Share? No Fair!

I hate to share my food.

If I were a dog, I'd be one of those obnoxious ones that growls every time someone gets close to its bowl. Because y'all? If I'm eating something, I want to eat it. All of it. Not you. ME. Mine. You wanna borrow the shirt off my back? Fine. Some money? Hey, if I've got it, it's yours (although seriously, don't hold your breath on that one. And on that note, you might not wanna borrow the shirt off my back either since it's probably from a clearance rack).

But food, for reasons unbeknownst to me, is a whole different story. Like recently I went out to lunch with two of my best friends, and couldn't decide between two sandwiches, and my friend Denni suggested that we each get one kind of sandwich and then share and I was all, "...No?"

It's completely unfair because I'm always asking my kids to share their food with each other while simultaneously setting a bad example for them. "Hey. Give your brother a bite of that cookie. What? You want a bite of mine? Well ... no."

Okay, so it's not quite that bad. I always come up with a good excuse. Like, "Oh no, honey. This is a diet cookie. You wouldn't want this one."

It's just that every single time I set out to eat something, somebody begs. It doesn't matter if I'm hiding in the closet or holed up in the garage. It doesn't matter if I've backpacked for six days through remote and dangerous jungles and hiked to the highest peak in Bhutan. Somebody would show up and be like, "Bite?" And when I do offer them a morsel, they either end up a.) taking a huge portion of it, b.) taking the bite I wanted, c.) slobbering all over it, d.) making a mess with it, or e.) all of the above. So you see? Sharing might be caring, but let me show my kids I care by reading them a book or clapping for them or smiling at them or whatever. Geez.

If it's not the kids? It's these two beauty queens.

Puggy and Josie: the reigning household champions of "puppy-dog eyes."

This phenomenon is not limited to the times I'm trying to eat sweet and delicious treats, either. It's standard, boring stuff: my yogurt in the morning. A banana. A piece of cheese. I could prepare my children a huge breakfast that they scarf down like nobody's business and proclaim themselves full - but if I try to eat some dry toast or a pickle or something within five minutes after they're finished, they're on me like white on rice. Even the baby, who lately has perfected the sweetest look EVER, followed by an equally sweet-sounding inquiry: "A biiiiite?"

I need to find some new hiding places to eat in peace. So if ever you hear a noise outside in the middle of the night, and discover me hunched behind your trash can with some beef jerky or a candy bar, just go back to bed. I'll throw the wrappers away when I'm done.

One Minute at My Crib

I was going to write a proper blog post (as if any of my blog posts are ever "proper"), but three of my four little boys playing in the living room were making it so loud I couldn't hear myself think.

Considering that, and the fact that people always say they'd love to be a fly on the wall in my house, I thought I'd do something a little different: show y'all a video. It's exactly one minute long, an unedited snippet of what a typical afternoon looks like around this joint (except sometimes - okay, most of the time - it's more naked). Cameron and Coby are playing some kind of game that contains lots of punching, kicking, and arresting, and the baby (Corbin) is standing on the ottoman singing the "Spongebob Squarepants" theme.


Add in some incessant talking about Minecraft and a few strange smells and you've pretty much got an accurate picture of my life. At least where the boys are concerned.

Happy Saturday, everyone! And if you happen to come across some peace and quiet, savor it for those of us in the midst of loud craziness.

Pillow Talk

My favorite time to talk to my husband - and let's face it, sometimes the only time I get to - is when we go to bed. Even when I'm not tired, I almost always go to bed when he does so that we can chat a little.*

*I'm not sure he actually likes this, but whatever.

We talk about anything that's on our minds, but mostly about how weird our kids are. Until he says, "Sweet dreams, my love," which is Husband for, "Shut up so I can go to sleep." That's my cue to lay there messing with my phone until I fall asleep and drop it on my face, or until I have to put it down to assault Curtis for snoring, whichever comes first.

Last night, though, I was really tired - so when we went to bed, I actually just laid there quietly and tried to sleep. It was working, but then?

I was cruelly wrenched from the embrace of slumber by a fart so heinous it nearly blew the covers off the bed.

"Curtis! Gross!"

Disgusted, I turned my back to him. Apparently that wasn't a good enough barrier because when the stench hit me I swear my nose hairs were singed. My eyeballs burned.

"What the -? Ohmygawd."

Curtis started laughing. "I know. Wow."

The conversation was over, at least I thought. But after a couple of minutes, Curtis said into the silence, "Do you want to know what I had for lunch?"

"Um ... yes?" I answered hesitantly.


(... WTF?)

"You ate ... testicles?"


Apparently someone brought them to work. Goat and sheep testicles, with Cajun seasoning. And only a few people would even try them, but Curtis ate two (a whole sack, you might say). And they taste kind of like - gag - chicken livers.*

*PS, if you like chicken livers and other vile disgusting organ meats, I'm not sure we can still be friends.

Then I started laughing. "You do realize that means you had someone else's balls in your mouth today, right?"

"Not someone's," he protested. "Something's. There is a huge difference."


Silence and sleepiness once again descended upon me. And once again, Curtis's voice broke through.

"You know what made me think of that?" he asked. "... That fart. It smelled like testicles."

I rolled my eyes. "Sweet dreams, my love."


So yesterday was April Fool's Day. Also known as the day when everyone on Facebook falsely announces that they're pregnant. Tricks, pranks, jokes, stunts, whatever you want to call them - everyone's trying to b.s. everyone else on April Fool's.

Personally, I think lots of pranks - especially the ones people deem worthy of videoing - are pretty mean. My husband loves them. He'll watch those ten-minute-long prank compilations on YouTube and laugh like a hyena while I stand behind him going, "Ohhh noooo!" in a disappointed voice. He makes fun of me, but I just feel bad for the people involved. I mean - if there's a mess, somebody's got to clean it up. If you make somebody think they've won a large sum of money or something, they're ecstatic - only to get it ripped out from under them. People laughing at other people's expense just doesn't make me feel happy. BECAUSE I AM NOT AN ASSHOLE.*

*Most of the time.

I'm not above laughing at little harmless tricks, though. And I do love screwing with my kids. Which is why yesterday I decided to do a little April fooling of my own.

I secretly made strawberry Jell-O, but instead of pouring into a bowl, I poured it into the cups they usually drink from at dinner and let it solidify in the fridge. To further convince them, before the Jell-O set up, I poured myself a little glass of it and started sipping. I knew the boys would ask for some because that's what happens every time I try to eat or drink something they aren't eating or drinking. Sure enough, they were all like, "Ooooh, what's that kind of juice, Mommy?"

"It's a new kind of juice I just bought," I said. "You can have some with your supper."

Hook, baited.

At dinner time, I stood by the table and pretended to be checking email on my phone while Curtis and my mom served the boys their food and drinks. Here's how it went down.

Yes. Colin is indeed pantsless. But he did have underwear on, so there's that.

They had less of a reaction than I expected, but they were all greatly amused by it and - more than anything - pleased that stodgy old Mom had gotten in on the April Fool's Day trickery. 

And I got to mess with my kids in a way that won't require therapy when they get older.


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