Now that just sucks

Today was a sad day. I only just told you about how we came to have 2 dogs, and now we do not.

During an otherwise very pleasant dinner on the patio, and while we were discussing (ironically enough) the dogs, the "rightful owners" showed up and asked for their pets back. Having been led to believe by the neighbor who brought them over that these were abandoned strays, this came as quite a surprise.

And now Tweenie's heart is
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Lessons learned at a 3-year-old's birthday party

Numero Uno: Don't bother putting pants on little boys. Not only will they become completely filthy, food will be shoved into all sorts of "areas" whether they be covered or not. A bath is pretty much a given.

Duh Deux: Grapes make excellent missiles.

Three: Coke, chocolate marble cake, and fruit with whipping cream combine to create A Perfect Storm. And by storm I mean royal fit. It's a trifecta, really.

Fore! Even birthday boys can be put in Time Out. They reserve the right to continue aforementioned snit alone in the bedroom and may resort to launching any and all breakable objects stupidly forgotten there by mama.

Five: Following the food fight, it may take one several many hours to tidy up. Blogging is not a good way to pretend elves will arrive while your back is turned and magically clean it for you (but it's worth a try).

Next year I'm going to make the fun folks at McDonald's PlayLand deal with this for me.

What every little boy needs

Tonight we increased our four-legged population by 200%. A well-meaning neighbor found an abandoned mama hound-dawg with two puppies and set right to finding them all new homes.

And so we now have mama and little girl staying in an old dog run I had intended to make Husband tear down, which has of late been home to one bad@ss black snake Twit has been stealing offspring from all year.

Husband has been trying to sell me on the idea of a dog for years. I don't mind in principle, but the nearly instantaneous reassignment of Twit-related care that befell me (despite the most ardent of promises) has soured me on the entire pet conversation. When our neighbor showed up and little girl howled at me, I hesitated for the briefest of moments. This was Husband's cue.

Later, I ran down my list of demands:
1. The dogs are not permitted entry into my house.
2. I will not be collecting poo from various places in the yard.
3. I will not be the only person feeding and bathing them, nor will I take part in any tick removal.

Husband listened seriously to my finger-waggling diatribe and agreed to these and any future demands of mine. Still, I'm not holding my breath.

I do take some consolation, however, in the fact that tomorrow is Rascal's 3rd birthday. If there is anyone that can keep up with him, I think it will be this puppy.

My cousin, proud mommy to her own little handful, told me it would end this way. "Every little boy needs a puppy!" I guess I'd better go find a big red bow.

Edited to add pictures of Shasta (mama) and Lily (baby). We have since learned Shasta is a Bluetick Coonhound; Lily's coloring suggests her father may be a Rottweiler, but who knows?! Lily was being very rascally and wouldn't pose for a proper pic - sorry.

A fairy tale come true

I forgot to mention this in my recent Disney post.

A highlight of our Magic Kingdom visit was going to be the parade. Tweenie was so excited to see Cinderella, the Prince, and everyone else "in real life Mom, can you believe it?!"

When the pumpkin coach passed by, Cinderella waved and smiled at her. The Prince winked, and then bowed to her. Tweenie giggled, turned her head bashfully away and blushed. A real scarlet-cheeked eyelash-fluttering blush, and the first time to my knowledge.

She smiled shyly about it all day. I think she's officially in love.

I know this picture is crapola, but in my defense I had a squealing 7-year-old yanking on my arm at the time.

Now who's scary?

Rascal thinks he's a "scawwy wowoff".

He received some hand-me-down clothes recently, most of them featuring dinosaurs. His current fave is a T-shirt with a very realistic T-Rex graphic. He wears this as often as possible, roaring and stomping around the house. Kye is terrified of him.

This is Fwog.

Actually, it's a hand puppet stolen from Gamma's house that belonged to Uncle once upon a time. Tweenie uses him as the bad guy for her Barbie stories. Rascal says Fwog is a vewwy scawwy wowoff.

Fwog is not allowed to sleep in Rascal's room. Mama has to move Fwog out of Rascal's way for him. Rascal will not roar at Fwog because he says Fwog will scare him back. Kye found out about this and carts Fwog around with him -- I must assume -- for protection.

So far it's working.

Disney, wild creatures, and a super fun roadtrip (aka What Happened On Stupid Idea #2)

So we're back from vacation in one piece. A stupid idea after all? Let's see...

After an all-nighter drive to Orlando, we caught a few winks at the hotel, scarfed down some breakfast and went in search of cheapo Disney tickets. Which eventually led us to a certain overcaffeinated chap behind a gaudy brochure-stuffed desk declaring "Ask me how you can save $100!!"

Somehow we ended up listening to a timeshare sales pitch for 3 hours over a free but questionable meal. Hey, you gotta try it once, right? Wouldn't $100 off day passes to the Magic Kingdom be worth it to you?

Indeed, this was a very stupid idea. I have no idea how others vacation using cheap timeshare offers every year, and it was not worth the $100 saved on tickets.

After we picked up our freebies, Tweenie and I headed over to DisneyWorld (and the boys to the JVC outlet stores conveniently located next door to our hotel). I must admit, I enjoyed myself way too much. Around 9 pm Tweenie started asking when we'd return to the hotel.

"But the parade starts soon, and then there'll be fireworks," I whined.
"Ma, I'm all Disneyed out here."
"Hey, I didn't sit through 3 hours of BS for nothing. We're staying!"
"Fine, since it means so much to you."

When we left around 10:30, I freely conceded that this was a great idea.

A day of driving later, we arrived in the Keys for the second half of our mini-vacation. We stayed in a simple but sweet mom-'n-pop-style motel with a room overlooking the Bay. I chatted up the owner to get the scoop on the local wildlife (you may recall I was nervous about the indigenous creatures).

"Sharks? Oh sure, we gotta lot of 'em right out there in the Bay. Mostly littl'uns though, mebbe up ta 10, 12-footers. A feller caught an itty bitty baby one off that dock there, 'bout 2 foot just this mornin'. We seen bull sharks, hammerheads... no Great Whites that I know of though.". My expression hastened him to add a reassuring remark. "I never got bit, and anyhow there aren't hardly any compared to the barracudas. Now that there's a funny story I oughtta--"

"No, no no no, thanks anyway." I'd heard enough. "At least we're away from the mainland and the crocs, right? Ha ha ha!"

"Well, they can come around ma'am, so watch your kids near the bush."

Great; what a fab idea.

The next day we rented a boat and explored around a bit. We had no luck finding a little private piece of beachy shoreline, so we hooked up to a mooring buoy a little way from shore. There were other boats nearby, people swimming and jet-skiing. I figured it was probably ok to jump in for a few minutes.

Naturally, the safe thing was to send Husband in first. Tweenie jumped in after him, enthusiastically swimming and splashing. After 30 seconds, he made her come back onto the boat with him.

"Something wrong?"
"We don't know these waters."
"You nervous about the you-know-whats?"
"We don't know these waters."
"Soooooooo... you're scared."
"We don't know these waters!"

Bottom line: we're nearly soiling ourselves with paranoid terror.

I went in briefly with Rascal. "Watch for fins, honey!" I laughed in a false-sounding falsetto, clearly on the verge of panic. After that, we were all funned out and brought the boat back to the dock 45 minutes ahead of schedule. Apparantly going for a boatride in barracuda/shark/alligator/etc-infested seas with irritable children on a hot day when all you want to do is swim happens to be a very stupid idea indeed.

The trip wrapped up with two days of driving home. I now understand why my father threatened every year that it was the very last time he would take us anywhere. Driving during the day means a bazillion bathroom and food breaks. Food stops mean taking hyper children into public places and expecting them to behave after sitting in one position for the last 6 hours (not including bathroom breaks of course). Driving during the day (i.e. when kids are awake) is the stupidest idea of them all.

Somehow we survived. In two weeks, we leave for the next adventure that we planned back in January. We are going on vacation with BFF and family. This'll be ... interesting.

Stupid Idea #2

Pretty soon I may be the proud tolerant idiotic "best mom ever" owner of one of these bad boys.

Much later today (seeing as it's already tomorrow and instead of sleeping I'm here on blogger) we will be leaving our house and driving what is sure to be 10 quiet, adult-conversation-filled, wonderful hours all the way to Orlando.

Yeah right. These are the conversations I actually expect:

"I spy with my little eye, something that iiiiiiiiiiiiiissssssss, uhhhhhhh, iiiiiiiiiiiisssssssss...."

"No, we are not watching Christmas of Enchantment."

"Who farted?"

"Babe, will you just please look at this mapquest printout?"

"I don't care who started it, 'cause I'm certainly gonna end it!"

"That's it-- you are ALL going to the restroom."

When we relocated last year, a major selling point with Tweenie was that we were about 1500 miles closer to DisneyWorld. That was 17 months and one baby ago. She's starting to get a little ticked.

Finally we stopped waiting for "a convenient time" and "enough money", knowing all along deep down that such a cosmic convergence simply won't happen. We're off to visit the (shudder) Happiest Place on Earth. After a day at the Magic Kingdom stalking princesses and unloading our van payment on worthless souvenirs, we head further south to the Keys for 3 days of avoiding sharks, alligators, and hurricanes.

This northern prairie gal ain't scared of black bears but is petrified of the beautiful state of Florida. The entire state. I'm also paranoid about skin cancer. What a fab idea this was! Does anyone know where you can buy SPF1000?

Oh, and this is all a huge surprise for Tweenie. This afternoon I shipped all the kids off to my friend's house so I could pack secretly. A good move too, because I was told Rascal had an agusting 'tinky twice in one hour. Which I for once didn't have to clean up. I love my friend, but I'm pretty sure she hates my guts now.

So basically the plan is to have a nice couple of days away together and quite possibly chuck Husband's Blackberry in the Atlantic if it intrudes too often. As I said, that's the plan...

What was Stupid Idea #1? Stay tuned, I'll be telling you that story soon.

And just like that I'm not cool anymore

Rascal skinned his knee today. I hugged him and bent down to kiss his owie.

"Mama! Dat agusting! Is grooss!" He wiped off my kissy vigorously and then leaned over and kissed it better himself. I guess I must have cooties.

Later on, I was goofing around with Tweenie. Usually she loves when I act outrageously and over-emote. Unfortunately (for me), during my little performance I used the word grody. Not only did she not know what that meant, she gave me the most elaborate eye-roll I have ever seen and then buried her head in her hands.

"Mom, seriously."

D-oh!

Now I'm doing it to myself, see?

Yeah, I'm intolerant. So sue me!

There are certain things I can't stand. One day, when I've been installed as supreme planetary dictator, I intend to do something about it.

1. Customer service department idiots who gab with their coworkers while they are supposed to be processing my return (and the other 500 people in line) so that I can oblige all the angry starers and remove my shouting children from the store.

2. Telemarketing (the job, not the person - I can differentiate). While this requires no extra clarification, I feel that a little story will demonstrate my antipathy. One such person called on a Saturday at 8:15. I answered very groggily. "Have you had your morning coffee yet, dear?" - her opening line. Yeah, that's gonna win you points. Maybe you're just trying to make ends meet because you're going through a messy divorce and desperately need the cash. Guess what? Not my problem.

3. Uber-friendly waiters servers. Be professional and helpful, not falsely flirtatious. I don't care about what you did last weekend, nor do I want to hear your hilarious dog story. Oh, and don't forget to wear the appropriate number of pieces of flair.

4. Croc wearers. Nurses and garden center workers are exempt from my revulsion, but everyone else - please, say no! Particularly to those who wear socks with crocs, I don't care how trendy they are. They are upsetting my delicate balance and hurting my eyes.

And on a more serious note...

5. Drunk drivers. They oughta throw the book at you people. You could kill someone in your condition. Don't make the rest of the world pay for your fun night out.

6. Celebrities and other high-profile people convicted of crimes but receive special treatment from the judicial system. I heard today on the radio that a certain heiress was released from prison after serving 5 days of 23-45 days due to "health concerns". I guess jail must not be "hot". Given the fact that she was in there because of previous DUI convictions, I refer you to point #5. I wonder if they wear crocs in jail?

7. Child molesters and people who kill their own children. That's right, you are insane. Go get your therapy in the joint. Don't get me started on elective abortion.

Whew, maybe that's getting a little too heavy.

I looked in an atlas and noticed that St. John's, Newfoundland (Canada) is the easternmost tip of North America. Line up, y'all; here's the coast. Start swimming.

Making some sweeping generalizations

As I see it, there are three types of mommies in the world.

Type 1: Booby Warrior
She wouldn't dream of offering formula, at least not for the first year. She organizes and participates in nurse-ins with fellow lactivists and threatens legal action to any passersby who look disapprovingly in her direction.

Type 2: Those-are-not-yours-they're-mine Formula Freedom Fighter
She is the arch enemy of lactivists, offended by public displays of boobage and enjoys the convenience a bottle offers. She doesn't care what you do in private, just don't let the rest of the world - or restaurant - enjoy the show. Don't come to her with your factoids, because several generations of breast-eschewing mothers have produced intelligent, healthy kids (gasp).

Type 3: What's-the-big-deal Mom
She says breastfeeding isn't for everybody, so do what works best for you and your baby's comfort level. Most of us probably fit into this category. Getting all huffy about to boob or not to boob... is that the big question? Sure she has an opinion on the subject, but what's the big deal?

Oh yes, and there's one more type I almost forgot to mention. Have a look-see...

Tres chic

My SIL once teased me about my kids' wardrobes.

"So preppy, so GAP," she laughed.

I purposely don't shop at GAP so I didn't really agree with her. We have mostly hand-me-downs and gifts from other people so their clothes are as varied as it gets - or so I thought.

A few days ago we made an unavoidable stop at Toys 'R Us. This being a favorite shopping destination it was no surprise to me when, instead of the usual whining and begging to stay in the car and watch DVDs, Rascal and Tweenie tore off their seatbelts, jumped out, and ran across the parking lot toward the front doors shrieking with delight.

I shouted at them to hold hands and watch for cars. They turned toward me, and then for some reason their outfits caught my eye. Tweenie was wearing a dark blue denim skirt with discreet pink stitching and a pink polo shirt with an embroidered tennis racquet on the pocket. A matching pink scrunchy and (surprise) GAP sparkly flipflops completed the ensemble. Rascal was wearing a striped blue-and-white button-down offset by a red T-shirt and khakis. They were both impeccably attired.

Thinking this was just a strange coincidence (at least on Rascal's part), I thought nothing more of it until yesterday when I was folding laundry with Rascal.

Apparantly he's ok with wearing gitchies now; however, he has discriminating taste. He stood yaykit beside me as I fluffed and folded. Then he reached into the basket for a pair of underpants, held it up and gazed at it with a discriminating eye.

"No dis gitchy mama," he said, pointing out the dangling thread. He found a more suitable pair, then started to dig for clothes. I suggested a cute sporty outfit with State Champ emblazoned across the chest.

"Nope, no dat." He didn't approve of the Winnie-the-Pooh shirt and shorts set either.

Finally he found his striped shirt and khakis from the other day and held them up triumphantly. He started looking for the perfect T to finish off his look, but I objected since it was at least 90F outside and his choices were too warm to begin with. He was mad but eventually allowed me to dress him. His pants were to be cuffed just so, as was his shirt. He admired himself in the mirror.

"Is my buddy a handsome boy?"

"Yeahhhhhh!" He pranced and giggled, then ran outside and promptly plopped himself down in the flower bed. He came to me later in tears.

"Is dirty, mama."

I undressed him and went in search of replacement clothes. While I was gone, he escaped outside and shrieked "YAYKIT!" to the neighbors. He refused to wear anything else that day and personally oversaw the reloading of the washing machine, including his vêtements beaux.