Day One: Zoo

Ok so not exactly day one because really day one was when they got there and then day 2 we went grocery shopping and what is there to say about comparing cheeses in the market?
Right.
So technically day 3: Zoo.
Still boring.
I thought it would be great to spend the day walking about staring mindlessly at animals and maybe making some animal noises and such.

Sadly for us we went on the day that all the animals decided to have a napping contest.
Except the hippos and some of the monkeys.
All the rest? Nothing. Not even a sniffle. The orangutans took one look at us and put a burlap bag over their heads. I am fairly certain that given the option they would have preferred the bags on our heads.
And just to make sure that I understood how much this was a bad idea, the day decided to be much colder than it was supposed to be and I had to buy the kids overpriced sweatshirts. My credit card hates me. Deeply hates me.

From the petting zoo where there were no animals to be pet so we had to settle for petting a fly that wouldn't go away.

The hippos which actually are hippos and not plastic things stuck in the water in a lame attempt to fool us that we were looking at real hippos as I had always assumed because they have never moved before. (Your welcome for the endless sentence).

Even the butterflies took the day off.
As we walked the trails in search of some non-snoring type animals, we kept hearing this 'whoop'. Loud and obnoxious.

Then suddenly very fast.

And all too familiar.

Much like the noise I used to pretend I wasn't hearing as my parent's room shared a wall with mine.

Pointing this out to parents proved to be too much and I spent the rest of the trip trying to forget that my parents ever had sex. Ew.

The whooping turned out to be the monkeys. Monkeys which fell asleep just as soon as came over to see them.

Bastards.

I thought we could maybe salvage the day by taking the kids over to the zoo's new playland. Except that it was closed for the day. I guess playlands need their sleep too.

To make the day just perfect, Girl decided to show off her newly honed snarky skills.

I'm still amazed that she didn't somehow end up becoming part of an exhibit.

Control

I am truly in no mood for recaps and pictures which will surely take several posts in order to truly capture the events of my parents visit. All culminating in our fully understanding what it means when our heating vent is directly connected to our daughter's room. Because that is where my parents slept. And sound travels.
Ew.
I am feeling particularly sour as I have also begun to fully understand that the next several years are going to leave me in breathless anticipation of the Girl's moving out. Perhaps even more so now that she has informed me of her intention to move as far as she possibly can from wherever I stand.
She is 8. She has hit the 'tween' years. She has found out that I have buttons and oh how she loves to push them.
This morning was a fairly typical sampling of an average day with her.
I wouldn't let her wear her brand new skirt to play outside with Mishka. So instead of simply throwing on some shorts and having fun, she marched around the house in her underwear yelling at everyone to not look at her.
I directed her to her room where she upended the clothing her grandmother had generously folded for her.
Reason does not exist when she gets like this.
Instead, it is much more satisfying to throw a book at me. So she did. And I threw it in the trash (and in the trash it shall remain!).
My natural instinct to throttle her is always overtaken by reason and I walk away. But I cannot deny that innate urge to slap that snotty smug grin.
No, I won't cross that line. Instead I sigh. Count to a bajillion and ground her happy little ass.
The cherry on top of my pie tonight was when she turned to me and said "I guess you're happy now that you've ruined my life!"
Damn skippy, kid. I consider it my privilege and my grandest achievement to ruin your life on a daily basis.

Certifiable

I know I owe a better post than this but vacation isn't technically over until tomorrow. So instead I bring you more proof that we are insane.
How else can I explain the fact that within 6 hours of learning of her existence, we became the very confused owners of Mishka, a 6 week old purebred Alaskan Husky.
Mishka, with the softest gray eyes and the sweetest temperament I have ever seen in a puppy.
When the breeder set her down at our feet she bolted under my legs and hid there, shaken from the car ride that brought her into our lives. She spent the ride to our house with her nose in my armpit, occasionally stealing glances from under my shirt with those lovely gray eyes.
Auggie, the original Dog wonder has taken a fatherly attitude to her.
Baxter, the much-beleaguered Cat, has given up any hope that he may have a peaceful space in this house. He took one look at Mishka and glared at me. Granted, it has been a rather unpleasant weekend for him. My sil shaved him. I believe she called it the 'lion' cut. I took one look at him and nearly peed my pants laughing.
Hurricane's happy squeals and rapid-fire cries for "meeka!" have been greeted with small wet kisses.
Girl melted at Mishka's feet and was treated to gentle nibbles.
Mr X sighed that very defeated sigh. He never wanted a female dog. He had his heart set on one that would maybe not shed so much.
Still, once he knew he'd been defeated, he demanded only the very best in puppy food for her.
He is currently curled up with her. Snoring together.

And I?

I love puppy breath.

And her absolutely ridiculous eyebrows.

We Now Interrupt Your Regularly Scheduled Vacation Because OMG! Fuckers!

So what is a really good way to completely fuck up a vacation?

Um. Have your husband 'lose' his wallet at Chucky Cheese On Crack only to find it 6 hours later after someone has taken all of your credit cards, cash and ATM card.

Fuckers.

I hope they use it. Because we cancelled the cards and filed a report with the police and it's a felony and I want them to get arrested and dammitalltheydeservelifeinprison!

And I had a rainbow colada to make me feel better. And another because it was really good. And since I drink exactly never you get semi-drunk blogging and lots of swearing and it's taken me exactically 43 minutes to type this because I have to keep going back or you'll see something more like thiskdf andhi if t dont harfly ,mmmmmmakeee sdenbhse. And I keep forgetting that you are there and I am typiing and OMG I had to cancel all of our fucking credit cards because Fuckers!!

I heart Rainbow Coladas.

That is all.



*Except for OMG poor spell check. I think I maybe broke it. Maybe I should buy it some Coladas too. Mmmmm Captain Morgan's Rum........

**And also except for OMG! What the holy hell people? I have had 8 people find me in the last 2 months by tyoing in "I have worms in me".
Jeebus! Stop putting worms in yourself! I recommend trying alcohol instead.

Vacation

In less than 3 days my parents will be here for 10 days.
10 days of spoiling the kids rotten.
10 days in which to cram what would normally be 6 months worth of activities.
Hopefully by the end I'll still be somewhat sane. Or at least as intact as I am now.

One thing is for certain, they will provide ample fodder for when I return in August.

Mother, Revisited

I had what must seem like the most hideous thoughts the other day. Some women I know were discussing their mothers' hospice care and subsequent deaths. They talked about the things they missed.
Actually, it's a feeling I've had before. I overhear someone discussing how wonderful their mother was. All the things that they did together, all the things that they learned from them.
And I feel envious.
It's something I will never have, those happy memories and lessons learned at my mother's hand that I can then pass on to my own children.
It has been more than 6 years since my mother died and I waver in how I feel about it all.
I can go weeks without even thinking of her.
We looked vastly different. I often heard people ask if she had adopted me, not quite believing that my beautiful blonde, petite and gentle-voiced mother could have possibly birthed a lumbering loud mouth brunette like me.
I don't see her when I look in the mirror.
I don't see her features in the faces of my children.
We shared little in the way of common interests.
Except for my fascination with her when I was young. During that period I loved her nearly as much as she loved herself.
I will walk into a department store and smell her perfume on another woman. It takes me back to her home. When I would be invited to visit, which until I had my daughter was rarely, her entire house would smell of her perfume. And it should have been overwhelming and stifling, instead it was sweet and light.
I catch a glimpse of a woman as she walks confidently through the mall and for a moment my heart catches. Then she turns and I'm left with the feeling that I have missed out on something grand.
When I was a child I had convinced myself that my mother was really Cher. That when she would need to perform she would simply slip into that long black wig. Their features were similar enough to enable my young mind to believe it, to use this as the reason for why she didn't have time for me.
There were many years where we didn't speak to each other at all. During those times she would lavish extravagant gifts on my siblings with the explanation that they had been such very good children. And I was the bad seed.
She used to tell her therapist that I just got 'lost in the shuffle'.
She wasn't all bad. We did have days where just to sit next to her was like Christmas morning.
But the older I got, the less use she really had for me.
It became apparent that I would never be her, never be what she wanted me to be. I would always be too tall, too brunette, too loud, too much my father's child.
I had hoped things would change once my daughter was born. Briefly I was able to convince myself that it had. That her constant invitations and the things she bought for us were because she loved me.
It wasn't until later that I came to understand that she had hoped my small, nearly blonde daughter would be like her. And a part of me is grateful that she is gone, because it means that that transformation will never come to pass.
My general rule of parenting is to imagine what my mother would do and then do the opposite.
Because her death was so sudden, so unexpected, there was never time to say good-bye. I don't know if that would have made a difference or not.
Some days I think I've forgiven her for who she was. That sounds so arrogant doesn't it? I don't mean it to be.
Sometimes I hate her. Sometimes I miss her. I feel guilty and angry. It is an imbalance and an uncomfortable feeling.
I laugh to think of what she would say now, if she knew how I felt.

Often I think that I will never be able to just let it all go.

The thing that keeps me up at night?

Imagining my daughter feeling the same way about me.

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.

Random Bits: Technical Difficulties Edition

Because fuck! Yes. It's been that kind of a day. The kind where you have to walk around muttering fuck every few steps just so you don't bite the person standing beside you. And yes, that means I have reasserted myself as the neighborhood asshole. Fuck it.

*Last night, just as I was pondering how my toe finally felt better, it happened again. And it is Mr X's fucking fault. Again. Because for the 2nd time in like a month? I smashed my foot into something that he left lying around instead of putting away. Last time it was his suitcase. This time the treadmill which? Fucking hurt a whole hell of a lot worse. Although? Maybe that's because I already hurt my toe? Someone please do me a favor. Smash your foot into the hardest part of your suitcase. If you can, catch part of your toe on the wheel. Ok, now smash your other foot into the metal leg of a nordic track. Which one hurts more?
Everyone had gone to bed. I went to get on the computer. The light always takes a moment to come on. This time it came on in time for me to see just what the hell had taken a bite out of my foot.
He's supposed to fold that thing up when he's done. He always does.
So, there I was lying on the floor with my foot in the air yelling 'BITCHASSMOTHERFUCKER!', when I realized that my daughter could hear me. Great. At least she knows not to repeat it.
Then I thought? Fuck it, and continued the glorious chorus of fuckityfucks and bitches.
I also, briefly, contemplated going upstairs and shaving every hair off of his body as he slept.
Instead I ranted about it to some friends who are probably sick of hearing about my fucking toes.

*We don't get HBO. Yes, we are too cheap for anything but basic cable. So, I've been renting the shows that all my friends rave about. Right now, I'm hooked on six feet under. Shut up, I know I'm so behind but whatever.
Anyway, I went to the video store this morning on my way to get Hurricane's pictures done. Grab what I think I need and go to checkout. We paid for this program where you can rent 3 DVD's at a time for free. The new releases after a brief amount of time and all the old stuff anytime. It's supposed to automatically renew every month but because we had to get new bank cards (whole 'nother story), it didn't. I hand the kid my card to renew it and..........

I crashed their fucking computer.

He reboots, but it's all messed up and he can't print or check it out.

He was getting really frustrated and looked like he was about to cry. I told him I'd come back later because I had an appointment, but he handed me the DVD's and said he'd handle it.

I think I broke him.

I had to go back later as I realized that I was missing the season finale, only to find that, while they have every other episode? They don't have this one.
Seriously?

What the fuck?

And, to make it all complete? She tried to renew our thing again and?

Yup. Computer crashed.

I'm a jinx.

*Pictures. Ha!
We've gotten some really great pictures of Hurricane. Those biker pics? So cute. But it took great timing and a lot of patience.
And with a foot that was throbbing (fuck) and a slight feeling of guilt for making that kid cry, I was a little short on patience.
Have you ever handed a kid a cupcake and told them they couldn't eat it?
That's what asking Hurricane to hold still is like. He looks at you like you are absolutely out of your mind.
He tried to jump off the little platform about 7 times before I finally told him to go ahead but "If you crack your head open don't come crying to me!!" He looked at me and laughed. I think he's catching on to how utterly ridiculous I am.
She got a great shot of his butt in the air. It was originally going to be a smile over his shoulder. At the last second he bent over to do his yoga.

There's the shot of him stuffing his hand down his pants to play with his third leg.
I briefly considered asking her to keep that one just to freak out my MIL.

There's the one where he is intently studying the prized boogie he pulled out of nose as though he had just discovered where they buried Hoffa.

It took some time, but we did get some really cute pictures without his butt, his boogers or his hand down his pants.

*I came home to blog and of course Blogger was down. I am again considering moving to typepad. However? I think I'm just too damn lazy.

*My ribs hurt from trying to rake out those deep roots. My ribs? I mean really? My arms I get but ribs?

*Another round of "how did these people end up here?"
So, apparently I can be found when searching for NAKED BITCHES, dive boxes (which I finally looked up because I didn't know what it was but I was kind of scared to know. I mean, I thought maybe scuba gear, but considering I don't know anything about diving and looking at how some of these other people found me? I was worried it would be some really kinky sex act that I wouldn't be able to get out of my head), men in panties (?????), "She had enough vodka to make her feel sexy" (really? What the fuck? Because I'm thinking, is there enough vodka in the world to make me ok? And I don't drink! Although, I'm thinking maybe it's time to start again), "Why Mrs X died" (Kind of freaking me out because last time I checked? I was still breathing. Wait.... no, still breathing), sex diary (ha!) and a nasty case of laryngitis (Hell? Call the freaking Doctor!).

And I'm tired.

Tomorrow? I'll tell you about our 'fun' well-child visit where I considered what it would take to make a diaper childproof. And by tomorrow? I mean someday.

Weeds

Our backyard is severely neglected. We never did anything with it after the house was built. There was no grass. We had talked about having it leveled since it slopes toward the house. 2 summers ago Mr X even began to build a garden area around the shed.
Since then we've simply let it go until the woods we live next to began to take it over.
The garden consists of 2 levels, both now covered in weeds so strong they have turned into trees.
Yesterday it hit me.

I have to clear that mess out. I need to remove every last trace of those weeds. Our neglect.

So I began.

Ripping them out was not going to be enough. Their roots ran too deep and some of the trunks were too thick.

I took Mr X's two-handed clippers and cut them down. I began digging out the deep, thick roots. I pulled and ripped and threw the efforts of my labor in a pile below the first garden level.
After an hour, I had barely cleared a foot deep into the first level.
My back ached and my hands felt weak. I was sweaty and I knew my face was red. My arms were scratched up from where the branches caught me. There was a streak of dirt across my forehead and I had destroyed my old sneakers.
All I could think was that there was so much left to do. My arms and hands shook for an hour after I was finished.

Today, my shoulder aches and my neck is stiff.

And I'm scared.

The weeds wait. I don't know what I'll do when it's all clear.

Brief

Friday is the day. THE day. Doctor appointment day. Friday, we'll finally have a better grasp on what is going on with Mr X.

I'm trying not to think about it too much. Trying not notice the tone of his skin. Trying not to study his eyes to see if they are even the slightest bit yellow. Trying not to bury him before Friday.

We're happy. Things finally seem to be going well. Life is good.


I guess that's why I expect to all go to shit on Friday.

The One Which Proves We're Crazy and Perhaps That Padded Room Is Not Such A Bad Idea

Girl X came home from school 2 days ago and decided that it was time to introduce Hurricane to the fun that is popping bubbles in the house. But not just any bubbles. No. She had to use the Mutant Bubbles that do not pop unless you physically smash them. And they actually make noise. Do you remember when we were kids and our moms (ok maybe not my mom because ha! But some moms did, I saw the neighbor mom do it anyway) made us bubbles with dish soap and water? Seriously, Mutant Bubbles. The hell?
So, they're having a great time and I'm counting the soapy bubbles being smashed into the carpet and walls as some form of cleaning (See? Looking on the bright side of things! Pardon me while my head explodes) and Hurricane is trying to eat them. Which? With these he is actually succeeding except that you know, soap bubbles. Maybe not tasting as good as he had hoped and it was not such a good idea after all to be eating the bubbles that dropped to the floor. Meanwhile I'm contemplating the nutritional value of said bubbles because I'll take what I can get.
This story does have a point, one which will possibly prove my insanity and that maybe we have found the reason why my neighbors think I'm an idiot and maybe you won't want to be my friend anymore but I am compelled to continue.
Bubbles. Right.
Girl X gets bored and we put the bubbles away and Hurricane does not like this idea because he was maybe getting used to the taste of the bubbles and liking the way they popped in his mouth not in his hands.
So I did what any good mom would do. Put him in front of the TV and dazzled him with Elmo.
"Ooohhh! Look! See Elmo? Yes, lala. Yay! He's going to rap again! Ok, mommy's just going to stick her head in the oven and pretend she doesn't know all the words to this furry little bastard's song! Ok? great!"
Fast forward to later that evening. Hurricane is almost ready for bed. Girl X is brushing her teeth. Mr X is trying to kick himself in the head (Long story short, Girl X managed to kick herself in the face and he wanted to see if he could do it too. Aren't you sorry you asked now? Thought so.)
I look up and... What? Is that? The hell! It is!
"Look! It's a bubble."
Mr X looks.
Girl X looks.
Hurricane sticks a finger up his nose.
There, hanging over the entertainment center was a bubble. One that Girl X had been blowing earlier. It simply hung there, suspended mid air.
It was a bubble. We all got bored very quickly and went on with the night.

Morning.
The bubble?
Still there.
Still floating in mid air.

Evening.
Still freaking there.

Seriously, how long of a shelf like are these things supposed to have?

Now, here is where we kind of lost it and which kind of explains the title and shows you just how pointless this whole damn post is and now maybe you're wishing you could have the last few minutes of your life back and... um... sorry?

Mr X took Girl X to the far end of the room and began waving his arms at it.
Girl X began to also wave her arms at it.

"RISE!!"
Followed by wild arm waving.

And it did.

"LOWER!!"
Followed by wildly bringing their arms down.

And it DID.

Then Mr X decided that it was a bubble sent by the CIA to spy on us.
Because I'm sure they so want to know Hurricane's secret ability to tele-transport himself and then there's that whole climbing the walls thing.

I told Mr X I didn't believe him.

But just in case, after he went to bed?

I mooned it.

Then tonight.... Yes, it's still there. Floating above my entertainment center where no bubble should be.

Anyway, tonight Mr X decided that it was an alien sent to study us. I asked him if he'd been probed yet. Because we all know where aliens probe right?

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Would you like me to check on that?

"Shut up!"

I think he meant no. I think he meant that I should wait until he's sound asleep and then maybe poke him in the cheek a little. Damn. That's so mean. You know? I am so going to have to do that now.

Anyway, I decided to have a little chat with the bubble. (Remember what I said earlier? yeah. So sorry, again.)

I apologized for mooning it. I expressed my distress at having this strange bubble hanging over my entertainment center for 2 days.

It simply hung there. Just out of my reach.

I suggested that perhaps it would like to see the rest of the world. Maybe go to Rome. I hear Rome is a lovely place to visit for bubbles.

It bobbed a little.

I said that perhaps it was a ghost bubble and maybe it should like, head to the light? I told it that it's mommy and daddy bubble would be there on the other side waiting for it.

It bobbed a little more.

Girl X shook her head and went downstairs muttering something about crazy and embarrassing.

Mr X went to bed.

Hurricane continued to sleep with one hand in his diaper.

And the bubble is still just hanging there.

S.O.S.

Topping the list of things that are making me crazy?
Hurricane's incessant training for his future as a mountain climber.
I once believed that the only safe way to baby proof a house, was to nail everything to the ceiling.
I take it back.
The only way to baby proof a house is to have it completely empty. And padded. Lots of padding.

Our home has become the World's Most Awesomest Jungle Gym According to Hurricane: Champion Climber, Toddler Division.

And our Ikea-clad living room is a veritable utopia for climbers.
The corner shelving unit, with it's layered levels, has become a favorite. I had to pry him off the 3rd shelf (halfway to the top!) this morning.
He climbs up on his train table and from there, can reach all the good stuff on my craft table. All those lovely things which seemed to be named 'no' as that is all he hears when tries to touch it.
I nearly had a heart attack the other day when I announced it was dinner time and my bottom-less pit little spawn happily pulled himself into a chair at the table.
"Highchairs? Pshaw! That's sooo for babies!"

And he has now mastered my bed. I watched in disbelief as he stepped onto the ledge at the bottom of my bed, pulled himself onto my nightstand and from there? The bed was cake.
I am waiting to one morning find him scampering along the ceiling. My Hurricane. My spiderman (minus Kirsten Dunst thank you very much). I will hand him a rag and finally, finally! be rid of those damn cobwebs I've yet to be able to reach with the broom.

Each day he surprises me with something new. The climbing, slowly starting to sleep better, the very strange habit of throwing my chapstick into my water glass.
I am almost afraid of what he will do next.
I am even more afraid of what his sister will teach him this summer.

I have little doubt that it won't be long before I am reduced to sending out desperate Morse code messages from the one place even my kids fear. The bath tub. Don't worry, as long as it's filled with vodka, I'll be ok.

Dear New Neighbors,

We have not actually met yet as you have been too busy filling us with dread as we watch you move into your new home. Already, we miss the People Who Are Afraid of Sunlight and Never Talk to Mere Mortals (or as you may call them, the previous owners).
I noticed you moving in late last week, in the rain. It sucked, I know. Moving sucks, really. I had hoped that it was just the hectic pace of moving that left your toddler playing in the rain. In the middle of the street. After dark. But really? When it happened again the next night? I realized you were just morons.
Still, all could have been alright. I could play the game I play with many of the other people who live on our street and I don't want to associate with (like the people who live next door to you and throw their trash in our yard and think the whole world likes to listen to Mariah Carey screeching from the stereo in their garage at full volume) and pretend that I live somewhere else. Somewhere with a HOA. Somewhere you are not.
And then you started parking your cars in front of our house. Yes, that's our house. Across the street and 1 house over. On the end.
See, you have a 2 car garage and... oh what's that? Well, yes I had noticed that it's full of 3 wheelers (I've been having nightmares about them, thanks) and those really loud scooters because the people on the other side of you? They have them too. Yes, that is why their yard looks like a Nascar rally and that was them at 2 am the other night zipping down the road. Yes, I hate them too. Their daughter is evil. She carves things into the siding of homes for fun.
Anyway, yes, the 2 car garage and the lovely, large driveway. And all that space in front of your house to park your 7 vehicles. No, not counting the moss covered rusty truck you had towed into your yard. Yes, that's just a lovely yard decoration.
Back to the 7 vehicles.
See, we like to have people come to visit us because we hate most of the people who live on our street. They like to park near our house, especially the disabled vet who walks with a cane and occasionally has difficulty walking. We used to be able to have 5 cars parked along the front of our house and it was great.
Yet somehow, you have managed to take up that entire space with 2 of your 7 vehicles.
Both parked about a foot and a half from the curb.
Both seem to be becoming permanent fixtures in front of my house.
The only good thing about your arrival is that now? My neighbors don't think I'm the worst thing that ever happened to this street.
I guess even they have their limits.

Sincerely,
Mrs X

PS Move your damn cars before I set them on fire.

PSS HATE!!!