To Dye For

I just finished dyeing my hair, y'all. Yes. I did it myself. It probably looks like crap because I didn't let a stylist do it, but all my money lately has been thrown into the endless cauldron of need called "children." It turned out way darker than I intended, but at least the grays are gone. I swear I'm getting them at an irritatingly rapid pace lately. Like the Gray Hair Fairy is just visiting me overnight. And since each one so far has been the crinkly texture of a pube, I'm not too optimistic about how my head's gonna look when I stop coloring and just let it happen.

... If I let it happen.

I think I'm getting so many grays because I have, like, four little boys. And as though that in itself weren't enough, Corbin is going through the "terrible twos." Problem is ... he won't actually be two until June. I know I have always said that three is the new two when it comes to attitude, but that was before I birthed this strong-willed, temperamental mini-dictator.




He's sooooo ridiculously sweet though, enough to (almost) make up for the volume of frustrating behaviors he exhibits on the daily. He reminds me of those Sour Patch Kids commercials  - you ever seen those? They sum him up pretty well. His sweetness is probably just a biological mechanism to prevent me from choking him out.

He's also in the beginning stages of potty training, which is awesome.*

*And by "awesome" I mean "good Lord, I have to go through this again?"

The other day, I thought he was innocently playing in the bedroom. About two minutes before I had to walk out the door to pick Coby up from preschool, I went to get Corbin - but he had closed the door. And locked it. And remember this key? It was locked in with him.

I started to panic with the realization that my toddler was alone in my room, with full access to my bathroom, and I was stuck on the other side of the door. But miracle of miracles: when I said sweetly, "Corbin? Unlock the door, please," he actually complied and was able to unlock the door by himself.

My relief was short-lived, though, because I realized that the reason he had locked himself into the bedroom was to take a dump in his diaper. Which I now had to change. Literally two minutes before Coby would be waiting in the lobby of the school, brokenhearted because his mommy wasn't there to pick him up.

I got it done, though, and I actually wasn't the last parent at preschool pickup that day. So there's that.

He's also into whipping his diaper off as soon as he poops in it. Good times.

Possibly another contributing factor to my granny-hair is that I'm forced to wipe with toilet paper that looks like this:


Yeah. Seriously. Every single roll. I went under the sink to grab a new one the other day and I was like, WTF.

Watch the video clip below and I think you'll see why. (Fast-forward a couple seconds because at the first he's just kind of sitting there but I'm too lazy to edit.)

( ... Okay, so I just couldn't figure out how to crop the video. Whatever.)

video

Don't take your smooth, un-gnawed toilet paper for granted, folks. Or your full boxes of Kleenex, for that matter.

I think I ought to just start buying hair dye in bulk ... along with my paper products.



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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.

video

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.

"Testicles."

(... WTF?)

"You ate ... testicles?"

"Yes."

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."

"Whatever."

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."

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