I’m NOT Eating!

My son actually tried to hold the argument that dinner “stinks” because “eating is stupid”.  Hold on, let me put down my pan of brownies while I try to recollect whether or not I was actually there for the birth of this kid.  “Eating stinks”, seriously?!?

I should mention – dinner was on the table.

After I rolled my eyes at my son’s comment, I watched as my youngest used a hair comb to imitate eating corn on the cob.  Her hunger had gone to her head.  We couldn’t eat just yet though, as I had caught wind of someone’s diaper gone south. 

A couple whiffs led me to the drawers of my potty-training three-year-old.  She told me it was her sister that “pooped hers pants” and that she didn’t know why I smelled something around her, adding “maybe you’s smell brownies or sumpin”.   Yeah, brownies, that must be it.   I don’t know what it is with this kid and her brownie references to poop.  Would it kill her to pick a dessert that doesn’t directly LOOK like the subject in question?

I digress.

So the diaper got changed, potty girl washed her hands ten times, and we continued to make our way to the dinner table.  The food had been sitting there for five minutes by this point.  I could only hope that I would have to circle the table and place everyone’s plate in the microwave one by one. Lucky me, the food had been steaming hot to begin with.

Soon enough the corn-on-the-cob comb gets thrown across the room and the self-announced anorexic boy continues his complaint about the world coming to an end in the event that he has to actually sit at the table and eat that food.  Meanwhile, the girls are circling their chairs like vultures and screeching for help into their seats. 

I was just about to lift the girls into their seats when I noticed the male version of Norma Rae had started a picket line, minus the sign, in the hallway.  He was rattling off the infinite # of reasons why he wasn’t going to eat.  One of them was that “it’s not fair”.  You got me.  It’s not fair that I provide you with nourishment to grow.  The drama ended with an ultimatum that if he didn’t get his precious little behind to the table that there would be no trips to the park in his future.   

I glanced back to the table and noticed that potty girl had retrieved the comb and was now standing on her tip toes and dipping it into her glass of milk on the table (giggling, of course).  The youngest was retracting noodles off of her plate and flinging them onto the wall.   I peeled the noodles off of the wall and threw them away- and then I flung the girls into their seats. 

When we all finally reached the dinner table my son yelled “Spaghetti!  My favorite!  AWESOME mom!  I’m TOTALLY eating ALL of this food!”

I still can’t believe that he didn’t smell the spaghetti throughout our entire debate.  And when he asked for a second plate of spaghetti four minutes later, I couldn’t help but imagine myself holding a sign that read “Kitchen Closed – Eating is Stupid.”   

 

Watch your mouth! & Don’t let go!

In the last two weeks both my husband and my father have told me that in order to reach out to additional blog readers I’m going to have to reduce and/or eliminate the profanity used in my posts.  I thought about telling them to screw off.  (Screw isn’t a swear word, right?) 

Instead, I thought I’d take them up on their challenge and get through 1/2 dozen posts sans curse words.  Here’s hoping they’re still funny, because I genuinely don’t use swear words to offend - they’re just funny to me.  If I wanted to offend someone I wouldn’t speak at all, much less worry about interjecting profanity for emphasized hatred.

As a kid I LOVED bouncy balls.  As a parent I LOATHE bouncy balls. 

I swear (oh, the irony), I have never in my life witnessed such drama as that which is sparked between two siblings chasing a bouncy ball down a flight of stairs.   Yes, it’s just as safe as it sounds.

 

“STOP…….WALK……DON’T RUN…..DON’T TOUCH IT…..WAIT UNTIL THE BALL STOPS BOUNCING!”  And that’s a quote from my five-year-old.  My three-year-old daughter completely ignored him.  She secured her place at the base of the stairs by spreading her pork chop feet as far as she could and dug her toenails into the wood floor to brace herself from the oncoming force of her older brother – all the while never losing sight of the orange iridescent glow ball. 

 

Neither of them “won”.  I intervened after both toppled to the ground and took turns wiggling from the other’s grip in an attempt to grab the bouncy ball that landed predictably at the base of my feet.  I calmly picked up the bouncy ball and placed it in the garbage disposal.  Don’t worry, I didn’t flip the switch.

 

A few hours later I heard “IT’S MY TURN!” being screamed at the top of a little girl’s voice – a voice that resembles a truck driver rather than your typical three-year-old diva.  I turned the corner to the hallway to catch a glimpse of my five-year-old son whipping his arm down to the ground as hard as he could and then watching as a seemingly familiar orange iridescent bouncy ball pings from the ceiling…….to the ground……to the wall……..to the ceiling……….to the ground………to the wall………and knocking a picture frame on the wall.

 

“Did you put your hand in the disposal to get that back?”, I asked as my stomach dropped to my ankles and my voice went up three octaves.

 

“Nope.  Dad gave us three.”

 

I removed the second bouncy ball from my daughter’s clutches as she screamed for her turn and then straightened the picture frame on the wall.   I made the announcement that “All bouncy balls are to be used OUTSIDE only”.  Next, I opened the front door and tossed the bouncy ball into a baseball glove laying on the front porch. 

Later on in the day we decided to head outside to ride bikes in the driveway.  I shuffled all three kids outside and told them to wait by the porch until I opened the garage door.  I glanced back and noticed that my one-year-old had a round, orange sphere in her mouth and grinning from ear to ear.  She refused to take it out and ground her teeth into the ball as hard as she could.  This resulted in a game of tug of war between my hand and her baby canine teeth.  I’ve since decided that she could possibly be  3/4 human and 1/4 pitbull.  A few minutes later she finally ended up laughing too hard to continue lock-jaw mode and the orange ball dropped to the ground. 

Her siblings raced to claim the bouncy ball as is gained momentum uncontrollably bouncing down our sloped driveway.  The ball wasn’t even bouncing 3 inches off the ground.  The two of them looked like apes running on all fours.  I would have laughed if I hadn’t had to scream “STOP!” at the top of my lungs as the bouncy ball took one last bounced and rolled across the street -right into the street gutter.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhh………………………………….finally, problem solved. 

Wait, did he say dad gave them THREE?

 

Eyes Squinting Shut

This morning I was one hot mama driving to work.

 

After I started driving east this morning, I found myself staring straight into the sun.  I immediately whipped my purse up onto my lap and proceeded to fumble through it for the next ten minutes trying to find my sunglasses.  No luck.  Something tells me they’re sitting on my kitchen counter after yesterday’s trip to the zoo -where we spent a couple hours at the center of the sun (based on the temperature outside).  But that’s a story for another day……….

 

Coming up empty on the sunglasses hunt, I continued to squint while driving for another ten-mile stretch.  I was checking my side mirror when I glanced down to my door compartment and caught a glimpse of my son’s folded, blue slate sunglasses.  They were smaller than my own, yes, but they would get the job done until I pulled into work. 

 

Once on my head, I felt like I had swim goggles suctioned to my eyeballs.  I think I still have a band around my temples from the pressure.  Not that plastic indentations aren’t a good look.  That’s what I’m telling myself anyway.

 

The shades instantly removed years from my appearance and maturity level.  I decided to take pictures of myself driving.  I pulled out my camera mid-drive to capture what my fellow commuters would be taking in upon glancing in my direction.  Who wouldn’t be looking at me? :) 

 

 

After reviewing the pix, I felt a larger need to apologize for my woodpecker profile than actually wearing kid sunglasses.  That orthodontist may have been on to something by suggesting that I have my jaw realigned when I was fourteen.

 

Oh well – oncoming traffic had a better visual of my suctioned beetle eyes. 

 

 

That being said, I think I’m going to look into adding five minutes to my morning routine to dry my hair, stop wearing ugly jewelry, buy new lipstick, and work on pushing my lower jaw out when people are standing next to me. 

 

Oh yeah…….and I’ll try to remember to keep my sunglasses in my purse.

 

And to think, I thought the miniature sunglasses were going to give me a complex?!?!

 

 

 

Let me see that belly button.

Last night I had to print some pictures off for last minute Father’s Day gift prepping.  Better translated – the kids painted wooden picture frames for all of the grandpas and I had to fill them with recent snapshots.  So I borrowed my mom’s portable printer and set up shop in my bedroom – a location that would allow me to have all three kids within earshot as they played together.

My youngest made it the easiest on me, deciding to sit on my lap and fingerprint all the pictures as they rolled hot off the press.  (Like their faces weren’t dirty enough in the pictures without the external ketchup smears.)  My older two were playing Care Bears and Rescue Heroes while running back and forth between each other’s bedroom.  I thought they were doing a good job of keeping themselves busy. 

In retrospect, I should have known something wasn’t quite right after a ten minute period without screaming, crying, hair pulling, pouting, shouting, and sprints to my side in order to be the first to tattle on the other.   But silly me, I was trying to actually complete a task.  Happy Father’s Day.  

So after 10-15 minutes of printing pix, my one-year-old and I moved on to her room to play with her baby dolls.  She decided that it was time for every stuffed animal to go to sleep.  It’s right after my daughter shrieked that Elmo couldn’t sleep next to Dora, that my son hollered, “Mom, you gotta come see this”. 

In my house, those words are never a sign of good things to come.  Especially so, when timed with the thought that certain children have been too quiet for too long…………and the voice hollering is filled with squeamish delight.  I did mention that it had been a whopping total of 10-15 minutes since I started printing pictures, right?

So I followed the beckoning call…….and I was blessed with the visual of my five-year-old and three-year-old sitting on the bathroom linoleum floor with what looked like 10lbs of 2″ X 3″ paper and plastic cards laying all around them.  I quickly glanced to their legs.  My son was holding a washcloth to his left shin and shooting a politician’s smile up at me.  My three-year-old then shouted (because I’ve decided she has the inability to talk at a non-deafening volume) “Mom, do you like my tattoos?”

I scanned their playdoh legs. 

Both kids had 10-12 fake tattoos all over their legs.  Washcloths were all over the bathroom.  From my rough estimate, they must have needed a separate one for each tattoo.  Each tattoo must have also required 3 gallons of water, because the bathroom floor was soaking wet.   And apparently the thought of getting rid of the evidence never crossed their mind, because they even asked me to help clean up their mess after a five minute show-&-tell session. 

My son’s tattoos climbed all the way up his back end.  I want to know who he thought was going to be seeing those graffiti’d gems.  My daughter’s tattoos were all facing upside down.  And apparently she decided that a tattoo that read “Girls Rule” with a purse in the background would be best placed on the top of her big toe. 

I’m happy to inform you that bicep and back tattoo placements aren’t cool for the 5 and under crowd.   They were having a hard enough time pointing to the backs of their knees and their rear-ends……I can only imagine the drama if a mirror was needed to admire lower-back artwork.

Needless to say, I have since hid the remaining temporary tattoos in the house and washed a load of towels.  I have also decided that now would be a good time to start inspecting earlobes and belly buttons for any holes/piercings.   You never know what may happen on one of my quick runs to the basement to change a load of laundry?!?!?   Then again…..that scene probably wouldn’t play out so quietly.

Expiration Date: Not Applicable

As my husband so boldly wrote in an email “HISTORY HAS BEEN MADE”.

Today, for the first time in the history of mankind, I pulled out and used a coupon before it expired.  Oh yeah – and it was for a free bar of deodorant, no less.  It feels SOOOO good stickin’ it to the man!  Those stink maskers were banking on me losing that puppy in my coat pocket, never to be seen (or redeemed) again.

I was out and about this morning and stumbled upon a torn out Adidas advertisement with a coupon for a FREE deodorant stick in my purse.  Normally, even after finding a coupon, I would still walk into the store and walk out with $25 worth of crap - none of which would be the golden couponed gem.  And the coupon would continue to sit in my purse for another 6-7 months, until it disintegrated.

But today was a new day.  I had the coupon in hand, refused to put it back in my purse, and carried it around the store.  At one point I think I even waved it around while humming the Star Wars theme song, as not to forget my mission at hand.   

I cased through the CVS aisles and uncovered good ole’ Adidas Sensitive Deodorant Stick in Aisle 7, bottom shelf, 2″ from the dirty floor.  There was an Instant $1.00 Off Coupon attached to the stick, but today I had that beat.  A dollar off was mere child’s play……………..today I was getting this mo fo for free.

Of course I had that awkward moment where a free thing was almost too good to be true.  I had to actually BUY something, right?  I couldn’t just walk up to the register with a stick of deodorant, hand over a coupon, exchange no money and walk out with it……could I?  That would appear too awkward, too greedy….too cheap.  I am employed for god sake.  Those damn marketers.  Wait, I am one of those damn marketers?!?  Oh, the irony.

Two items and $7.21 later I walked out of CVS.  That tube of Neutrogena Anti-Wrinkle, Anti-Blemish Scrub better make my skin as smooth as a baby’s butt- or I’m getting my money back!   And then I’ll really be stickin’ it to the man!

 

 

Say Cheese!

My son got a hold of our digital camera a couple days ago and starting zooming around the house taking picture after picture.  It took him a total of 12 seconds to figure out how to take a picture, review a picture, and delete a picture.  I made a mental note to remember that the next time I purchase an electronic device.  Screw reading directions in French. 

He started with still shots – chair legs, Transformers on couch cushions, cupcakes we had just made and ate.  He worked his way up to portraits and action shots.  He nabbed a shot of his baby sister climbing the stairs when no one was looking.  He captured his three-year-old sister licking the frosting off of not only her cupcakes, but everyone else’s cupcakes too.  Which in turn meant that he was able to catch me removing the three-year-old from the dining room table while she kicked and screamed bloody murder for the “wast cupcake wif spwinkles”.  Ain’t happening sister.  Time to call it quits at a baker’s dozen.

Next he ventured to the front door to capture the great outdoors.  He flashed the hanging basket on my porch, new grass growing on the front lawn, and got a nice shot of the neighbor’s yard.  By the end of his reel, I’d be lying if I didn’t say he was taking pretty decent pictures.  We even went head to head a couple times over ownership of a couple of the shots.  I swore up and down I took that picture of our youngest picking her nose.  But he wouldn’t budge, so I compromised for the picture of the crayon drawing on the wall that was Picasso’d three hours earlier.  One must not forget that precious moment in time.

By the end of the photo shoot, he had his technique down.  “Here mom, hold this book.  Now pretend you’re actually reading it.  No, no, no, not like that, tilt your head down a little more and then look this way.”  I quickly realized this is what I must sound like to every member of my extended family around the holidays.  Poor souls.

After I got my Senior portrait in the Study,  (by the way, we don’t have a study) the amateur photographer decided that it would be absolutely HYSTERICAL if he took a picture of my gut. 

“Mom, I’m going to get a picture of your belly”……followed by high-pitched hysterical laughing.  “Seriously, mom….I’m going to take a picture of your stomach.  That would be sooooo funny”.  Again…..the laughter ensued.  Next thing I know the camera flashed. 

Don’t worry, I wasn’t asked to pose.  If I had been asked, I would have thought about sucking my gut in……….in the event that the image crossed the desk of Sports Illustrated some day.  But by the looks of the picture, I must have arched my back and pretended I was pregnant.  Either that or the camera really does add 42 pounds. 

When Photo Man reviewed his final shot of the day he howled and howled for what seemed like hours.  I finally grabbed the camera from him and took a look for myself.  I couldn’t help but notice that my belly wasn’t quite the focal point of the image. 

When I asked him why he was laughing so hard he responded with “your belly is soo funny…………….it’s like you have two bellies”. 

I subtly deleted the image in between his howls and knee-slapping and prepped myself to discuss the difference between bellies and breasts. 

 

 

 

 

POOPAPALOOZA 2008

Today I genuinely contemplated putting on a diaper just to find out what shitting your pants is like these days.  Because no matter how I spin it in my head, I can’t imagine that squatting under a dining room table, hovering in a corner between plastic dinosaurs and doll bunk beds, or taking off in a mad sprint for the kitchen mid-dump can make the process any less gross.  Call me crazy.

 

My three-year-old went from not giving two shits about going on the toilet to taking two shits an hour on the toilet.  She’s become fascinated with public restrooms in two weeks time.  Just when I thought public restrooms couldn’t get any more grotesque, I now have to watch my daughter run her hands around the entire toilet bowl and lift the seat fifteen times – just for kicks.  There’s not enough Purell on this earth to make me feel better about that maneuver. 

 

 

That being said, my three-year-old continues to leave pooping in her diaper as optional…..as was the case this morning.  Bottom line – my husband owes me.  And I don’t mean like “Honey if you would make dinner that would be great”.  I mean he OWES me!  Today I had to change 14 diapers in a two-hour window.  One of which could have gotten up, walked itself over to the toilet, shaken out its shit and walked out the front door.  And I am NOT kidding. 

 

My two girls had it timed.  It was like GO TIME at 12 minute intervals.  What started with the simple question, “Did someone poop?” quickly took a direct turn down the avenue of “Who pooped?” and rounded the corner with “Hold on.  I’ll change you right after I change your sister’s stinky butt.”  The series ended with “What in the HELL did you two eat?”

 

So as I’m using up my last plastic grocery bag to provide a force field around the final poop bomb of the hour, I hear “Mom, can you come here?” from the bathroom.  It was my son calling.  As I opened the door I froze my left foot just as it was about to step into a pile of shit.  At that very moment I wished for a maid, a power washer, and a gallon of Germ X.  I thought screaming “God, why have you done this to me?” would have been a bit extreme.  

 

Poor kid had joined the ranks of what I instantly realized was a stomach bug making its way through our house.  As he so eloquently recapped, “it was spitting out my butt”.  Thanks for the visual.  Like the brown “finger paint” scattered around the toilet didn’t already take care of that for me.

 

I got him cleaned up and changed.  He raced back to play.  Meanwhile, I dropped to my knees and spent ½ hour cleaning up poop from the floor, from the toilet seat, from the rug, and even the wall.  I’m not sure if he shot himself off the toilet like a cannon or what, but there was crap everywhere.  And I mean “crap” in the most literal and disgusting sense of the word. 

 

As I finished the scrub down with a spray of the Lysol can, diapers suddenly made sense to me.  And this, my friends, brings us to the beginning of the story where I contemplated shitting in my pants.  Never fear, I passed on the idea………..and instead thanked the heavens for toilet paper and bowel control.