The Idiot's Guide to Toddler Speak

We started teaching Hurricane baby signs pretty early and it has helped a bit. Most of the signs he knows have to do with food, getting food, getting more food, or being done eating. ( In fact, lately, all he has done is looked at his high chair then made the sign for 'all done'. Because I guess looking at the high chair where the eating is supposed to take place is enough to sustain him. I don't know, possibly he is absorbing all the calories and vitamins he needs through his eyeballs as he stares at the food I have spent an hour preparing in his special nit-picky way, meaning different colors can't touch and his banana has to be cut just so, only to refuse to eat one bite.) As his 2nd (G-d, no I am not crying, again, I swear. It's just.... a little.... dust in my eye. Or something) birthday approaches (too soon!! Waahhhh!!) he is speaking more and more.
I just wish I could understand more of what he is saying. He keeps asking me for 'recko na boots erka nam mama?' And I have not one damn idea what that is supposed to be. But it seems important and when I don't give it to him, he sighs and just looks so disappointed that I have resorted to this game which only seems to frustrate him further.
He asks and I start pretending we're playing charades.
"Is it a book?" He tilts his head and raises an eyebrow.
"Do you want boots?" I fall over pantomiming putting on boots and he shakes his head.
"Can you eat it?" I pretend to eat a sandwich and shrugs his shoulders.
"Is it a toy?" I point around the room and he sets his head on my chair in despair.
"Do you want to go somewhere?" He looks up hopefully but then he sees my keys and his head goes back down.
"Do you want to watch something?" I pantomime making a movie until I realize I'm a total idiot which is too late because Hurricane has already realized that and left the room.
There are some things that are so easy to understand......
Peas- not the vegetable. Are you kidding? He would not let a vegetable of all things pass his lips. No, this is just good manners.
Waner- water. He just doesn't really like t's. Or m's. Which is why Mickey Mouse is icky ouse. I'm lucky he calls me Mama.
Go fish- not to be confused with crackers because there is a difference. Even if they are wusses. But dammit all, he loves his go-fish.
Eebles- As in, hold still Girl whilst (see? Random odd words. send help. must be going crazy) I beat you with this rotund little toy.
Boo's coos!!- As in, if I have to watch that tape one more time dear boy, mommy is going to go ape shit bananas!

Actually, there is a lot of things I can understand but it seems that no one else can. Which, I think, is pretty common when it comes to toddlers. The parents can understand them but to to strangers it sounds like "mghjsbuishenbbgofnjhs".

So wouldn't it be nice if among all those Idiot's Guides there was one for speaking toddler?

Cause And Effect: Or The Great Peep Meltdown of 2006

I was poking around in the back of my pantry trying to find that peanut butter cup I had stashed on the top shelf when I came across this package of marshmallow peep circa Easter (possibly) 2006. Although really, those things are like Twinkies and it was the top shelf so it could have been more like 2003. I'm not even sure why I bought them. No one in this house will eat them. I mean, they're marshmallows covered in colored sugar that will not melt even when the marshmallow catches fire.
Also they are gross. Really gross. And evil. For where there is one, soon there will be 2 and they will multiply until your house is covered in pastel colored marshmallow peeps. (Side note: We once decorated a high school teachers room in peeps because he hated them. We hung them from the blackboard and stuck them to the walls. They lined his desk and made a path around the room.)
When I had offered a pink peep bunny to Hurricane at Easter he pursed his lips in the universal toddler language of 'oh hell to the no! That thing will never get past these lips, crazy lady!'
So, there they sat. Bright yellow chick peeps.
Naturally the first thought in my head was I bet they look cool when they melt.
Girl has been learning cause and effect in school so she became my cover story for when Joe came home and asked me just what the hell I thought I was doing. Besides, it was time for her to learn the joys of melting things in the microwave.

15 little peeps. Safe in their package. Notice the one on the bottom with his nose pressed up against the plastic? He is plotting.
At this point, Girl rolls her eyes and insists that I am imagining things.
So, I set about to prove my point.




2 peeps, seemingly innocent. Just sitting there in all their fluorescent yellow glory.

Maybe not so innocent. Now there are 3.

4.... still manageable though right?

Soon they are lining up all military fashion and plotting their take-over.

She is now a believer. Or possibly she has just come to the realization that she is genetically linked to me and she is staring into her future and it is scary. Whatever. I'm right. Peeps are evil.

And they must be stopped.
In case you were wondering about that whole cause and effect lesson, here it is.

First came the prediction.

Q) What happens to an Evil Peep Overlord when you put him in the microwave?

Girl's guess was that it would melt. And she was right. Sort of.

First it expanded to about 3 times it's original size after 30 seconds in the microwave, then it shrank back down a little after we opened the door. It still had some of it's shape though.

So, there's the effect. The cause is the heat from the microwave, or according to Girl, her mother's insanity.

30 seconds did not do enough damage to one Evil Peep Overlord.

What would 40 seconds do to him and a few of his minions?

She thinks this is just awesome. Yes. A fine lesson, melting things is cool.

It's kind of hard to see, but they are expanding and possibly still plotting revenge.

Oh the carnage!!
At this point we kind of had to stop because it... um... kind of did catch fire and since this is me we're talking about, I figured I'd better stop it before I burned down my house. All the black spots you see are where it was on fire which of course was also cool. We could actually pick a mass of peep goo up while it was still smoking as long as we held onto the sugar. It wasn't even remotely hot. The guts, I mean, marshmallow was smoking it was so hot.

This should set the peep takeover mission back a few hours.

Apparently marshmallow peeps taste better melted.

One-Eyed Blogging

Stye. Ow. Can't see very well. Driving is fun.

Also, lots of pretty yellow gunk all over bad eye.

Does not feel good. I do not feel good.

Send percocet. And eye patch.

I am scaring small children.





*Tomorrow: Easter peeps take over my kitchen. Or how we're explaining cause and effect. Pictures included.



**Does anyone know an easy way to get burnt marshmallow off the microwave?

Way To Go Genius!

I managed to make it 2 months through coaching Girl's cheer squad without seriously injuring any body parts or making a gigantic ass (*ahem*) of myself. In fact, it was all going so well. Even the things I thought were going to be impossible turned out just fine. I managed to not saying anything so terribly stupid that I couldn't possibly recover. The parents didn't look at me as though I had 2 heads.

This is the last week of practice, Saturday is the last game. I was finally starting to think that maybe I could be around people.

Then after practice I stayed to talk to some of the moms and somehow ended up telling them about how mannequins and I don't get along.

They had a good laugh and then suddenly decided it was time to leave.

Sometimes I wish I could hire someone to follow me around and tell me when to shut up.

Because Apparently? I Have Nothing Better To Do.

Usually I trash all the spam in my bulk folder after a quick check because I know sometimes my friend's e-mails end up in there. But then one day I came across this e-mail whose subject read: Your sperm will be thankful to you if you order Spermamax.
And, like any 12 year old, I couldn't stop giggling.
So it stayed. For weeks, every time I would open my bulk folder I would see this e-mail and smirk.
Finally, curiosity got the better of me and I opened the e-mail.

And it was blank.

Blank? How can you offer me such a great promise to make my sperm oh so grateful, so beholden it may offer me tokens of appreciation. Like flowers or candy. Or something useful like a new car or a trouble free uterus.

So I googled it.

And I laughed even more and then realized that I need to grow up. There is really nothing funny about being awarded by Top Rated Penis Pills.

Another Bright Idea

First, my apologies for this entry will most likely suck. Because it is full of pictures but I am getting a stye in my eye and I am a very big baby and it huu-uurrrrttss!
Sunday we took the kids to the nearest pumpkin patch, for it is a requirement, nay (I can't believe I just used the word 'nay' in a sentence. Next I will be saying things like 'thy' and 'thou' that's about all I can think of for now but I am sure there are more.) the law, according to Girl who is nearly 9 and knows everything, that parents take their kids to a pumpkin patch so that we can all trudge through mud in the cold getting whipped in the face with corn husks.
Actually, it wasn't that bad. At least it was ok before we learned that Hurricane? He does not like hay rides, pumpkin guts, corn husks or caterpillars. Or cameras.

In the very brief moments before Hurricane realized that this little outing would involve scary machines and bugs.

I have no idea where she learned to sit like this. Doesn't it look all proper? She absolutely does not get that from me. Also? I did not help her pick our her clothes. Her dad did. This explains why she is wearing red sweatpants that are too short for her, her blue tweety bird pajamas, a dark blue sweater and my gray granny cardigan. This is a step up from when he helped her get dressed to go out to eat in her pink skirt, purple knee-highs, red 'know it all' shirt and yellow rain boots.

Every time Joe would lift a pumpkin, Hurricane felt compelled to do the same. Even if he couldn't move it more than a few feet, he still grunted and made his Hercules face (oh come on, don't tell me your kid doesn't have a Hercules face! Or that you didn't have one as a kid. And I know some of you still do it) and when he was done he would stand up, stretch and smile, completely satisfied that he was the strongest boy with in a 2 foot radius.

This was the highlight of the day for Hurricane. He would walk to the front and knock down the animal faces making their noises as he went.

Baaaa..... buck-buck-buck......niegh......moo........

Roooaaarrrrrrr!!!!

People? What the hell kind of scary ass farm has he been on that pigs growl and roar?

This still has me flummoxed (yeah, I said it. First nay, now flummoxed. I am a cartoon character). Hurricane loves tractors. Tractors, bulldozers, trucks. He loved the tractor that pulled the wagon we were sitting in.

And then it moved and he decided that maybe he doesn't like tractors so much after all.In fact, maybe he thought tractors sucked and perhaps that it was going to eat him because it was loud and those tires were big and moving and what the hell were his parents thinking?

Then Joe started making fart noises with his mouth and all was right with the world again.

Well, it was alright until Joe decided he couldn't go running through the corn alone and then it just sucked again.

We only got lost 3 times (we had a map and still, we got lost). We answered the little questions and solved the riddle.

The questions was "How did the farmer get lost in the corn maze?"

The answer? "He got CORNFUSED!"

Joe and I laughed thinking Girl would totally go for that. It was her type of lame joke that she would have shared with her grandpa (he told us a lot of incredibly lame jokes when we were kids).

Instead she rolled her eyes and declared that that joke was not funny. At. All. When she finally did laugh it was because I tripped coming up the stairs to see out over the maze.

When we finally came out, most of the fog had lifted, it was finally a little bit warmer than death, and their were pumpkins to pick.

Again, it was great. At first. Then Hurricane came across his first smashed pumpkin. He stared down into the guts, the seeds, the carnage! This was too much for his young sensibilities and he burst into tears screaming 'no!'. He refused to pass any pumpkin guts, only slightly mollified when we would lift him up and over, beyond the mess.


We started to walk back up to pay for our intact pumpkins (no way were we going to try the tractor again, thank you very much). It was then that Hurricane noticed the camera.

"No paparazzi!"

He pushed the camera straight back into my head. It seemed as good a time as any to put the camera away.

Another attempt made for cherished childhood memories. Another attempt that didn't exactly go as I had imagined it would.

Name Game

I've come up with a few new name choices for my blog and now you get to vote!
So, take a minute, delurk, vote.

1) A Bad Idea
...... because let's face it, most of posts are written because I had this 'great idea' to rid our yard of moles, or be a cheer coach, or try to shop for new clothes and so on. And it just doesn't seem to end well given my inability to walk and chew gum at the same time.

2) Under Construction
........ because I feel like I always am.... ever-changing, never quite right (shut up).

3) Undercover Mother
........ Except that I'm sort of thinking this one is taken.

4) Your write in vote here:___________

And of course, I'll probably change my mind completely and end up with something else because that's just how we roll here.

Age Difference

People regularly comment on how nice it must be to have my kids so far apart in age (bite me asshole) since Girl is 8 (I'm almost 9 mom! Geez!) and Hurricane is almost 2. They seem to be under the impression that Girl is this huge wonderful help with her little brother.
Occasionally she is (this usually involves bribery-candy, money, my car), but most of the time they are either fighting or she's teaching him something that will later bite me in the ass.
Fighting:

This usually occurs because Girl has taken a toy out of Hurricane's hands (but he's smaller and he wasn't playing with it right anyway mom!) and Hurricane feels that it is his responsibility to smash her face in with a Weeble. It's not over until there is bloodshed. Or at least bruising.
Sometimes it happens because Girl tries to force Hurricane to play the way she wants him too but no matter how hard she tries he simply doesn't understand the rules to hide and seek. Eventually it devolves into Hurricane hitting Girl in the knees and Girl yelling 'No hit!' until I separate them.
Sometimes it's simply because Girl is sitting there and Hurricane is sitting there and it just seems like a good time to beat each other with the Weebles.

Sibling Lessons:

1) How to 'ski' down the stairs in a laundry basket and give your mother cause to explode in fiery burst of "Holy shit!" which Hurricane will then repeat ad naseum.

2) How to trap Cat in the bathroom and bathe him with toilet water because..... well.... why not?

3) How to say 'Shake your booty' and then dance for strangers.

4) The correct ratio of toilet paper to oatmeal necessary to flood a toilet.

5) How to get cookies off the out of reach shelf.

And so on until my mind shuts down in self-defense.

So, sure. Having them so far apart (seriously, just bite me now) is just grand. I'll be sure to remind myself of that when I'm explaining to the police why Girl tied her brother to the light post in front of our house (I think it was some game they were playing but it could have been just because she could).

NaBloPoMo

No, I haven't gone completely crazy (ha!).

It's National Blog Posting Month (or something like that) which you can read about, and get the full list of brave participants here: http://www.fussy.org/nablopomo.html

So. Yay! Aren't you looking forward to November? I am. I may end up posting some rather embarrassing moments but that's not really new now is it?

The hard part will be posting everyday. Like, even on weekends. This may mean I have to cut back on some things. Like sleeping. Or watching reruns of bad reality TV. Or chasing moles around the yard.

The Waiting.

I have been one of those really obnoxious women who loves being pregnant (that is, when I can actually stay pregnant and those moments when I'm not pulling my hair out in anxiety). By the time each child has been born, I've forgotten the nausea that made me swear I would never do this again; the back aches that just never felt better; the inability to find a comfortable position to sleep in; the annoying need to pee every 10 minutes even though there is nothing left.
All of that has been overshadowed by the flicker of a heartbeat on that ultrasound machine; the imprint of a foot against my skin; feeling them dance to BB King or Cole Porter; feeling the swell of my abdomen as they take up more and more room.

None of that has ever bothered me.

It's the getting there that makes me unsuitable for human company.

Basically? The waiting? It sucketh. Badly. Eth.

Telling myself that it's no big deal, it'll happen, that's OK, I'm relaxed, it's no big deal? Not working. Lying to myself has never really worked.
I find myself analyzing every twinge and every little cramp. I look at the calendar in anticipation of when I could test because I'm certain that this is it!
And then I'm crushed when I find that the cycle is a bust. Or worse. It wasn't but it's not going to end well.
I miss those very young and naive days when I'd panic about being pregnant because I didn't want to be pregnant. I miss the shock of finding out I was pregnant with Girl and then the thrill of being certain that at the end, there would be a baby to take home.
I miss being blindly naive, stupid.

I do not wait well. I am unbearable in my wait.

For the sake of the Halloween candy that it this rate will never last until those costumed children start ringing our bell, pray that the wait ends quickly this month.

Random Bits: Convicts and Bullshit Edition

When my husband starts giving me the Look it can only mean one of two things:
1) I've said something incredibly stupid (often)

or

2) He's about to say something I won't believe (slightly less often)

So when he started giving me that look last night and I hadn't said anything in a whole 5 minutes (a new record for me) I knew I was in for some serious bullshit.

"You look like Sandra Bullock."

People. Seriously. I am in no way delusional enough to think I look like her. So, the hell?

Later we were watching Deal or No Deal, trying to figure out where She will most like handcuff herself to a chair. As one of the women opened their case, he turned to me again.

"You look like her too. And you have the same name!"

"What the hell have you been smoking?"

Here's the thing.........
As deluded as he may be about what I look like, it's flattering. And I appreciate it.

Especially since it could be so much worse.

********
Last night after Joe went to bed the phone started ringing. Since it was late (read well past the time when people will call for everyday conversation and closer to 'Oh no! What hospital?') I naturally assumed it would be my mother-in-law.

Actually it was the Monroe Correctional Facility but close enough.

For the next 2 hours this inmate called every 10 minutes.
I don't know who it was, couldn't understand the name he kept saying but last time I checked, my forehead didn't have a giant 'STUPID' tattoo on it.
So I refused the call. Repeatedly.
Then I got smart and just left the damn phone off the hook.

Joe woke up when I finally crawled into bed and I told him about the calls.

"Was his name Nathan?" (And I'm totally changing the names here because, come on. Do I really need that headache? Right.)

"I don't know, I couldn't understand him. I'm not even sure it was a him."

Pause.

"Could it have been Allen?"

"Who are these people?"

"One is a guy I hung out with in high school, he should be getting out of prison any day now so if he calls, hang up. The other one is my cousin."

I have been married to this guy for 4 years and I'm only now finding this stuff out???

I'm guessing that he figured his mom is enough to handle and throwing in the rest of the family would have sent me screaming.
What he doesn't realize is that his family craziness makes my family seem normal and that is the first time that has ever happened.

Fashionista

There seems to be some unwritten dictate that moms suddenly stop buying things for themselves. (Or so it would seem to moms I know, namely my sister, playgroup people, certain friends.......) Topping this list is clothing.
I am really good at not buying clothes for myself.
So good in fact, that my newest pair of jeans dates back to 1999 when the previous pair died at the hands of one very pissed off Oliver- cat who hated everyone and everything and was not afraid to express this hatred by destroying random objects. I maybe would have not been so upset if not for the fact that I was a single mom and literally counting pennies to pay the bills. And the fact that I was like, wearing the pants at the time. (Are you noticing a trend here? Cats? They do not like me. And really is there any reason I need to continue getting them?)
Anyway.. clothes. My daily uniform consists of jeans (most older than daughter) and either sweatshirt (which must be about 4 sizes too big and appear to be swallowing me) or t-shirt (also too big and possibly bearing the name of some random business not necessarily in this area).
Right. Pretty pathetic. I know.
In an effort to turn this whole situation around and bearing in mind that I've lost nearly 30 lbs in the past 6 months and should maybe try to find something that fits, I went shopping. For clothes. In actual stores that did not bear 'Mart' anywhere in it's name.
If I learned anything from this experience it is this:
1) I don't know what I like.
2) I am dangerous around mannequins.
3) It is possible to get kicked out of certain stores which shall remain nameless.
4) I prefer shopping on-line.

Addressing these issues:

1) I don't know what I like.
I used to know what I like. No patterns, no pink, clean lines, pretty but not skanky.
So, still a big no on the skanky thing but I sort of liked some of the patterns. I even found a skirt that I LOVED and wanted (me? in a skirt? Has hell frozen over?) but then I didn't know what to pair it with. I knew that since it had a pattern I needed to stay away from patterns but did you know that there are about a million different shades of black? Because I didn't until the salesgirl suggested I stay away from the chocolate blacks and maybe try a midnight black but don't get it confused with a charcoal black and then my head exploded and the skirt was ruined what with all the blood and everything.
Then I found another skirt I really liked except I kind of cheated because it was on a mannequin and I could see what it was supposed to be worn with and it was beautiful and I wanted it. Sadly, the only one left was on the mannequin.
Which leads us to.....
2) I am dangerous around mannequins (and other displays which are loud when they crash to the floor)
So, the skirt on the mannequin was the last one and I thought I'd just quick peek and see if it was even in my size before bugging the clerk about taking it down.
Note to others: Do not touch the mannequins. They are specially arranged to crash when touched by anyone but sales persons. And when they crash they will take out another display of artfully arranged accessories and possibly an innocent bystander or two.
Which leads to........
3) I was asked, rather pointedly, if I was done shopping and could they suggest perhaps, another store. Perhaps their closest rival?
4) Yes. Online shopping. As long as you are aware of just what size you need, perfectly acceptable. In fact, decidedly preferred method of shopping.

Courage

AM and Veronica of Toddled Dredge both have very good, get you thinking (Isn't that scary? Me, thinking? Dangerous!) posts about bravery today.
I think (there's that word again- eek!) that's easy to say that given the chance you'd play the hero. I think if we never had to prove it, we'd all say that we would step in to help someone in trouble. But like I told AM, I'm more hesitant when my kids are with me (and good grief when are they not?). When I'm by myself I tend to forget that I don't have to say every little thing that pops into my head (Hello? Anyone remember the incident with police chief? And after a quick search I can't find it so.... forget I said anything. There was no incident with a police chief, my hitting his car and nearly ending up in jail. Nope. No idea what you're talking about. Moving on....).

I've been sitting here with this post for 2 hours now. Starting and then erasing everything I've written because it seems so inadequate.
I started to talk about how I thought being a parent was brave.
But then I remembered that I haven't always been such a great example of that.
Instead all I can think of was when at my least brave (great now I sound like a kid writing her first essay. Go me!) moment, someone took over for me.

It was the beginning of June of this year. Girl was due home from school and Hurricane and I were playing in the living room. The bus stop is right in front of my house so I can always hear the bus pull up. I rarely go out there with her anymore since she prefers to have the time with her friends. In the morning I occasionally peek out from my window.
This day, I heard the bus pull up and through the open window, the sound of kids laughing, teasing, removing the subdued nature of their classwork.
I knew Girl would linger a bit, laughing with friends, making plans for later. I gathered her usual after school snack.
I heard the bus pull away and the voices begin to drift.
I looked to the door and waited.
I frowned. Lingering longer than she normally would. Things to do kid. Walk through that door and let's get busy. Come on kid.
I walked to the window and looked out on a very empty street.
I felt like someone had thrown ice water down my spine. My chest felt a little tight.
It's OK, she just missed her bus. Had to be.
I called the school and after a brief search......

She wasn't there.
I called the bus dispatch and the bus driver checked. She wasn't on the bus. The driver couldn't be sure she had gotten on.

My knees felt weak and I suddenly couldn't stop shaking.

I called my neighbor. Her son and my daughter are friends and surely he saw her on the bus. Had to.

"No, I didn't see her."

My knees crumbled.

Oh God, please.
I started to cry.

And then suddenly my neighbor was there at my door. Ready to step in and hold my hand, make calls, help me find my daughter. Because I had just lost my ability to not shake.

I shake now even thinking about it.

Because for 30 minutes in June, I didn't know where my daughter was and it was the single most terrifying moment of my life and the only reason I didn't completely lose my shit was because my neighbor stopped helping her 3 kids to come over and just be there.

Girl had gotten off at a friend's house. Her teacher had given her a note that I had written that was meant for a previous day. Just a simple misunderstanding.

It seems so simple doesn't it? Maybe it doesn't qualify as bravery by most definitions.
But that day my neighbor was my hero. She was brave when I couldn't be.

By The Numbers

A few weeks ago we went to the circus. And then I just sort of forgot that we ever went (or more accurately got bored at the thought of writing a post about it and then having someone tell me I'm an evil animal killer because we went to the circus and every year there are people there protesting and trying to hand my kids pictures of dead animals so ick).
I think I would have been perfectly happy to just keep on forgetting, because as much fun as sitting in horribly uncomfortable seats, eating super salty ice cold popcorn and trying to not go blind from all of the flashing lights is, blocking out that memory makes it possible for me to go again the next year when 'Girl' starts begging again (and I know, geez already. What happened to coming out of the blogging closet? But I will get to that. eventually. Probably).
I had a really good lead on the forgetting until Hurricane found the pictures from that day and decided to teach me a lesson. Or at least that's what I think he was trying to do. It's hard to say for sure since he was yelling at me and apparently very angry about the elephants.
He pulled me away from washing dishes, tugging my shirt all the way into the living room. He forced me down by tackling my knees. He dropped the pictures in my lap and began to yell, his little finger pointing angrily at me;
"Un, two, tree NELEFUNNN!!"
His face got red, his lips pouting.
"Yes, that's an elephant."

"NO MAMA! Un, two, tree NELEFUNNNN!"

"You want an elephant?"

"Un, two, tree NELEFUNNN! Nawny Mama."

"I don't know what Daddy has been telling you but I am not naughty."

He pointed to the picture again.

"Un, two, tree NELEFUNNN!!"

I looked at the picture.
One.
Two.
Three.

3 elephants.

Did he actually count that? Or is this just one of those non-sensical things that would probably make sense if I spoke the language?

"How many ears does mommy have?"

"Un. Two."

Pause.

"Nose."

"Yes, that's my nose. Could you please take your finger out of it?"

"Un, two, tree, nelefunn?"

"I don't have any elephants. They don't make good pets."

Blank stare.

"How about cookies?"

"Nelefunn cookies?"

"Their shaped likes cats but close enough."

I handed him un, two, tree cat cookies.

He set them side by side on the table and looked at them quietly.

Sigh.

"Mama?"

"What?"

"Un, two, tree."

Pause.

"Figh?"

Yeah. Everything is perfectly normal.

*Yes, that is your first really bad glimpse of Mr X, otherwise known as Joe, or the guy that still does the robot, or the guy who is a really good sport when I sew the leg of his underwear shut solely for my amusement. Hee!

Don't Speak

One of the reasons I've been hesitant to come out of the 'blogging closet' (hee!) is the loss of not my anonymity, but of the people I talk about. Most of the time I don't care. I have no intention of ratting out which neighbor plays air guitar to Kelly Clarkson's songs in his garage when he thinks no one can see him. But the people I can't really hide?
Sure I could put up a bunch of 'Keep Off the Grass' signs but when has that ever worked?
I've spoken before about my mother-in-law and her issues. I've deleted posts about her too because even when this blog was anonymous, I felt a certain amount of guilt about having her flaws relayed for all to see.
I genuinely believe that she is a good person. But I think that her issues have taken over her life, her family's life, and now my family's life and that makes it really hard not to feel some anger towards her.
I know she cannot help being sick, but I am frustrated that she will not get help. I am frustrated that her family won't make her get help.
I am angry that just when things should be good, just when things are calm, the phone rings and here we go again. I am angry at the things she says to my husband, her son, that make his eyes droopy, his shoulders sag, and ages him.
I am angry that I can't really talk about it because she's not my mom and it's not my place.
I am sad for her and the things that she feels, the things that make her afraid, angry, depressed. I am sad that she has always been like this, and most likely always will.
I am afraid for her, for what will happen if nothing changes.
It's exhausting dealing with an illness that no one will admit too.

The 'Hood At 2 AM

There's nothing like waking up at 2 am by some strange noise only to realize that you're very old dog is peeing in the middle of your living room.
And I can't exactly get mad at him because he just can't hold it in anymore.
So I let him outside while I cleaned the carpet (which? So fun at 2 am with sleepy eyes and no glasses!).
Since we moved to this house 5 years ago, Auggie has run way twice. The last time was 2002. So, I never worry about letting him out because he just doesn't run off. We could leave him sitting on the front porch, go to the store and return an hour later to find him still there. On the front porch with a rather confused look on his face which can only be translated to I didn't know you guys left! Well, how's...zzzzz......... Because that is exactly how much interest he has in anything outside of our yard.
Which is why when I opened the door to call him back in and he wasn't there, I freaked. Well, first I stood frozen in place in my bare feet (which were frozen because our deck was wet and it was exactly feckin' freezing degrees out) staring out into the dark wondering if maybe I was imaging the whole thing because I do have a tendency to wild dreams which turn out to be completely false (I just spent 30 minutes trying to find that post I know I wrote about that crazy dream I had where someone stole an ice cream truck and kept driving it by our house with the music playing and the cops chasing them and I could hear my husband complaining to his boss because it was 4 am and then I finally decided to get up and see what was going on and it turned out to be a dream and then my husband thought that maybe I was a little crazy. But I can't find it so run-on sentence summary it is!). But once my toes started to turn blue, I realized it was true. 2:15 am and I was going to have to go hunt for my dog.
Any other time I would have crawled back into bed, mumbling about that crazy mutt and waited for him to come loping back, stub of a tail wagging and head down.
But Auggie is nearly 13 and has bad hips. One fall and he would be stuck outside in the cold until someone rescued him.
So out I went in my pj's and slippers. And in I went to change into pants and a sweater and sneakers because my neighbors have seen enough of my pj's and they were still up. And it was cold.
I grabbed a flashlight and started walking.
One of the nice things about my street is that it's fairly calm. Especially at 2:15 am.
It's also very very dark at 2:15 am.
And foggy.
And kind of creepy.

There is a wooded path that leads to a pond down the street from us. The entrance is only a few houses away and Auggie loves to go down there so I headed in that direction.
You know in scary movies when the victim, um... person starts walking all scared and shivery down some dark alley and you sit there and laugh because you could totally walk down there and not be scared?
I am not one of those people. I stood at the front of the path, staring into the trees and wondering just what could be lurking past where my flashlight could reach. I contemplated how I would react should some homicidal maniac jump out at me, away from where people might actually hear me clearly.
I decided that probably Auggie didn't go down that way. Maybe.
Whatever. I wasn't going down that way. Hell, I wouldn't even walk down the other side of the development because there weren't any street lights down there.
So I got in the van and started driving. Up one side and back down to the other end.
I learned that half my neighborhood stays awake all night. It was 2:30 am.
At the very end of the road, away from most of the houses, there sat a little townhouse. All dark except for the little black car with the two kids making out in the front seat.
In case you were wondering, if you ever interrupt 2 teenagers gettin' it on at 2:30 am to ask if they have seen a large black dog wondering by, you will get the finger. However, if you counter with a 'Does your mom know what you are doing right now?' you will receive a 'No ma'am. I'm sorry I didn't see your dog.'
Just for future reference. You know, should you ever find yourself looking for your dog at 2:30 am.
I got back to the house and my husband was standing on the porch waiting. He rolled his eyes when I told him I was too scared to go down to the pond. He took the flashlight and off he went, leaving me to imagine some homicidal maniac jumping out of a tree and tackling him.
Needless to say, he came back. Dog-less, but in one piece.
After another lap around the increasingly foggy neighborhood, we gave up and returned to bed. It was 3 am.

Auggie returned by 4 am. A little damp, tongue hanging out, and completely fine.

I wonder where he went. I wonder what he humped. I am even more grateful that he was fixed long ago.
I wonder if he saw those kids in that car.

Coming Out

I know I'm supposed to be writing my next post about education in America but.... meh.
Kidding! I just want more time to think it over and get my thoughts in order.
In the meantime... site business!
Notice the new links on the right. Antique Mommy is pretty damn funny. Especially those posts about Tuna. I can relate.
Kill the Goat. You just have to read her. It's the law or something.

Then there's this whole business of completely changing this blog. As in, the name, reorganizing, dumping some "What the hell was I thinking" posts, and not calling myself Mrs X anymore.
Maybe actually using my name since I feel pretty damn lame and I'm almost bored with the porn hits I keep getting because apparently Mrs X is a porn star.
So, hi! I'm Megan, blogger known to attack moles with shovels and end up on ass in front of neighbors (and bastards! They're baa-aack!).
But now I need a name for my blog and I'm thinking it could be fun to see what you guys come up with.

Two For One

Preparing For the Future

We have our kitchen completely gated off so that Mishka (the puppy that ate the universe) cannot get out and like, eat our heads while we sleep. One of the unforeseen side effects of having the kitchen completely gated off, is Hurricane's love of being behind bars.


He shakes the gate and giggles like a mad man. He will not leave the kitchen. Not even for Elmo. And for this child to not even be willing to leave for Elmo? That's pretty damn serious.
So, being the encouraging mom that I am I decided to help him out.
We didn't have any empty tin cans, so we had to settle for a plastic bowl.

Nobody knows the trouble I've seen..........

************

And I'm Totally Going To Die Now

And it started out as such a promising day! Hurricane napped, Girl smiled at me, I had things under control for the first time ever.

But. Ugh. I had to take Girl to the doctor the other day and she had to get this parasite test which involves me playing with poisonous chemicals and poo. Yay! Fun! And it's not even my birthday!

About 2 minutes before we had to leave for cheer practice, Girl had to go. I sighed and gave up actually being on time since I knew I'd have to do the test and get it over with.

The first container was no problem. Gross, but done.

The next container? It decided that I was a fucking joke and balancing? Ha! It laughs at my whole 'let's balance it here on this perfectly flat step stool' and does a cartwheel into my lap and oh my damn! That label said carcinogens and poison and now it's sitting in my lap! Dammit!!

I did the perfectly normal thing and freaked right the fuck out.

I ran into the laundry room, threw off my pants and scrubbed my legs with soap. I scrubbed up the floor and then threw out the washcloth because who the hell wants to use that thing again?

I ran up to tell Mr X what happened, you know, just in case I fell over and died at least he would know why. He was all "yeah, OK. You're fine." Which? Wrong thing to say.

I gave him the look of death, he laughed and off to practice we went.

As soon as practice was over, we ran into the lab to turn in the one sample I was able to get and tell them I was dying.

The guy yawned, handed me a new container of poison (seriously? What the hell? I thought hospitals wanted people to not die), and said 'OK'.

"But, um, what about the bottle I dumped in my lap?"

"Yeah."

"Do I need to be worried or anything that I just dumped a carcinogen in my lap?"

"Why'd you do that?"

Oh I don't know, I thought it'd be fun. You know, I'm a wild and crazy lady like that.

"Is there anything for me to be concerned about?" (I thought maybe the usual sarcasm would be a bad idea right now).

"Nah. Good night."

And yet, somehow, I'm not really feeling reassured by that.

To make myself feel better, I told Mr X that I was going to have to get a series of shots and our insurance wouldn't cover it. Now how long should I wait before I tell him I was kidding?

Memory Loss

I tucked him into his big boy bed, pulled up the covers and kissed his cheek. I recited all the goodnight parts of Goodnight Moon and wished him sweet dreams. I slipped out of his room and blew him kisses.
He blew a kiss back.
"Nigh-nigh mommy!"

I turned out the hall light and walked into the kitchen.

No, it's not a fantasy.

Do you maybe remember when I wrote a few posts about sleep issues ?

Because I almost didn't.

See, I was standing there in the kitchen, smiling, and saying how awesome it was to just tuck him in and how cool it was that he blew me kiss and that he would stay there all night and not wake me up until 7 and Pshaw! Sleep issues? Whatever!
Then Mr X had to go and like, ruin it all by speaking.

"Yeah, remember when he wouldn't sleep at all?"

"No. What the hell are you talking about?"

"It was only a couple of months ago. Remember, you went a little nuts just because he wasn't sleeping more than like, an hour, at a time?"

And I'm all "Buuuhhh?"

Because there was this protective thing going on in my head that just sort of....... blocked it all out. Like they say that you never really remember the pains of labor (Ha! I bet a man came up with that. I'd like to pull a cannonball out of his penis and see if he remembers the pain of that), only I actually forgot this?

The hell?

I wonder how many other things he has done that I have simply blocked out in order to get up every morning.

I better be careful with this. This could be really bad when he gets to be a teenager.
"Hey mom, can I borrow the car?"

"Sure!"

"Honey? Don't you remember that the last time he borrowed your car he played bumper cars with the guys and nearly totalled it?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

See what I mean? Bad. Very, very bad.