The Wild Life

Things you do NOT want to find in your car:

1.  Sippy Cup Cheese
2.  Unwashed and heavily used hockey gear
3.  One of these...

The Carolina Wren.  Small bird, big attitude.  They are my favorite.

     Not only had the pissy, feathered scourge crapped all over my dashboard, but I didn't even notice she was in there until we had pulled out of the driveway and were on our way to dance class.  In a terrifying burst of birdy rage (fear) she attacked the window right next to poor Sprinkles head, causing hysteria and future therapy bills for a debilitating Bird Phobia.

     How did she get IN the car in the first place, you ask?  A clicker on a key chain got bumped somehow and the evil avian was in.  It was Nature and Tech working together in one cruel prank like some psyche-scarring Stephen King novel come to life. 

And now I'm off to scrape vengeful bird shit off the inside of my minivan.....

OMG! It's been, like, forever!

     It's been a while hasn't it?  I'm like one of those nasty rashes that keeps showing up every few months just to remind you that I still can...  :)  But seriously, the reasons are as follows:

1.  I became a SAHM for three kids and ya'll... it took some adjustment.  A lot of adjustment.  Like, I'm still adjusting to the adjustment, kind of adjustment.

2.  The Holiday Cluster F*ck.  Yeah, you know what I mean.

3.  I got a stomach bug and felt "poorly" for an ungawdly long time.  I also lost 20 lbs.  No, it wasn't a tape worm... it was a hidden gift from above.  ;)

4.  My 3 year old developed a taste for Taylor Swift and I was held at pout-point and forced to memorize all the lyrics to "Shake It Off".  (Okay... not technically a reason but it sure effing feels like an eternity when you are listening to THATDAMNSONG for the 4,563 time... that morning.  That kind of pain should be reserved for enemies of the state and people who ring the door bell during nap time).

5.  I started a business (see #1).

     It's #5 that has brought me crawling back, you see.  My happy little corner of the economic world is called Moon Shine Suds & Such and I am one proud momma.  I make children's Treasure Soaps which are clear glycerin soaps in various shapes and seasonal incarnations with little toys on the inside.

These are little owl bracelets.

These are rings with jewels.

And then there are these little loveys.

And don't forget the dudes...

And these little soaps I call Bath Gems.

(I compensated my model with mac-n-cheese and a soap of her choosing.)

     I started selling at a local Farmer's Market and you know what?  I did okay.  Better than okay... I did well.  I learned a lot about how I have a lot to learn and it was really, really fun.  

     So, the focus of the blog may change a bit in the coming months.  I just wanted to warn you... but I hope you'll stick with me.  I'm not trying to sell you anything but this new chapter is too good to keep to myself... just like my little heathens.  :)  And don't you worry!  I'll be sure to put in all the good bits so they can Google themselves and hate me as soon as I give them access to an unrestricted computer... which will be when they are 20.  There are some crazy folks out there, ya know?  No need to find out that Mommy is one of them.... yet.

    

"Good Morning! This is Real Life speaking..."

     Let's get one thing straight.  We are not all friends.  You and I are, of course, but we can all name at least one person with whom we would never EVER, say, go gab a cup of coffee... or brake for if we saw crossing the street. (I am talking about you, boy who teased me unmercifully for being both short and bespectacled in Middle School.  Which I still am.  Except for the "Middle School" part.  Btw, how did your cell mates feel about you being a complete asshat during your short, but oh-so deserved stint "up-state"?  Ah, catharsis...)  Avioding the asshats in all our lives is normal.  It is okay.  If we spend our life trying to like everyone and make everyone like us then we will have a very unfulfilled life indeed.  I mean, don't be an asshat but don't strain yourself either, right?

If this seems a bit spewy for a Thursday morning, well ... it is.  But here's why.

     Sass Monkey started kindergarten this school year and, for the most part, it has been a wonderful experience.  He can already count to 100, read sight words, wiz through his flash cards AND... he already has a class bully.  HE.  IS.  5.  Wtf?  This kid isn't just a problem for my son, mind you, he terrorizes the ENTIRE CLASS, and two days ago, this child took it from verbal nonsense to physical.  He punched my son in the stomach so hard he knocked the wind out of him on the playground.

(Give me a sec... my head may just explode.  Not a mama bear.  Not a mama bear.  I am people.  People are rational.)

     Now, this is being handled (oh, believe you and me, Hubbs and I are going to handle the hell out of this one.), but the hardest part isn't knowing my child was hurt.  The worst part is watching the complete disbelief and confusion crawl across my son's face when he talks about the incident.  He doesn't understand WHY.  And why should he?

     From day one we teach our children that we all are "Friends".  "Friends" play together.  "Friends" share.  "Friends" don't chuck mulch at each other on the playground.  Even when kids are less than friendly they are still "Friends"; binding them forcibly together in some odd notion of happy-go-lucky, Utopian nonsense.

     Haters gonna hate on this one, I know, but now my son is wrestling with the idea that maybe "Friends" can hurt you but you are still called "Friends".  So where does sticking up for himself come into play in all of this?  How can he defend himself if he follows all the "friend" rules?  The short answer is.. he can't.  I have unintentionally programmed him to just take it.

     But here's the next problem.  Teaching a child that everyone is a potential friend isn't bad.  It's really, really good.  It helps them learn to share and be kind.  It helps them to become outgoing and good-natured.  It teaches them to treat others like they want to be treated... and it also hobbles them.  We have now been forced to have the conversation that, well, everyone isn't actually your friend.  If someone is unkind to you, you don't have to try and play with them.  This alien concept has further confused poor Sass Monkey.

     So... now... what the hell do we do?  The fuzzy cocoon of playdate-parenting has just been ripped open to let in some of the bigger uglies of the world and I feel like I have really let my baby boy down on this one.  It's a harsh truth that we all know about but hide from them... aaaaand it's a biggie.  I don't want to teach my children fear or mistrust but there must be a middle ground somewhere!  How do I teach my children to stand up for themselves and shout "No!" while helping them understand that, for the most part, we really all can be "friends"?

Are we protecting them or, for a short while, just protecting ourselves?

Mommy Resume

Mom (no last name or shame)

Education

Sleep Deprived State University
2009-present

Employment History

Manager of Operations and other Chaos                  2009-present

     -Cheuffer
     -Covert Kleenex Storage
     -Advanced snack packing
     -Jesus-like ability to heal any and all minor boo-boos by touch
     -Butt and/or nose wiping without gagging
     -Certified 5 Gold Nugget chef
     -Proffessional Bullsh*t Matador
     -Proficient in The Fog, MS BadWord, MS Power Pointing, MS Access to the cookies I hid on the top shelf, MS Excel in hiding in the bathroom
     -Aquired oubliette-like purse/pockets

Skills

Functioning on far less than the recommended amount of sleep,  acidic spit, finding any and all Legos with bare feet, snuggling



References upon request.... but not in writing because they can't write yet... so not really...

TPSD

This morning my Sprinks was a Super Helper.  So super, in fact, that she cleaned up her own pee puddle from a tragically shifted Pull-Up with one of my handmade throw pillows.

Then she painted breakfast.  She did things with a bowl of cereal and 1/16th inch of milk in 2.5 seconds that I didn't think were possible.   I'm starting to believe that she can bend time and space.

Yesterday, she tripped over the same 2 steps (that have been in the exact same spot since we moved in almost 2 years ago) no less than 12 times causing the use of a disproportionate amount of My Little Pony band-aids.

THEN...

She got stuck in a cape.

She lost 3 socks.  None from the same pair...

She fell while picking her nose.  FAIL.

She refused to wear a shirt.

She smacked Sass in the face for not letting her on HIS bed.

She survived solely on milk and Goldfish.  And Pony band-aids.

She cried uncontrollably because she had to take a nap.

She cried uncontrollably because she woke up.

She cried uncontrollably because a movie wasn't Frozen.

She cried uncontrollably because a movie WAS Frozen.

She tried to secede and start her own dictatorship.

She tripped while picking her nose again.


So, what I'm saying is she is 2 and I have Toddler PTSD.  And that I need drugs.  For me.  She already makes her own brand of crazy.

The Quiet Times

     My children are always their most adorable when they are sleeping.

     It certainly isn't when they are all clustered around a chaotic lunch table, like deranged cattle in a holding pen, mooing loudly for more milk and food that has never been in my refrigerator but has been seen on TV.

     It most definitely is not when all goes eerily quite in the playroom and I find them huddled around a mysteriously wet spot in the carpet, bathroom cup in hand but the toilet unfortunately unflushed.

     I can safely say it is not when my daughter comes inside chewing happily on a mouthful of what turns out to be potting soil.

     Nor is it when my son, who insists that he pee standing up like a grown man, suddenly turns to share some brilliant 4 year old insight mid-stream.

     And it is not when the baby loudly and violently decides to reject the 3 mouthfuls of mashed green beans she was surreptitiously cheeking, like a sneaky little rodent, onto my face, hair, and all surrounding surfaces.

     No, it is not those times.  It is when all the troubles of the day fall away into pink cheeks, gentle sighs, and snuggled stuffed animals that they are their most adorable... but they are always loved.

Don't say I didn't warn you!

     Oh Spring!  Unfurl your tender buds, wake your sleepy bees, and deposit your 24 Vomit-paloozas... wait... what?  That last one.  Yeah.   Did you know that kids who talk a lot have really well developed core muscles and so can projectile yerk like it's an Olymic Sport and they ain't settlin' for no Silver?  At least poor Sass figured out the toilet/barf relationship.   Sprinkels thought it was wall paint.  Or something to snuggle.  Two comforters, three pillows, and several sheets later she finally stopped erupting and, as I bolted up the stairs for the 40 millionth time at around 1:30 a.m. to the not-so-sweet-sounds of chunks hitting carpet, I realized I was learning some things... big things.  Things I would like to share with ya'll...

1.  A puking toddler is  The.  Saddest.  Thing.  Ever.  EVER!  All you want to do is clasp them to your bosom, stroke their hair, and tell them it will be alright... but you can't because they are covered in ralph-nasty.

2.  Apparently, I have a line.   See reason 1.

3.  Puke in your bed once, shame on the virus.  Puke in your bed twice, shame on Mommy for not getting out the blow up matress sooner.  Puke in your bed thrice,  well... damnit.

5.  4 was too gross.  Sorry.

6.  You wrestle gators naked and blindfolded?  Amature!  Try two kids playing gut Vesuvius after eating hot dogs for lunch.  Hot.  Dogs.  Yeah...

7.  Never assume the worst is over.

8.  Never give a sick child anything you plan on eating again in the next decade.  Or do, if you need an effective diet plan.

9.  Doomsday Preppers may not be as nutty as I thought.   I really should stockpile more towels and sheets.  And carpet cleaner.  And pjs.  And sleep.

10.  Describing in minute and gory detail all the trials and tribulations endured that troubled night to my childless buddies has been quite entertaining.  For me anyway...  You gotta get yer jollies somehow.

But the important thing is we all survived.  Well, almost all of us.  Poor Piggy.

Dante's 10th Circle

     There are so many wonderful things about babies... but you are going to have to look elsewhere for some snuggly little post extolling the many virtues of those chubby people-grubs today because ya'll... sleep training.

    To those who worry that letting a baby "cry it out" will cause irrevocable damage to their little psyches I say... if seeing the inside of your Mom's vagina didn't scar you for life do you really think that crying hard for 20 minutes for a couple days in a row is going to do it?  Nah.  I don't think so.

*In fact, I think that's a good question to ask ourselves throughout our lives.  "Is this experience/situation more or less traumatic than knowing that my face was thoroughly mashed into and across my mom's pink parts?"  If no, then suck it up and move on.  If yes, proceed directly to the nearest therapist.  You have earned it*

     So yeah, sleep training. Ug.  It is a very necessary big time evil.  You end up spending the entire night clutching the monitor, listening to your sweetness and light scream out their displeasure into the deep and terrible night while you feel like the worst parent since we emerged from the muck, dragging our slimy little bodies behind us.  Then, as morning breaks and you realize you actually fell asleep because OMGIT'SQUIET, you rush into their room convinced of the worst only to find them sleeping soundly surrounded by the sweet glow of adorable baby.  And you are greatful.  And you are relieved.   And you are hopeful.  At least until night #2...

I shall gird mah loins and ask for prayers...

Oh, and did I mention we are potty training Sprinkles at the same time?  Because it isn't a party until I am delusional from lack of sleep AND scrubbing pee out of the carpet...

Party on Garth.

A beautiful mind...

     I love the 4 year old mind.   Sass Monkey is part mad genius, part accident-prone comedian all mixed together with a healthy dose of emotionally challenged dictator.  

It's some of this...

... with more of this...

... and this for a closer. 

I am one proud Mommy.

From the mouths of my babes...

I like to talk... a lot,  so it stands to reason that my children do too.   And boy, do they.  Allthedamntime.  They say things like:

Sprinkles: "MOOOOoooom!"

(I have been down graded from "mommy" to just "mom" recently.   You are 2... really?)  Anyway... I digress.   It goes something like this. *AHEM*

"Mom! Poop!  Hand, hand, HAND!"
Aaaaand she doesn't mean "give me a hand"...

OR

Sass:  "Touch me, Mom.  I don't think I'm real."

OR

After the arrival of TBL, we fielded a veritable avalanche of questions from Sass concerning his little sister.  He would sit and watch me change her and ask about everything from the color of her poop to what that crusty thing on her belly button was.  I was rather proud of my pre-k friendly explanation of the umbilical cord and he seemed to really get it.   He got it so well, in fact, that the next time it was time for a diaper change he streaked into the room yelling "Hey Mom!  I wanna see her charger!"

Yeah... sort of.

OR

Any time I ask Sprinkles to do anything, and I mean ANYTHING, she squints her eyes menacingly at me and yells "NEVER!" but like an old, grizzled sea dog so it comes out more like "NEVAH!".  And then she growls like a raid raccoon... Yeah, I don't know either.

AAAAAND

Sass was chasing after a red balloon today yelling "Balogna Sandwich!" at the top of his lungs. That is quite a battle cry, little man.

It be a loquacious house,  ya'll. 

*sigh*  I'm tired...

;)