I was doing laundry and I had Baby X sitting in the laundry basket. He was playing patiently while I finished up. Our Cat was munching his Meow mix on top of the laundry table happily swishing his tail over the edge. We put his bowl up there so he'd be safe from the dog while eating. Dog never wants to hurt the cat, he just thinks it's fun to sneak up on him and watch him jump 5 feet.
Swish, swish went his tail. Just enough to cath baby X's eye. I saw my little angel get a wicked little grin and hunker down. He looked a like cat stalking it's prey.
"Uh-oh Cat. Better move."
Cat looks at me with his bored 'I don't have time to speak to the likes of you' look.
Too late.
Yank.
'RRREEEEOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWRRRRRRRRRRRR!'
Crash!
Followed by my little angels hysterical laughing.
I don't think they're friends anymore.
Friday, August 26, 2005
Monday, August 22, 2005
Temporary Hiatus
Did something funky to my arm. One-handed typing sucks. Be back when arm is better.
Friday, August 19, 2005
The great Mustard vs Ketchup battle of 1980-something
I'll admit it right up front. My siblings and I weren't the nice neighborhood kids. We were beasts unleashed from hell to wreak havoc on the neighborhood.
Have you ever seen that show Malcolm in the Middle? The writers must have been neighbors of ours. Neighbors who are being kind.
My dad and stepmom trusted alone in the house by the time I was 8 and the oldest of us was 14. They should have known better.
They loved to collect antiques. They had lots of antique tools hanging on the walls in the kitchen. Since this is where most food fights take place, it was probably not the most brilliant of moves.
One day my brothers got into an argument over which could shoot further from a bottle, ketchup or mustard. The only fair way to settle this was to try it out. We propped the bottles up a bit on the table with some of the fine irish linen my stepmom kept in one of the drawers. Then we broke out the measuring tape, and started firing away. They went pretty far, but let's face it, nothing works better than the packets. Especially when you pile about 7-10 of those suckers and hit them with a hammer.
I have no idea which went further. There were so many condiments flying around the kitchen no one could really tell. I can tell you 3 things.
*Relish doesn't go very far. Too heavy.
*Owners of neighborhood delis don't like it when you come in and take all of their condiment packets for your experiments.
and finally,
*Mustard and ketchup stains white walls and wooden antiques equally well.
Have you ever seen that show Malcolm in the Middle? The writers must have been neighbors of ours. Neighbors who are being kind.
My dad and stepmom trusted alone in the house by the time I was 8 and the oldest of us was 14. They should have known better.
They loved to collect antiques. They had lots of antique tools hanging on the walls in the kitchen. Since this is where most food fights take place, it was probably not the most brilliant of moves.
One day my brothers got into an argument over which could shoot further from a bottle, ketchup or mustard. The only fair way to settle this was to try it out. We propped the bottles up a bit on the table with some of the fine irish linen my stepmom kept in one of the drawers. Then we broke out the measuring tape, and started firing away. They went pretty far, but let's face it, nothing works better than the packets. Especially when you pile about 7-10 of those suckers and hit them with a hammer.
I have no idea which went further. There were so many condiments flying around the kitchen no one could really tell. I can tell you 3 things.
*Relish doesn't go very far. Too heavy.
*Owners of neighborhood delis don't like it when you come in and take all of their condiment packets for your experiments.
and finally,
*Mustard and ketchup stains white walls and wooden antiques equally well.
As if they needed further proof that we're crazy.........
This requires a bit of explanation so please bear with me.
Mr X has been growing hair these past few years where before, there wasn't any. Ex: the middle of his forhead. There is this random lone hair that keeps returning no matter how many times I pluck it while he's sleeping. Ok, go ahead and call me mean. I know I am. While I'm at it, I'll admit that I pluck chest hairs to get him to stop snoring. He knows it. It never fully wakes him, just makes him roll over. It works. Yes. I am very mean. That is a story for another day.
Today, it's all about the random hair.
Baby X has been getting those random hairs. No, I don't pluck them. He, like many newborns, had the furriest of elfin ears I'd ever seen. Thick black hair on the top of his ears. Eventually, it fell out.
Then there was the eyebrow. It was pale so really hard to see, but there it was. This one random hair that stuck straight out from the others. It was like a little exclamation point, "here I am! I'm adorable! Love me! Feed me!"
I loved that little hair. I couldn't bring myself to cut it even though I knew I should. It wasn't in his eye, yet, but it was pretty long.
For some reason, every time I'd pick up the scissors to do it, I couldn't. Baby X would look at me with those big blue eyes and smile and I had to put the scissors down.
The other night I noticed it was getting in his eye. Unfortunately, I couldn't put it off anymore. Mr X held his hands and I cut the little exclamation point.
Now the part where we're nuts..................
It's now taped into his baby book.
Someday he is going to open that book and wonder what we were thinking.
Mr X has been growing hair these past few years where before, there wasn't any. Ex: the middle of his forhead. There is this random lone hair that keeps returning no matter how many times I pluck it while he's sleeping. Ok, go ahead and call me mean. I know I am. While I'm at it, I'll admit that I pluck chest hairs to get him to stop snoring. He knows it. It never fully wakes him, just makes him roll over. It works. Yes. I am very mean. That is a story for another day.
Today, it's all about the random hair.
Baby X has been getting those random hairs. No, I don't pluck them. He, like many newborns, had the furriest of elfin ears I'd ever seen. Thick black hair on the top of his ears. Eventually, it fell out.
Then there was the eyebrow. It was pale so really hard to see, but there it was. This one random hair that stuck straight out from the others. It was like a little exclamation point, "here I am! I'm adorable! Love me! Feed me!"
I loved that little hair. I couldn't bring myself to cut it even though I knew I should. It wasn't in his eye, yet, but it was pretty long.
For some reason, every time I'd pick up the scissors to do it, I couldn't. Baby X would look at me with those big blue eyes and smile and I had to put the scissors down.
The other night I noticed it was getting in his eye. Unfortunately, I couldn't put it off anymore. Mr X held his hands and I cut the little exclamation point.
Now the part where we're nuts..................
It's now taped into his baby book.
Someday he is going to open that book and wonder what we were thinking.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
....not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse
One of the most disgusting things about cat ownership is the occasional 'present' they leave you.
My old cat, Oscar, used to bring me field mice and leave them on my kitchen chair. There was also the one that he didn't kill right away. I came home from work one night to find him torturing the poor thing in my bath tub. It was 1 am and I had to lock Oscar in a room while I tried to catch this mouse with a pot and lid.
Today my anti-social, potty trained masochist cat brought me a mouse. Or at least what was left of it. I think it was a mouse. It was pretty nasty and rather hard to tell.
I need to find a way to stop him from doing this again. I'm not a terribly squeamish person, but ew. Ew. That's an image that is going to stay with me for way too long and will probably pop back up when we have dinner at my MIL's this weekend.
Ew.
My old cat, Oscar, used to bring me field mice and leave them on my kitchen chair. There was also the one that he didn't kill right away. I came home from work one night to find him torturing the poor thing in my bath tub. It was 1 am and I had to lock Oscar in a room while I tried to catch this mouse with a pot and lid.
Today my anti-social, potty trained masochist cat brought me a mouse. Or at least what was left of it. I think it was a mouse. It was pretty nasty and rather hard to tell.
I need to find a way to stop him from doing this again. I'm not a terribly squeamish person, but ew. Ew. That's an image that is going to stay with me for way too long and will probably pop back up when we have dinner at my MIL's this weekend.
Ew.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
When does a practical joke go to far?
I was reading another blog tonight, one that I recently found and really like. Funny guy. He was talking about some pranks he'd pulled years before. It made me think..... Is it possible to go to far with a prank?
Mr X and I are always joking around. I love messing with his head and he's a good sport about it. I've had our daughter help me out a few times. So far our favorite was last year. It took a bit of time, but the payoff was well worth it.
While he was at work, I pulled out all of his underwear and carefully sewed the seams together. Then I folded them back up and put them away.
I'm a light sleeper so I always wake up when he gets up for work. I'll never forget his reaction when, at 4:30 that morning, he tried to pull out a pair. He kept pulling until they were all out. Then he picked up one and started shaking it wildly. I pretended to be asleep as he shook it and mumbled. He finally got one of them seperate. Or so he thought. I lost it when he put them on and started to walk to the kitchen for his coffee; a trail of underwear following behind him.
He did get me back. We had a lone rat in our garage. Naturally, it was enough to ensure that I wouldn't be going anywhere near the garage while he dealt with the thing. 20 minutes later he came running in with a bloody finger. When I asked what happened, he told me that rat bit him and then got away. As I'm picturing rabies shots and wondering if it'd be possible to find the rodent, he was almost giddy watching me panic.
That one might have been almost too far, but here we take what every opportunity to poke fun at each other.
Mr X and I are always joking around. I love messing with his head and he's a good sport about it. I've had our daughter help me out a few times. So far our favorite was last year. It took a bit of time, but the payoff was well worth it.
While he was at work, I pulled out all of his underwear and carefully sewed the seams together. Then I folded them back up and put them away.
I'm a light sleeper so I always wake up when he gets up for work. I'll never forget his reaction when, at 4:30 that morning, he tried to pull out a pair. He kept pulling until they were all out. Then he picked up one and started shaking it wildly. I pretended to be asleep as he shook it and mumbled. He finally got one of them seperate. Or so he thought. I lost it when he put them on and started to walk to the kitchen for his coffee; a trail of underwear following behind him.
He did get me back. We had a lone rat in our garage. Naturally, it was enough to ensure that I wouldn't be going anywhere near the garage while he dealt with the thing. 20 minutes later he came running in with a bloody finger. When I asked what happened, he told me that rat bit him and then got away. As I'm picturing rabies shots and wondering if it'd be possible to find the rodent, he was almost giddy watching me panic.
That one might have been almost too far, but here we take what every opportunity to poke fun at each other.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
It's the Baracuda himself
I wanted a picture, he wanted my camera. We compromised. Er..... I compromised. I got a close-up and he got the strap.
Monday, August 15, 2005
Baracuda
My son has a new nickname. He's always been a chewy boy, but since his 2 lower teeth have come in, he has become the bite-and-run baby. Thankfully he doesn't do it while nursing. He doesn't want to lose his food. He seems to be mastering the art of the sneak attack.
Tonight I was putting him to bed. I thought he was asleep as I carried him back to his room. Then I felt this sharp little nip in my shoulder. When I pulled him back, he smiled at me. Little bugger.
He likes to do it when we're playing on the floor. He'll lean over as if he's going to pick up a toy and then quick bite my leg. Or he'll lean over as though he's getting tired then BAM! He bites my arm.
For months he's been grabbing my face and pulling me in for a 'kiss'. I come away with my face dripping wet, but I love it. Now, he bites. Not every time. He doesn't want me to know when it's coming. Just when he thinks I'm not expecting it.
He doesn't do this to Mr X or his sister, BC. Nope. For people, he only chews on me.
He does like to chew on his high chair though. And his crib.
Have you ever seen A Series of Unfortunate Events or read one of the books?
Baracuda reminds me of the little girl in those stories.
Tonight I was putting him to bed. I thought he was asleep as I carried him back to his room. Then I felt this sharp little nip in my shoulder. When I pulled him back, he smiled at me. Little bugger.
He likes to do it when we're playing on the floor. He'll lean over as if he's going to pick up a toy and then quick bite my leg. Or he'll lean over as though he's getting tired then BAM! He bites my arm.
For months he's been grabbing my face and pulling me in for a 'kiss'. I come away with my face dripping wet, but I love it. Now, he bites. Not every time. He doesn't want me to know when it's coming. Just when he thinks I'm not expecting it.
He doesn't do this to Mr X or his sister, BC. Nope. For people, he only chews on me.
He does like to chew on his high chair though. And his crib.
Have you ever seen A Series of Unfortunate Events or read one of the books?
Baracuda reminds me of the little girl in those stories.
Sunday, August 14, 2005
Too much time leads to too much thinking
I haven't thought much about my mom in the almost 6 years since she died. Thinking about her always made me angry so I just avoided it. Don't get me wrong, I bawled like a baby in the first few weeks after she was gone. But then I had time to think. I thought about her and all that had really happened between us. All the times she wasn't there or had said something cruel. I thought about how she often favored my siblings and flat out ignored me. I thought about how she laughed at my views on parenting and did the exact opposite of what I wanted with my daughter, just for spite. I started wondering who it was I was mourning. Was it really my mom? Or was it what I wanted her to be? Or was it the fact that now I'd never get to tell her what I really thought of her?
She died in a freak accident very early one morning.
We had, at best, a difficult relationship. She viewed motherhood as a heavy shirt you wore when it suited you. None of her kids lived with her. When any one of us failed to live up to her high expectations, she became a martyr, complaining to her friends or husband #2-5 how horrible we were to her. While my siblings eventually met with her approval, I never did.
Now? I'm grateful that I don't.
Still, there were some good times. Watching movies in the dark with a big bowl of popcorn between us late into the night. The few times she let me help decorate Christmas cookies. That one time she called me out of the blue and asked me to dinner. Her tears of pure joy when she was in the delivery room for the birth of her granddaughter.
I realized today that as much as she frustrated me, I really do miss her. Unfortunately, thinking of her also means thinking of the way she died. It's still a bit of a mystery exactly what happened, but I pray it was fast. I hope that she didn't realize what was happening to her.
I don't know what things would be like if she was still here. Would I ever have had the guts to tell her how I felt? Would it have made a difference?
I'd like to think I would've forgiven her either way. I guess that's what I need to do now.
She died in a freak accident very early one morning.
We had, at best, a difficult relationship. She viewed motherhood as a heavy shirt you wore when it suited you. None of her kids lived with her. When any one of us failed to live up to her high expectations, she became a martyr, complaining to her friends or husband #2-5 how horrible we were to her. While my siblings eventually met with her approval, I never did.
Now? I'm grateful that I don't.
Still, there were some good times. Watching movies in the dark with a big bowl of popcorn between us late into the night. The few times she let me help decorate Christmas cookies. That one time she called me out of the blue and asked me to dinner. Her tears of pure joy when she was in the delivery room for the birth of her granddaughter.
I realized today that as much as she frustrated me, I really do miss her. Unfortunately, thinking of her also means thinking of the way she died. It's still a bit of a mystery exactly what happened, but I pray it was fast. I hope that she didn't realize what was happening to her.
I don't know what things would be like if she was still here. Would I ever have had the guts to tell her how I felt? Would it have made a difference?
I'd like to think I would've forgiven her either way. I guess that's what I need to do now.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
I am evil.
Mr X had a golf tournament last Friday. It was something through work he does every year. His work pays for it, he gets a free dinner and at the end of the night they have a raffle. Mr X has won something a couple of years in a row now.
So, Friday afternoon at the 8th hole. The other foreman is up to hit. Mr X sees one boss dive to the left, the other dive to the right. He looks up just in time to catch a nine iron to the face. Mr X is a pretty tough guy, not one to complain when he gets hurt unless it's bad. This knocked him flat on his butt. His gums were bruised, a little bloody. His face was swollen. He had a cut below his lip. I think he may have at least chipped his cheek bone.
He got up and was ready to continue golfing despite his boss telling him to go get checked. The other foreman felt awful, very apologetic. Mr X brushed it off as no big thing. No one else knew what had happened and they let it drop.
At the end of the night, they have the raffle. Naturally, Mr X wins something.
Want to guess what he won?
Come on, it's really not that hard....................
A nine iron.
I almost peed my pants I laughed so hard. That is why I'm evil.
I love irony.
So, Friday afternoon at the 8th hole. The other foreman is up to hit. Mr X sees one boss dive to the left, the other dive to the right. He looks up just in time to catch a nine iron to the face. Mr X is a pretty tough guy, not one to complain when he gets hurt unless it's bad. This knocked him flat on his butt. His gums were bruised, a little bloody. His face was swollen. He had a cut below his lip. I think he may have at least chipped his cheek bone.
He got up and was ready to continue golfing despite his boss telling him to go get checked. The other foreman felt awful, very apologetic. Mr X brushed it off as no big thing. No one else knew what had happened and they let it drop.
At the end of the night, they have the raffle. Naturally, Mr X wins something.
Want to guess what he won?
Come on, it's really not that hard....................
A nine iron.
I almost peed my pants I laughed so hard. That is why I'm evil.
I love irony.
Monday, August 08, 2005
Sunday, August 07, 2005
Fart Humor
I don't know what it is about passing gas that makes my family laugh, but it never fails. We sit down to a lovely dinner, start talking about our days and then it happens. Something ripe and obnoxious fills the air and we play the blame game.
"That was Daddy!", "No way! It was the baby." "Quit blaming the baby, that was you."
And so on until someone finally owns up to it.
There was the time when our daughter was 4 and I caught her with her butt in my laundry bucket.
"What are you doing?"
"Farting."
"Why are you doing that in the bucket?"
And with a big grin she replies,
"It stinks real bad and I wanna' save it for Daddy."
But what can I expect?
She's the same girl who needed to know if fish fart. In case you were wondering, they do. A friend of mine looked it up while she was at work. Can you imagine explaining that one to your boss?
Today, she wanted to know who farts more. Girls or boys?
Even the baby gets in on it. You would think that something that small and adorable couldn't cause much damage right?
There have been many a time he's gassed me out of a room. Or actually had lift off from his seat because of the force. He always gets this little grin on his face before he toots. Not his full-on mega-watt toothy smile. Just a little they-have-no-idea-this-is-coming-and-I-hope-it's-a-good-one grin.
Now our daughter likes to toot on her Dad's pillow. I swear it wasn't me who taught her to do that. :)
I don't know what it is about passing gas that makes my family laugh, but it never fails. We sit down to a lovely dinner, start talking about our days and then it happens. Something ripe and obnoxious fills the air and we play the blame game.
"That was Daddy!", "No way! It was the baby." "Quit blaming the baby, that was you."
And so on until someone finally owns up to it.
There was the time when our daughter was 4 and I caught her with her butt in my laundry bucket.
"What are you doing?"
"Farting."
"Why are you doing that in the bucket?"
And with a big grin she replies,
"It stinks real bad and I wanna' save it for Daddy."
But what can I expect?
She's the same girl who needed to know if fish fart. In case you were wondering, they do. A friend of mine looked it up while she was at work. Can you imagine explaining that one to your boss?
Today, she wanted to know who farts more. Girls or boys?
Even the baby gets in on it. You would think that something that small and adorable couldn't cause much damage right?
There have been many a time he's gassed me out of a room. Or actually had lift off from his seat because of the force. He always gets this little grin on his face before he toots. Not his full-on mega-watt toothy smile. Just a little they-have-no-idea-this-is-coming-and-I-hope-it's-a-good-one grin.
Now our daughter likes to toot on her Dad's pillow. I swear it wasn't me who taught her to do that. :)
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