was dressed as a shirt sleeve then maybe....

I thought it was cute... until I looked at the utter...  I can see the panic in that poor child's eyes from here....

This is what you would put on your child in if you never wanted them invited to any Halloween party ever.  Or if you wanted them to trick or treat alone.  Or if you just thought years of therapy would be "fun".

Just... no.  No.

W.  T.  F. you ask?  Yeah... me too.  I saved the best (and by that I mean most soul-damaging) for last.  Oh, they're real.  Real creepy.  Okay... the purple one is an Octopus, that I get,  but what is that brown one?  Sea flea with Leprosy issues?  Maybe.  Elephantiasis Crab?  Possibly.  Poop with legs?  Probably.  What it felt like I was giving birth to the first time round after my beloved epidural wore off around hour 16?  Most definitely!   And that doll... ewww.

Now, there are TONS of affordable and adorable costumes out there to choose from.  (and a few that make me question whether or not Mommy and Daddy would mind if little sweet 'ums ended up on a stripper pole)  Sass Monkey will most likely end up as Spiderman... or maybe a Transformer... or maybe Jake from Jake and the Neverland Pirates (note to self: teach him "What do ya do with a drunken sailor?)  It changes hourly.  I have yet to find a decent Godzilla costume for Sprinkles.  I have this dream of one day taking a picture of her destroying a Little People City with one of the little plastic victims sticking out of her mouth.  She LOVES to chew on the heads.  We'll see...  Until then, ENJOY!

Escape Artist Academy

     Is your house too safe?  Is your baby NOT getting into enough cabinets?  Always wanted your little one to be able to unlock that front door to go out and play in the street?  Well, make sure to add this to Santa’s letter this Christmas!

The Melissa & Doug Deluxe Latches Board

 *Sigh* 

     Grandma bought this for Sass Monkey for his second Christmas (he was a year and a half) and I was all like “How cute!” and then…. he got good at it.  Thank you Melissa & Doug for turning my little escape artist into a true pro.  Flip lock, chain lock, bolt, hook and eye… he’s mastered ‘em all and Sprinkles is well on her way to graduating from the class of 2013 with honors.  Hubby and I have had to add chain locks to each door above the reach of a 3 year old standing on a dining room chair to prevent DCS involvement.  Lock up yer daughters… and sons… and Windex… cause here come my children!

*My kids actually LOVE this thing...  and everything else Melissa & Doug make that they have received.  Sprinkles is sooooper addicted to this 4 piece zoo animals puzzle that also acts as a musical instrument, chew toy, and weapon.  Very multi-functional....

Vomit and Cake Gladiators

Remember how cleaning up after a good party involved a lot of scrubbing and disinfectant in college?  It still does…

    

     Truthfully though, the vomit didn't come until the next morning.  It.  Was.  Everywhere.  And the poop (if you could call it that)... oh gawd.  I'm having flashbacks... *gag*.   The “Smash Cake”, well… it smashed… her guts.   6 lbs. of buttercrème icing and a one year old G.I. tract are an explosive combination.  Who knew, right?   I opened Sprinkles door the next morning to find a happy, smiling little girl waving at me… completely covered in vomit with a loaded diaper that could have been used as a WMD.  No crying, no screaming... I had just heard some squeaking a few minutes before I came in...  She felt better, though... “Mommy, why are you just standing there making those funny choking/gagging noises?  I’m ready for my Cheerios!”.   

     Which brings me to “The Smash Cake”.  This is not our norm.  The idea of buying something that they are just going to destroy seemed a bit counter intuitive, (especially considering we spend most of our waking existence trying to keep things like food and boogers OUT of their hair and various orifi).) but it was free (Go Publix!) and so hubby and I decided to try it.  While Sprinkles was relatively unimpressed initially, the reaction from the adults was PRICELESS!  The feral anticipation of the impending pastry slaughter was palatable.  Like plebeians at the coliseum, they leaned in, hungry for blood/frosting, and roared with pleasure as the first blow was struck!  Sprinkles played both Emperor and Gladiator masterfully, showing that sparkly pink cake no mercy and taking ALL quarters.  Having honed her smashing skills on an unlucky purple cupcake previously, she was all practiced perfection.  She took her time… played with it… working the crowd into a screeching frenzy, until… BAM!  Into her lap it went for maximum effect (and coverage)!

Victory!

After a quick bath, it was on to round two… wrapping paper….  J