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.

So You Think You Can Dance?

We had the pleasure of attending the PTA program last night; 100 or so remarkably well-behaved 2nd graders, assorted staff members and PTA-ers, and bleachers-full of fanning sweating parents and younger siblings.

What could have been a most odious evening in a non-climate controlled box of gymnasium was surprisingly entertaining.

Each class had to present a choreographed dance and then they combined to shake their groove thang to the Macarena and several other numbers. Their gym teacher must have quite the sense of humor because those kids had moves! They actually know how to do the sprinkler move, which despite my swell style I haven't yet mastered. The John-Travolta-eye thing, the putcha-hands-ina-air (whoo whoo), even air guitar; I tell ya, these kids were cool!

Any time I try gettin' jiggy wid it I get shouted down and banished from wherever the music is playing. Sheesh, my kids haven't even reached double-digits yet and already I embarrass them.

(evil laugh)

Nekkid no more--sorta

Rascal has consented to use gitchies after all. I don't think he really gets it, though.

Today while sorting laundry, for example, he wore his undies on his head. Then his bear wore them. Last, Kye had the pleasure... he was a little less pleased. Rascal laughed so hard he almost peed his--

well, he would have peed his pants if he would have been wearing them.

Back to sorting laundry. After the Nemo gitchies had all been tried out, he moved on to Husband's pile. He held them up in front of his eyes, thought for a while and then--

"Ooh, big gitchies!"

He whipped them on his head and ran around the house roaring. Kye squealed with laughter and scooted over to the change table, ripped out the carefully stacked diapers and chucked them around the room.

I ranted and raved at the two of them, but apparantly my red face, flaring nostrils, and huffy noises were just fuel for the fire. For a brief second they looked at me surprised, then giggled and finished the job.

Rascal logic

"Dat agusting, mama!"

Agusting. Rascal's word du jour, usually delivered with hysterical laughing and pointing. Although we've completed the main potty-training stage, there are still many accidents. Current "wisdom" says parents should simply disregard undesirable behavior because reactions (either positive or negative) validate it.

Whatever!

I can't stop myself from at least informing Rascal how gross stripping soiled underwear and pants off wriggling legs is to me in the hopes that he will be sufficiently repulsed and do his nasty on the potty for a change. I can dream, can't I?

The upside is that Rascal now finds poopy accidents agusting. The downside?

"Mama, me no eat. Dat agusting!" Giggling at his pile of mashed potatoes.

"Mama, Kye have 'tinky. Dat agusting!" Shrieking with delight when Kye farts.

"Mama, no clothes. I yaykit. Dat agusting!" Remember, he prefers more casual attire.

"Mama, you no yaykit. Dat agusting!"

Uh, wait a sec...

Battle Scars

Today I got a hickie. It's been a while.

Last time I got one, my father laughed. It wasn't, needless to say, the reaction I expected.

Today's scarlet beauty came courtesy of Kye, clutching a little bit of loose-ish chest skin somewhere between my neck and boob in his talon-tipped claw. Twisting. Yanking.

Me - Shouting. Frantically loosening. Checking for Permanent Damage.

When Husband saw it, he laughed.

Yes, this is what I have to deal with. If it's not The Claw yanking my bottom lip down over my collarbone or my eyelid across my nose, Big Tooth makes an appearance.

Incoming!!

Wet, dripping jaws of Death distract me from its approach with peals of baby laughter and a fat little body pinioning Mama on the picnic blanket with ominously foul-smelling diaper firmly planted on my ribcage.

Bottom line: were it not for the bony nature of a nose, it would have had a hickie today too.

Mama's new best friend

MissChickie has a best friend. She calls it the Braun Silk Epilator. I called it 'attack of the killer bees'. Somehow I just don't get the idea of yanking out the hairs God put there for supposedly some perfectly good reason. ;)

I have a different best friend. He does many things for me - provides exercise, performs a necessary task, and drowns out the shouts and screeches of my children. Obviously, the perfect multi-tasker. I am talking about--

my lawn mower.

Sure, he's stinky and rattles, but many an unwanted toy has been conveniently "taken care of" when left in his path. Even some of Twit's corpses, although it was unintentional!

Take today, for instance. Several Freezie-pop wrappers, an absolutely disgusting tiny bath toy left behind by the previous owners and tasted by Twit, Rascal, and Kye over the last few months (why didn't I get rid of it sooner? One of the three has been harboring it in a secret location), and assorted twigs and sweetgum balls (pictured) that pepper our lawn by the berzillion. All choppity-chop lawn fertilizer now.

But getting back to the most important aspect. I usually do two or three swipes of the lawn and then go looking where all the kids have wandered. This time, I caught them waiting for me. Standing there completely calm (but with faces screwed into position), 2 of them broke into wails as soon as they saw me coming. Great timing kids.

Yes, I must be that dumb. Actually, I just turned around, yanked on the cord and spent more quality time with my best friend.