May They Disappear While I Am Sleeping

I realized today that there are far worse fashion offenses than Clogs.
There are those that crush your soul until all you can do is choke and claim that the wearer is no one you know.




No where in our marriage vows did it say anything out holy socks worn with sandals. I checked.

If It's The Thought That Counts, I'm Afraid Of What This Might Mean

I think that most of the time when I describe my mother-in-law the listener is possibly thinking that I'm exaggerating her craziness, the strange things she says and does. Or, as in this case, gives.

So, this time I took pictures.
I thought I had gotten rid of Scary-Ass Clown when it was given to Hurricane for his birthday. I would have sworn that he had burned in an accidental fire that spontaneously sprung from our backyard.
But no. As I gathered things for our yard sale this weekend, Scary-Ass Clown made an appearance. He eyed me with suspicion as I warily applied a 'Free' sticker to his head. I would happily have paid to have him removed from the house.
In what should be no surprise to anyone, no one wanted him. This morning I took a chance that my MIL would not go to a goodwill 20 miles from her house and buy him again (because she has done this sort of thing before) and left him there.

First, I would like you to note his many pockets. Most would assume that these are for shoes. Hurricane and I came to the same conclusion. Those pockets are to hold spare body parts that Scary-Ass Clown could not consume on the spot.
Hurricane took one look at that creepy grin and started crying, burrowing his head into my neck please don't let that thing eat me!
I also feel the need to point out the eyebrows. Those very furry eyebrows. It feels like real hair. Possibly animal. Certainly not her own as it's the wrong color but I wouldn't have been surprised if it was.

After the bejewelled bird barrette that I buried in the backyard and the lighted moving picture of baby Jesus, now Scary-Ass Clown? I find myself more and more wary of opening her 'gifts'. I have a feeling the next one might actually bite.

I will kill you in your sleep!
Be hypnotized by my overly hair eyebrows!

Welcome Little One.........

Congratulations NK, and welcome to your very sweet little girl!

Yard Sale Angst

So we decided to sell a bunch of the crap, er, our stuff that we longer need/want/use. I've been getting stuff together and pricing it all for Saturday. Mr X came in and leaned over my shoulder, frowning.
"Don't you think you're pricing that a bit high? Who's going to buy it at that price?"

"Buy it? This is what I'm willing to pay them to take it away."

Seriously. My grandmother was a yard sale queen. It was physically impossible for her to pass one of those signs and not stop. Most of the things she would buy were things that no human being on the planet would ever want or need. Some things that no one recognized as anything other than a hunk or metal or plastic. And she never paid full price. She once argued with a lady for 10 minutes over something priced at a dime. In the time that it took her to aggravate the lady so much that she gave it to my grandmother for free, my brother had decided to see if a car's cigarette lighter would really scar his skin. It does. But hey, my grandma got a thimble from Ohio for free.

My main worry is that no one will show up.

"Gah! No one is going to come and look at this crap! I'm going to be sitting in our driveway surrounded by crap and our neighbors will really think I'm batty and ohmygoshwhatamIdoingthisfor??? ARRRGGHHH!"

"Seriously? Chill out. If no one shows, we'll just call my mom."

Personally? I don't think this was funny.

His sister once tried to get rid of some clothes that she no longer needed since she lost a lot of weight. Her mom came over and took the clothes. She insisted that they could be tailored to fit her daughter again. Currently they are collecting dust amid the other piles of Only-God-Knows-What-That-Is-Oh-Crap-It-Just-Moved! in their garage.

If his mom comes over, we'll never be able to get rid of this stuff. It will just sit in my house and collect dust until the dust magically comes to life and takes over my brain and I become her and oh my gosh no wonder I can't sleep anymore somebody make it stop!!!

So, yes. We're having a yard sale this weekend. Just please for the love of chocolate, don't tell my mother-in-law.

Dear Girl,

Many times you have discussed your future with me. Occasionally you have even understood that this future involves you living in your own house apart from me. Other times the thought of not being under my roof seems to frighten you and you insist that you will always want to live here, with us.

There are times you seem uncertain about what your role in life will be. Is it your duty to be a mother and wife? Or are you supposed to go to college and find work? Is there a hard and defined rule to what you are meant for?

When asked at school what you want to be when you grow up, your answers have varied from swim teacher, to lawyer, police officer, amusement park employee or mother.

I want you to know that those things do not have to be exclusive of eachother.

There is no hard and defined rule for you.

No one can tell you what you are meant for my dear girl. Only you.

If there is one thing you get from me, one thing you can hold true, let it be this.

Your fate, your future, cannot be controlled by anyone else. My daughter, your fate is in your hands.


May they always be full.

Sleepless In Seattle

Hello Insomnia, my old friend. It's been almost 6 months since I've seen you. I almost fooled myself into thinking that I was in the clear.
Moron.
At different points in my life I've dealt with bouts of insomnia. As a teen and non-parenty type, it wasn't a big deal.
But once I had kid #1? The insomnia thing sucks.
It's hard to function as a decent parent when you are running on 2 hours of sleep to no sleep for several days in a row.
I just can't get my mind to shut up it's running commentary.
I've been writing this blog for a year now. (Holy shit!) I thought maybe, just maybe, it would help if I had some way to release the stupid things that run through my head all day.
But here I am again. Sitting up in bed, staring out the window as the neighbor's cat chases air around our yard.
Figures. I finally get kid #2 to sleep through the night and I can't.

Bonding.

I'm sitting on my deck sipping my iced tea on a warm and quiet late morning. I'm watching the kids as they play .
Hurricane runs after Girl as she races after the ball he just kicked. They are both laughing. She grabs for the ball and turns, leaning over.
"Here buddy, kick it!"

He reaches up and grabs her hand to steady himself and kicks the ball.

Again, he follows as she runs for the ball. They play for an hour before it's time to come in for lunch.

He sits in his highchair, she at the table by his side.
He squeals merrily as she contorts lips and eyes into goofy poses for his amusement.
She leans over and whispers something in his ear.
He smiles and touches her nose.

Later, after his nap, they are once again in the backyard. This time in the kiddie pool.
He is waving his arms like a maniac, spraying sheets of water in all directions. She laughs and shows him how to load the plastic fish to squirt.
They play until they are wrinkled a bit chilled.

It is evening now. Dinner is over. The light outside is slowly dimming, the air, cooler. I am cleaning up the kitchen, preparing for the next day.
The kids are bathed, ready for bed. Hair damp and brushed. Pajamas soft and sweet smelling.
He sits in her lap as she reads to him, pointing out the animals in the book, cheering him on as he names a few on his own.
He claps his hands. She smiles.
He leans over and kisses her. She pulls him in for a kiss.

I tuck them both into bed.

Despite those days where I think they'll simply never get along, never accept the other's place in this house, I see it now. What they have is what I had always wanted with my own siblings. I hope it will remain. I wish I could bottle it and feed it to them on Those Days.
Girl had spent so much time talking about how she wanted a sibling, specifically a brother, that I don't think she fully realized what it would mean. She spent 7 years as a one and only. Then one day she had to share it all and it was unsettling.
I remember in the hospital as we handed him to her and she smiled, said 'hi little bro'. I also remember how many times she asked me to just put him away so that we could play again. 19 months later and there are still days I wonder. And then there are these moments that take my breath away.

Watching them now, my heart is full but light. And it's good.

Betrayal

As usual, my very best intentions have been thwarted by a furry red muppet bastard and his number one fan's sensitive nature.
It seemed like a wonderful idea. A sprinkler made just for babies and toddlers in the shape of Elmo. It sprayed a very fine mist in a rather non-threatening (and thankfully not giggling) manner.
But much like his first encounter with the giggling (and yes. I just now, months later, discovered that those Elmo heads giggle when squeezed. So great, now Hurricane can listen to Elmo giggle maniacally while the muppet gobbles up his toes. Fabulous.) slippers, it did not go as expected.



LaLa my dear friend! It's raining! Come inside with me and
we'll eat cookies and plot to destroy Cat!


Wait! Lala? NO! Say it ain't so!


What the hell mom? What did you
do to my friend?

Ugh. He wanted no part of this thing that spit at him. He sat on the side walk and cried La La Nooooo.......

And in case I didn't already understand just how very strange a boy he was, he decided to reveal his fear of the alphabet.

It started simply enough. I began the afternoon, after he wakes from his nap cheerful and angelic (shut up), as I always do. With a cheerful, if a bit (shut up) off key rendition of the ABC's.

He whimpered when I reached C.

Whined at F.

Rubbed his eyes and threw himself into a heap of warm angst in my lap at H.

Covered my mouth and pleaded for me to stop at M.

Began to cry at P.

R made him yell 'NONONONO!' as he covered his head.

By W he was red-faced and tear streaked, gasping in agony.

Z.

HATE.

I couldn't believe that it was the song that had caused him to react that way.

I tried to sing it again but didn't make it beyond B.

I thought maybe he was turning into Simon Cowell thanks to his father's secret addiction to American Idol.

So I sang Twinkle Twinkle Little Star (it has the same tune as ABC), and he clapped and smiled.

I waited until Mr X got him.

"Watch this."

I made it to D before his little body burst into flames and the letters simply smothered him.

"Whoa."

Mr X tried to sing it for him.

He was immediately tackled and bludgeoned with a Weeble.

I am not sure what sort of falling out my son has had with the alphabet. Only that it was so severe as to have caused their banishment.

Sesame Street has never been so sad.

She'll Have What He's Having

Once upon a time, not terribly long ago, I dreaded the 4th of July. The fireworks lit by idiot neighbors hell bent on setting our house on fire, the fireworks lit by certain unnamed individuals who very nearly blew themselves up as they stood over fireworks lit by other certain unnamed individuals (and for once it wasn't me!), the loud booming, the smoke, the residue that thickly coated everything on our street.
No, that hasn't changed. There are still people on our street who think fireworks safety involves pointing the roman candle up in the air and holding it IN THEIR HANDS as they light it. Our street is littered with casings and only a few body parts. Ash has coated my van in fine gray film.

What has changed is that I now have my very own drug dealer. Someone I hold very dear for they have made it possible to actually leave my house on 4th of July and enjoy the neighbors injuries in person without worrying that our overgrown lap dog has hurled himself through a window in an effort to rescue us from the Smoke! and the Noise! and My G-d Don't These Humans Know They Are In DANGER????

Yes, our lovable brute of Dog has one true fear. Fireworks.
He paces and cries. He buries his head under the bed and whines. He hides in the bathtub and howls. And should we dare to attempt to leave the house and put ourselves in such close proximity to the danger, well. He feels morally obligated to protect us from ourselves.
We realized this the year we left a window open and he jumped through the screen to 'save' us.
So now we happily sedate him. And because of where we live, we must do this for several days. He spends about 4 to 5 days happily wandering through the house in a daze. I imagine it to be like taking care of a very stoned old man. He stumbles and pants. His eyes go from being ridiculously wide open to all squinty and bloodshot. If he is not quite where you left him, simply follow the trail of drool to the kitchen where you will find him looking rather forlornly at the pantry where all the good trash is. Also? Cookies. Human cookies. Also? The staring. At nothing. Yesterday I found him in the hallway staring at the nightlight. I snapped my fingers, called his name, waved food in his general direction but he didn't budge. Just drooled.

Yesterday we spent a large portion of our time laughing at our inebriated dog (as he was sadly the only inebriated one in our house) and trying to confine Hurricane to his own body.

Yesterday was also the day I realized just how different my two children will be.
My dear Girl. She and Dog have much in common. We had to physically carry her off the porch. She wouldn't go near the sparklers much less actually hold one.
In fact, I think her exact words were Are you insane? I'm not touching that and you can't make me lunatic!
I suggested that she go inside and watch from under the bed as Dog often did but she did finally, albeit reluctantly, join us.
She cried. A lot. At first anyway.
By the end though, she actually held a sparkler. Granted it had already been lit for awhile and it only had a few seconds left. Also, she held t as far away from her body as possible and looked as though she may drop it and run at any second. But she did it. And I was proud of her.

Hurricane. Geez. That kid went ape shit. He didn't know whether to sit, stand, or dance. So he did all three. All night.
He pointed and his body shook.
Whoa!!!! OOOOOOOO!!!! WOWWOWWOW!
We had to hold onto him at one point to keep him from running into the street and grabbing the fountain of fireworks our neighbor had set off. He wanted so desperately to hold the pretty lights.
He turned and twisted, craning his neck to see everything being set off. He was in awe.
By the end of our night he was in arms, his head resting against mine. The people who live behind us set off their grand finale and as we watched the sky light up in purple, red, blue and green, Hurricane whispered wow, so softly. I think that summed it all up for him perfectly.

Today as we left the house he lifted his face to the sky in search of those pretty lights he loved so much. When there was no grand show, he hunched his shoulders, raised his arms palms up, bent at the elbows and simply asked where the boo?

Girl simply breathed. Relief. She has 364 days before she will once again be wishing she was Dog.

Please Tell Me She Snores.

The Girl had her martial arts thing today. Hurricane and I sat off to the side, half watching. Mostly he tried to run out there and join her.

Finally I gave up trying to hold him back and strapped him to his high chair. For my effort I was treated to the Glare and Growl. I say growl but really? It's funny. Unless you've seen The Grudge, Then not so much. Because you know the part where the wet misshapen Asian girl opens her mouth and makes that guttural noise? Hurricane does an excellent impression that sends ice water down my spine.

In an effort to distract him I ran my fingers up and down his back through the fabric of the umbrella stroller. He is so very ticklish and his back is one of the worst spots.

He squealed and his eyes got wide.

I did it again.

He jumped and laughed. I started laughing too and then it happened.

I snorted.

Yes. I sometimes snort when I laugh. In fact, if I'm really laughing, there's going to be a snort in there somewhere.

Most of the time I can disguise it. Or it's soft enough that no one notices.

This was not one of those times. This was one of those times that one of those 'perfect' moms had to be nearby and of course heard me. And laughed and of course told her equally perfect husband who looked at me and smirked.

She was lean, platinum blonde, perfect teeth, manicured nails and impeccably dressed.

The type that makes me feel as though I've been playing in my mother's makeup.

And I snort when I laugh. Dork.

Things My Mother Never Told Me

Boy is that ever a loaded title. I think it would be a shorter post to simply put down the things she did tell me. Hmm. Maybe the things she told me that were useful. Yes. That would be a very brief post.

Perhaps a more appropriate title would have been "Things Other Mothers Probably Didn't Tell Their Daughters About Parenthood That Maybe Would Have Been Helpful. Or Not. But We'll Never Know Because They Didn't Tell Us."
But I don't think that title would have fit so well. You get the point. (shut up dumbass!- Says me. To me.)

*It will soon seem perfectly normal to have a child climbing into your lap as attempt to pee.

*Boys need to be pointed south.

*If you do not point them south, you will get very wet very quickly.

*An 8 year old can demolish a bathroom in 3 minutes flat given the proper motivation and the aid of a toddler armed with a rubber ducky and a love of toilets and flushing.

*Rubber duckies do not fit down the toilet. But they can get stuck just enough to cause a flood.

*Silence is scary. It means the children have found something interesting (Read: destructive) to do. Sometimes the screaming is a good thing.

*Cats don't like oatmeal. Not even if it's blue and made in one of your kitchen drawers by one very bored child.

*Children repeat the one word you wish they hadn't heard. Often at the most unfortunate moment. Like at your grandparent's anniversary dinner when she (3 at the time) asks your grandmother to pass the fucking rice. Be grateful grandma can't hear well.

*Children have the uncanny ability to physically harm you when you least expect it. Like the head butting thing I mentioned before? The one where you think it's entirely possible that your toddler just broke your nose? Or when they actually do break your glasses? (Yes. He did.)

*When it comes to food, kids can be damn picky. They will not eat simply because you told them too. Yes, mixed vegetable have to be separated before this one will eat them. That one won't eat anything on the plate if there is even a hint of vegetable in there. This one won't eat things that are red. That one will only eat things that can be made into finger food.

*Kids can also be extremely possessive of said food. Like when the girl stabbed her grandpa in the hand with her fork when he tried to take a bite of her pancake. Or when version 2.0 took a bite out of girl for taking a bite out of his ice cream.

*Kids know what the ice cream truck is on instinct. It doesn't matter how many times you tell them that music is for the vegetable truck, they know.

*Children like sticking stuff in holes. Cover your nose or you'll get woken up when one of them decides to shove one of your tampons (which they really loved unwrapping and dipping into the toilet first) up your nostril. Nothing like a little toilet water in your nose to start your day.

*A child who can memorize 3 Shel Silverstein poems in 2 days for a theater camp production will not remember to flush a toilet even though you have been begging her for 2 years to please for pete's sake flush!

*Toothpaste to child is as paint to Picasso. (Also, according to Sarcastic Journalist, poop. Thank you dear Lord for sparing me on this one.)

*Pen does not easily come out of most flooring.

*You will, on occasion, lose your shit.

*Kids like to bang their heads on things. Hard. It's loud and will freak you out but will not cause any brain damage. I hope. (and I also kind of hope that it isn't just my kids who do this because otherwise. Shit.)

*It doesn't matter where you hide that really loud annoying toy. They will find it. Even if you wrap it up in plastic bags and bury it in the garbage bag under the 'leftovers' from your MIL's house.

The Dark Side

My kids look sweet and, most of the time, are so very well-mannered in public.

Internet?

It is a giant hideous lie!

I can leave them in the living room happily playing together and step 5 feet into the kitchen only to be treated to screaming and the sounds of hell opening up at their feet the moment I am out of their range of vision.

Sure there are moments of peace. Most often between the hours of 8 pm and 7 am. But even occasionally while they are awake and *gasp* together!

It is during these rare moments that they are plotting to destroy whatever grasp on my sanity I may have left.

Today was an especially bad day.

*Hurricane decided to bite himself for once. I can only hope that he has finally learned that biting hurts and he's not going to do it to other people anymore. In the meantime, he has a lovely imprint of his top and bottom teeth on his arm. I asked him what he did and he pointed directly at his sister who imploded on the spot. But since I know her to have a rather big mouth and this was a little bite, I knew he was simply doing what siblings have been doing since the beginning of time, looking to get the other one in trouble for nothing.

*I sent them into the backyard to play because I couldn't take the screaming anymore and thought it would be nice to share it with the neighborhood. There is a mound of rocks back there that Mr X is supposed to be using to line the garden boxes but instead it has become the kids domain. I was working in the kitchen where I could keep on eye on things. It had been quiet for awhile so I figured that Girl X must have buried Hurricane under the mound.
I looked up in time to see Hurricane throw a rock at his sister's head.
Girl X responded by telling him she was going to feed him to his Elmo slippers.

*I thought maybe they needed some time apart. That lasted all of 5 minutes before Girl X was begging to play with her brother again.

5 minutes later she was trying to steal his car from him so he chucked it at her head.

He has really good aim.

*As I was making dinner, they started again. Hurricane was content to sit at the table and play with his car. Girl X decided she liked his seat better so she simply sat down and slid him off the chair.
He screamed and threw a car at her head. Again.

Once she started screaming at him and he started screaming back, I lost it.

I started slamming the frying pan down on the stove and just screaming over them.

They both stopped and just looked at me.

"STOPITSTOPITSTOPITSTOPITSTOPIT!"
I had to leave the room. I was crying and on the verge of just snapping at them both and I didn't want to do that.

I had to lock myself in the bathroom and when Girl X came to tell me she was "hungry and what's for dinner hurricane hit me are you coming out what are you doing mom are youinthereareyouokcanIhaveacookiewhen
isdaddygettinghomemoooommmmm????"

"Mom is on a time out. Go away."

I love my kids. Most of the time I even love being a mom. I'm usually pretty laid back. But every now and then, my mother gets into my head and starts speaking through my mouth and she will not shut up.

That's my biggest fear. That I will be her and my kids will hate me.

Conversations in the car

Me: "Can we count popcorn as a vegetable?"

Mr X: "No."

"Why not? It's corn."

"Yeah but once you pop it, it loses it's vegetability."

"It loses its... vege.. vegeta.. ve-wha?"

"Vegetability."

"That's not a word."

"It is now."

"That makes it sound like vegetables have super powers."

"That would make a really cool Halloween costume."

"Have you been eating expired yogurt again?"

"Not this week. But really, think about it. I bet there's a way to start off in a corn kernel costume then like, pull a cord and have it explode into popcorn. Like BAM! Gimme some candy or I'll pop! and then go back to a kernel before you get to the next house."

"Tell me something."

"What?"

"How the hell did you ever get me to marry you?"

"I didn't say this kind of stuff when we were dating."

"Oh yeah."

"I don't know where I'm going."

"You must have lost your vegetability."

From the backseat:

"Promise me that you two will never speak to my friends."

Which means we have filled our obligation as parents. Our daughter is embarrassed by us. Yay us!

Kicking and Screaming

I told Mr X that his birthday (which was yesterday and he is 37 and I totally didn't forget. Really.) present from me was tickets to go see BB freaking King.
Right now he's in Arizona working. Again.
First he asked how much the tickets were.
I cringed. Because really? Week's worth of groceries and I almost had second thoughts but I don't care. I'll sell a damn kidney.
Then he asked what time it started.
8 pm.
Silence.
"Isn't that kind of late for Hurricane?"
"No, he won't be there."
Then he asked how far away it was and I spoke as quickly as I possibly could so that maybe he wouldn't notice that I said 2 hours which would mean that we'd be gone basically all night.
That's when he pretended that his cell phone was cutting out.
So I hung up and called his sister to ask her to watch the kids for the night of the concert.
By the time Mr X finally called me back, it was set.
I am going to see BB freaking King and he's going with me. End of story. Sort of.
Except for the part where I'll have to drug him and then have him carried out to the car to be driven to the show and possibly cuffed to the table.

I think after what it took for me to actually get the tickets I should be able to not have to fight about it.

Because I had to pick up the phone and push buttons and talk to actual real life people. And if you had heard me today, you would maybe be thinking that it was my first time using the phone. Because I said stupid things like "If I could I'd bear his children" or "Do you think he'd mind if I sat in his lap while he sang?" or "Um, hi. I'd like um to BB Freaking King tickets um buy now. I have um visa. Or a kidney."

So, if you answered the phone today and thought that maybe you were talking to someone who was perhaps mentally challenged, I'm sorry. That was just me.

Before the Thrill is Gone.

I have been dancing around the house all night. I can't stop. Mr X had to hold me down because I wouldn't stop jumping up and down and he feared that I might give myself a concussion if I hit the wall with my head again. What? You don't bang your various body parts (unintentionally of course) on the walls when you dance?

Really?

Well. Anyway.

So excited, danger to myself, ok, we're all caught up.

Because I am going to go and see BB Freaking King in concert in August!!

Sorry- still jumping. I'm just so damned excited! See, every time I've ever had a chance to go see him, something has come up. This time? I don't care if Mr X cuts his arm off on the way, we're tournequeting that thing and enjoying the damned concert even if I have to dose him with valium to stifle his crying.

But that's not really the issue.

The issue is that we have never left Hurricane in the care of another person.

And it's not because of me.

It's Mr X.

At first I thought maybe he felt sorry for the person who would have to watch him. Yesterday Hurricane pulled a shelving unit down on his sister (She's totally fine) and there is that whole plot to destroy the house thing he has going on. But I thought with proper warning, a plan and maybe a toddler sized straight jacket they'd be fine.

No.

So, I thought maybe it's the lack of trustworthy people? My parents are too far away and his parents, um, I can't even complete that without laughing. Seriously. We just saw them this weekend and I couldn't even look at her face because she had painted her eyebrows purple.
Yes. Purple.
How can you leave your child in the care of a woman who would do that to their eyebrows? And I must point out that it wasn't like she had plucked her eyebrows and then filled them in with a little purple. No. She had actually painted purple arched eyebrows over her real ones.
I'm afraid Hurricane would return looking like Barney.
Also? She scares him.
And me.
Back on track.
Trustworthy people.
His sister. She's awesome and would be completely capable of watching him. Also? Friends of ours who he loves and I sometimes think would like to adopt would be great and perfectly willing.

No.

It's him. Mr X.

He simply cannot stand the thought of someone else taking care of him.
He is trying to convince me that the only way he can go is if he can take his phone and maybe spend the concert under the table talking to Hurricane.
Or perhaps sneaking him into the concert with us.
Or I should just go by myself or maybe take a friend and wouldn't our new neighbor like to see BB freaking King?

I think the only reasonable solution is to club him over the head and drag him in there. I will handcuff him to his chair and hold the phone. If necessary, I will duct tape his mouth shut.

Unless you have a better idea?

Motorin'

In our marriage, Mr X is the Big Spender. EBay is my personal nightmare. I am on a first name basis with the UPS, Fed-Ex and USPS drivers. They bring bones for Dog. I think they fear that he will bite them. I have had to refrain from telling them that they need only fear leaving in need of a towel from the shower of drool he wishes to bestow upon them.
I like to save our money for things like, bills. Food. Clothes for the kids. College. Extra money that could be put towards savings. Oh Savings!! Screw Brad Pitt, in my fantasies the knight on the white horse is a padded savings account. And while we have one, I always look at it and think about how long it will be before we can pad it just a bit more.
Mr X likes EBay. He sees that little Buy Now! button in his sleep. I woke him up last night because he was laughing in his sleep. He had been dreaming about buying The Packers on EBay and he had the winning bid. I'm not entirely sure how to react to the reality that he was more excited about having the winning bid than the Packers. I don't think he even noticed me making out with Brett Favre.
Which perhaps explains his inability to walk away from the tricycle at Toys-R-Us that we really didn't need yet but he had to buy because we had a $5 off coupon and it came with a free movie pass! So what if it cost $50 and I could have possibly bought 2 of them and Hurricane is 18 MONTHS AND CANNOT EVEN REACH THE PEDALS.

So, we bought a tricycle. And then thought maybe it's be funny to teach him to ride it. Except that, you know, he can't reach the pedals.

First up: Mental Preparation.
I am the tricycle! I am tough! I am MEAN! GRRRRR!

Step 2: Safety first!

I know it's kind of silly to put a helmet on a kid on a tricycle, but this is Hurricane. And about 2 seconds after this picture was taken, he fell backwards off the bike and landed on his head.

Step 3: Concentration.

Here he is concentrating on using his mind control to make Daddy push him up and down the street for 45 minutes.

Round 1- He scooted off the seat and walked the bike down the sidewalk. scoot scoot shuffle

Round 2- Sat him on the bike, physically placed his feet on the pedals. Feet do not reach the pedals.

"He'll grow into it! It's not too soon!" Mr X declares as he attempts to streeettccchh Hurricane's legs to the pedals.

And Hurricane rewarded him with a kick because he got pulled off the bike seat.

Round 3- Mr X gives up and resigns himself to walking hunched over for the next 6 months as he pushes our son up and down the hill.

Next week, we take the training wheels off of Girl X's bike and I get to take pictures of Mr X running behind her, holding onto the seat as she screams at him not to let go. This is immediately followed by her leaping off the bike while Mr X continues to run.

Proof That We Don't Love Her

Girl X has been begging for a year now to take some form of martial arts.

"Come on Dad! I'll be able to kick boys' butts when they try to hold my hand!"
"But Mom, it will be good for me to have that..... (Quickly scans paper) dis..eh...p.lll.in.... discipline! Yeah."
Damn. She really knows the right thing to say!
So, despite the fact that she frequently, unintentionally, kicks herself in the head, we acquiesced.
$87 later and she's standing in the grass with a new t-shirt and white belt kicking herself in the head (much to the dismay of her sensei) and imagining herself as the next Jackie Chan (I feel bad that I will have to tell her that Jackie is a man and not a woman as she firmly believes).
I sat off to the side and watched her kick, chop, bend and 'HIE!' for an hour. I thought about how she would be at the end of the 8 weeks and if maybe I shouldn't be teaching Hurricane some new form of self defense for when she begins to use him as her practice dummy.
And then it happened.

She bent to the reverse horse stance and fell over. Flat on her face.

Sorry kid. That's certainly an inherited trait.

Adding to my fear, the instructor (an entirely too enthusiastic man who enjoys exposing his chest hairs) informed us that the kids would eventually begin learning sword play.

My girl with a sharp object?

Someone is going to lose a limb!

We Read Winnie The Pooh One Too Many Times

Girl X has the most amazing organizational system. One that is completely incomprehensible to anyone but her.
While she is forever losing her sneakers, or her sweater (usually only realized at the very moment that the bus pulls up to our house resulting, more often than not, in my having to drive her to school as she puts on her sneakers/brushes her teeth/practices her spelling words), ask her where her favorite doll is and she will unearth it from the massive pile of toys she was using to replicate the Eiffel Tower.
Still, it makes me crazy.
Which is why we recently spent several hours cleaning up her room, returning toys to their proper shelves and dirty clothes to the laundry room as she bemoaned the fact that she would never be able to find anything what with it all being placed in it's proper space. Well, that and the fact that she would much rather have been plotting world domination.
As I pulled out her tub of Polly Pockets (I hate those things. More than Elmo. All those tiny clothes and tiny shoes frequently found in the wash...) and explained that she would need to sort through them all, removing the things that didn't belong, placing dolls and clothes in separate bins, I noticed her eyes roll back into her head and her body simply sag.
I smiled and went back to my pile and waited. I knew she was about to say something that would make it all worth it.

sigh

She looked at me sideways and gave me her very best puppy eyes.

"It's such a very big job, and I'm such a very, very small girl."


I simply smiled and she returned to her work, defeated.

Well Baby Mambo

Hurricane's Doctor appointments are a dance. And it's exhausting.

I love his Doctor. The receptionists love Hurricane, helped by the fact that he has been flirting with them since his first appointment. He loves to hold the hand of the brunette and babble softly to her and smile. The other he offers his belly and raises his eyebrows, extending his hand as an invitation to tickle that softly rounded tummy and hear him giggle.
The nurses. He is so wary of them for they bring those sharp things that hurt.
He likes to touch his Doctor's face, her cheek. Smiles. She speaks softly to him.
It's comforting to have somewhere to go when he is throwing up on me that won't freak him out.
Plus, the waiting room is always filled with grandparent types who think Hurricane is just the most prrressshhhhuss baby boy.
So, we get there for his check up and I was prepared. I had graham crackers to prevent a hungry meltdown, milk for a thirsty one and toys to keep him away from the dreaded chalk board that makes me sneeze.
He briefly flirted with his girlfriends but was more interested in getting over to the Toys! Glorious Toys! Toys we don't have at home so therefore they are so interesting!
For a moment he was content with the little beads on wire. And by moment I mean nano-second because his little eye was on the chalk the entire time. I could see his mind working out a plan to get to the chalk. Forbidden chalk.
I positioned myself directly in front of the forbidden chalk.
He signed for eat. I handed him a graham cracker and he smiled.
Two bites.
Throw the cracker.
As I went to pick it up, I saw him from the corner of my eye make a dash for the chalk.
Sucker.
He was superpissed (as opposed to his usual pissed) that I foiled The Plan! The Plan to get the Forbidden Chalk!

He lowered his head and glared up at me.

I can assure you, it is thoroughly uncomfortable to get eyed down by a toddler.

Sign for drink.

I hand him his milk.

He slowly walks away, drinking, smiling at the other people in the room.

Then he 'throws' (by which I mean he carefully sets himself down all while trying to make it look like he's getting ready for a fit, and I'm sorry but until you are willing to sacrifice yourself and do it right, I will not take those fits seriously young man) himself down and starts to 'cry' (all while looking back at me to see if I noticed). I had to see what he was going to do. Pus, the blue-hair group was starting to coo and 'aw-poor-baby' at him and I don't want him thinking that it's not normal for us to laugh at him when he falls.
So I picked him up and hugged him and rubbed his back.
He backed up and pointed to his milk.
As I went to pick it up, he made a beeline for the Forbidden Chalk! Woo-hoo!

So, he was supersuperpissed when I stopped him. Again.

Even more so when he stepped back, angrily pointing at me and yelling 'NONONO!' and I started laughing at him.

We finally got called back to the room.

23 lbs 3 oz and 31 1/2 inches tall at 18 months.

I wonder if he'll always so much smaller than other kids his age.

Then it's shot time. And he knew it because I wouldn't put his pants on.

The kid who loves to be naked kept handing me his pants and asking 'go go?' As if I would somehow forget all about the shots.

When the 2 nurses came in, he just turned and glared at me.

I lay him back on the table and felt myself getting anxious. I always do. As much as we laugh when they fall or kick themselves in the head, I always start crying when they get shots. I tried talking to him but he wanted nothing to do with me.
Well, until he felt the plunger actually go into chunky thigh.
Then, he would have done anything I asked if it meant I would just pick him up and kiss the booboos because ohmywhatthehellmommythatfreakinhurtImeanreally
whatdidIdotodeservethatIjust
wantedthedamnchalk!
After the left the room he instantly stopped crying and signed for eat.
See? Didn't hurt. I just wanted those evil women to feel bad. I think I made that one chick cry! Did you see that?
He touched the bandaids on his thighs and sniffed.
I put his clothes back on and we made our way back to the front.
And as I made our next appointment.............


He ate a piece of chalk.

Pessimistically Optimistic

Yup. That's fairly accurate to what I'm feeling now.
D-day. Er, DR day. I love his Dr. Not just because he's the bearer of, I don't really want to say good, but maybe understandable?, news. Hmm.

Anyway.

Mr X has Hepatitis B. Something very common in Vietnam, where he was born. Vaccines we take for granted here, not readily available there. Hepatitis is rampant. It's possibly why I cringe when I hear a parent proclaim themselves against vaccines. This smug part of me thinks moron because they don't realize how easy it would be for it to all go wrong. But that's a whole 'nother topic and not why I'm blogging on a weekend. Something I rarely do.

He got it as a child in Vietnam. We don't really know how as no one in his family has it. His Dr, a gastroenterologist, is a specialist in Hepatitis and believes that in some cases, it can be transmitted through saliva, not just blood. A common game in the orphanages then (can't say about now) was a spitting game. Gross, but not the point. Before his family moved here, they stayed in an orphanage for awhile.

When you get Hepatitis as an adult it's different. You either beat it, as I did it, or you die. No symptoms. No clue what's lurking there.

When you get it as a child, it's with you for life. However long that may be.
Then, you have two types. ENG positive or ENG negative (and forgive me if it's just a bit off, I'm still learning myself). A lot of what they know about Hepatitis B is theory. It's a theory that those who are ENG positive are worse off.
Mr X was ENG positive. His liver biopsy would have been acceptable for someone who was 75, but he is 36. So, not good.

But in the 9 weeks that we had to wait, the medicine, Hepsera, began to work.
He converted to ENG negative. A test of his blood showed that he went from a high viral load of Hepatitis DNA to no detectable trace. It's as close to a remission as possible with this disease. Except that he's always going to have it.
He has to stay on the medicine for at least a few years or it will just come back. His liver is scarred but without a detectable trace of the virus, it will begin to heal itself. How cool is that? An organ that can fix itself. Sort of.
No special diet. Also? No alcohol. He can't risk even the slightest bit of damage to his liver, but we already knew that. It's strange but, it's life as always for us.
It is still there, but it's not this dark cloud waiting to strike us down.