Somebody Stop Him. No, Seriously.

Hey. Does there happen to be a really super-intelligent scientist with a compassion for parents of four-year-olds reading my blog right now? Because if there is, I totally need you to do me a favor.

Invent some sort of child-mute switch. Please. I'll give you my life savings, which is a whole ten dollars and some change. Why are you laughing? That's serious money!*

*and by "serious" I mean you'd think it was a lot if you were like in Kindergarten. Or homeless.

It's because I'm tired of Colin interjecting needless information at the most embarrassing times. Like not too long ago at the hardware store: Curtis was looking at something and I couldn't get the cart down the aisle, so the kids and I were waiting for him by this counter. The friendly worker greeted us politely and asked if he could help us, to which Colin replied: "My name is Colin. I'm four. And this is my mommy and she's 29!"

Thanks, kid. Thanks a whole lot.

And the other day, when we stopped in to get some ice cream. Colin likes Superman ice cream, which is this:
Ugh, see the mess it makes on the table? (And everywhere else, for that matter?)

Anyway, he loves Superman ice cream - but I don't like him to tell people why he likes it so much. And yet here we were at the ice cream shop, and Colin orders it, and he's all, "Do you know why I like Superman ice cream so much?"

"Colin!" I hissed, just as the girl behind the counter said, "Why?"

"Because it turns my poop green!" he said cheerfully in that huge four-year-old voice that everyone can hear.


Seriously, the kid is going to literally embarass me to death some day if he doesn't grow out of this. It isn't like this is the first time he's done something mortifying - this is just the latest in a long line.

So scientists reading this - or just abnormally smart people who have a lot of down time and a burning desire to earn a whole TEN DOLLARS - please, please get right on the task of making that mute button. A whole lot of parents will be eternally grateful.

... And there's a life savings with your name on it.

Caught in the Act

My husband slept with my friend last night.

How do I know? I walked in and caught them, that's how. In the living room. Imagine my surprise when I entered the room and there they were, right in front of me.

I even got photographic evidence.

Want to see the incriminating picture?

Yep, that's right. This is a screenshot of the Mii characters on my Wii Fit. And as you can see, my husband and my friend Jenna are, indeed, sleeping. Together. Right in front of me. (See the little ZzZ's coming out of their heads? That's how you know they're asleep. 'Cause, like, everybody emits letters when they snore.) I, on the other hand, am fully upright and alert - because I haven't missed a day on the Wii Fit in over a month. Zing!

It might take a while to get over the shock, but I think we can work it out. Get it? Wii Fit? Work it out? Ahahaha!

*cricket, cricket*

Is That What I Think It Is?

I love my kids, but let me be honest here for a hot second: I can't wait until they're old enough that their artwork doesn't require translation. My budding artistes do more explaining than Tiger Woods college professors. What are these sticks up top? Oh ... clouds. Who is this, with the legs coming out of his head? Oh ... it's Daddy. Of course. Who's this with the mustache? Oh yes, I see ... it's Mommy. Very nice, buddy.


Anyway, Colin has done it again. Another fabulous portrait of yours truly, this time on a Famous Dave's kids' menu. Only this drawing contains something a little more perplexing than the mustache.

I don't know what to think. What in the hell could that be besides ... well, exactly what it looks like? I mean, I realize that he's a boy, and lives in a house full of other males. But after all the (endless, awkward) explanations of the differences between male and female genitalia, and the fact that he and his brother accompany me (uninvited) to the bathroom practically every.single.time I go, I'd think he would know that Mommy doesn't look like that down South.

The mustache I understand; I've had some beard issues. A picture of me with facial hair isn't so farfetched. (It wasn't really a mustache, anyway ... it was supposed to be a frowny face.) But I'm not sure what to make of the extra appendage in this picture. I guess it could be a beard - it is sprouting from my chin after all - but then again, so are my legs.

In case you're wondering, all Colin offered up was a disinterested shrug by way of explanation. (So much for going straight to the source. I suppose that's what I get for asking him while "Team Umizoomi" is on.)

So, like the reason behind the Mona Lisa's famously mysterious smile ... I guess we'll never know.

P.S. - Andy/Cameron update coming soon. Promise. Until then: I love you guys. You all ROCK!

Don't Look if You're Squeamish

We interrupt your usual irreverent blogging to bring you something serious. I need advice, y'all, and it's about something I can't find the humor in no matter how hard I try. I'm hoping you can help me make a very important decision.

First of all, let me introduce you to Andy.

He's our Lab/Chow mix, quiet and (generally) well-behaved. He's ten years old, and we've had him since he was a tiny puppy. During the years we struggled with infertility, we thought Andy might be the closest we'd come to having a baby, so we treated him like our child - and loved him as much. He has moved with us from Missouri to Texas to Germany to Nevada to Iowa (because of Curtis's Air Force career - we're not, like, nomadic or running from the law). He's been an integral part of our family since our family was established.

And this is Cameron, our second son, newly two years old. This picture was taken just a few days ago.

And here's what Cameron looked like this morning ...

... thanks to Andy.

We were sitting in the living room yesterday: Cameron, Colin, Coby, and me. Curtis had just left for work. I was at one end of the couch, holding the baby; Cameron was at the other end, standing in an empty laundry basket. I didn't even register Andy sleeping beside the basket, stretched out on his side. It didn't even dawn on me that the unthinkable could happen. But I guess that's the thing about "the unthinkable" ... you don't think about it.

I was watching Cameron play when he tipped the basket over. My eyes saw every movement, from the way he pitched forward and landed on Andy to the lightening-fast snap of the dog's jaws. And it literally seemed to be going in slow-motion to me. I saw, as if watching a movie, Andy clamp down on my baby's face. His jaw opened and closed two, three, then four times, as if he were chewing - but it was in a matter of just a couple seconds. My stomach felt sick as I leapt toward them, tumbling the baby from my lap to the floor in the process (oops, sorry Coby!). All I could think about was Cameron's face. His eyes. His sight. He was bleeding everywhere.

By luck or miracle or both, Andy's teeth had missed Cammie's eye, nose, and lips, instead puncturing several places in his cheek and opening up an angry gash across his lower face. It took a plastic surgeon and 40 stitches - both internal and external - to fix. He's one of the most tenacious little dudes I've ever seen, though (the first words out of his mouth after Andy bit him were, "I'm okaaaay!"), so he's running around as crazy as usual.

Since it was a dog bite, the Animal Control people said we have to quarantine Andy in our house for ten days. After that, it's up to us to do with him as we please. And there's where I need your advice.

I want to keep Andy. I want to keep him and pretend that this never happened - but it's hard to pretend that, looking into Cameron's poor swollen, bruised, stitched-up little face. The reality is, it could have been a life-changing attack. One more inch and he could have been blinded. And this isn't the first time Andy has bitten one of the kids: he bit Colin on the arm when he was about a year old, but he hasn't had any more incidents like that in nearly four years. Until yesterday.

The thing is, though, both times Andy has bitten have been in response to being somehow surprised by the kids. It's not like he aggressively sought them out, chased them down, and used them as his personal chew toy; he was startled. It was reflexive.

On the other hand, Andy's only getting older and less tolerant. And our boys are only getting busier. They understand not to bother Andy, but you see how well that works out! Plus, we've still got Coby to go through, who is yet-untrained in the art of avoiding the grumpy old dog.

I highly doubt we could give him away. People don't usually adopt older dogs, and they especially don't adopt dogs that bite kids - so he's immediately got two strikes against him. And for that reason, I refuse to let him go to a shelter. He'll die there, just as surely as if we put him to sleep ourselves - only there, he'd wonder why we left and didn't come back for him.

And there's our other option. Having him put to sleep. But I can't even type the words without the threat of tears tightening in my throat. I love this dog. He was my first baby. If he were sick, unable to get around, or pursuing people in order to bite them, then yeah - I would grudgingly be able to do it. But Andy's still got a lot of life in him. He still loves to play. Though I wouldn't say he's in his prime, he's far from feeble and decrepit. How can I just say, "Okay, you have to die?" How can I look at him, live with him, care for him as usual throughout this ten-day quarantine, knowing that the end of it will be the end of him?  

What do we do? What would you do? Please, y'all, leave me some advice and if you know of anyone else who could add their valuable two cents, steer 'em my way.

Best Diet Tip EVER

My four-year-old loves to take videos with my cell phone. He's always walking around recording something, which is why there are several videos of a.) me with one or both boobs hanging out (for the record, I'm nursing, not intentionally being the neighborhood exhibitionist); b.) random shots of the heater vents and the omg-is-it-seriously-that-dirty carpet; c.) me slumped at the computer (looking like I'm taking posture lessons from the Hunchback of Notre Dame ... seriously, y'all, my posture ... ugh).

The other day he propped the phone against one of the pieces of clutter things on the kitchen counter and left it there. I didn't even know it was recording. He was hopping around the floor, intending to film himself - but my little man isn't the most skilled videographer, so what did he film instead?

The refrigerator.

Me opening the refrigerator.

My humongous needs-a-"wide-load"-sticker, should-beep-when-I-back-up ASS bending over, directly into the camera, getting into said refrigerator.

But it got worse. I turned around, giving the hateful recording lens full view of my un-sucked-in belly. Which was, at the time, unflatteringly clad in a too-small tank top and hanging over some pajama pants. OMG. Picture Britney Spears at the height of her hot-messness, plus like fifty pounds. And homeless.


Obviously when I realized the stupid phone was capturing my every hippolike move, I turned that sucker off. My finger trembled a little as it hovered lightly over the "Play" button in hesitation. But like anything gruesome, I couldn't help but look. And stand there, mouth agape, as I was faced with my own appalling camera-lens-filling rear end. You never know what you really look like until you see yourself on camera ... moving around ... in real time.

Normally when faced with something upsetting I tend to stuff my face with Oreos eat. But not this time. This was a wake-up call. And though I'm still trying to be positive about my pudge until it's gone, I'm proud to say that I've lost ten pounds since that fateful video was (accidentally) taken. Fighting the frump, y'all. For serious.

I saved the video. Maybe when I lose the rest of my weight, and am all supermodel-ly, I'll share it with you.

... Or maybe not.


It's All Fun and Games ...

You know what they say: it's all fun and games until someone puts an eye out. And that's exactly what my husband came thisclose to doing while playing with our boys.

See, they've got this game they call "Horse Scare." (WTF?) Curtis gets on his hands and knees, Colin rides on his back, cowboy-style, and they turn off all the lights and run around scaring Cameron until they're all shrieking with laughter.

So this evening they were playing Horse Scare in our bedroom. I was sitting in the living room, thanking the Lord for a few minutes of solitude holding the baby, when I heard Curtis say, "Wait a minute, wait a minute," in an urgent tone. This was followed seconds later by a shrill "I'll get you a Band-Aid!" from Colin, and a strained-sounding reply: "Just go ask Mommy for a paper towel."

I heaved my ass up out' the chair at that point, because though nobody had called me, I knew I was needed. Grabbing a paper towel, I ventured toward the back of the house. Curtis was in our bathroom, bent over the sink - which was full of blood. I mean, it looked like somebody had slaughtered a chicken or something (sans feathers, natch). And the blood was dripping steadily from somewhere on Curtis's face, but I couldn't tell where. I thought he'd broken his nose or something.

"I'm not going to pass out," he said, and I'm pretty sure he was only saying that to convince himself. Because if there was blood pouring from my face, y'all, you best believe I'm gonna be laid out cold on the floor somewhere missing the whole show.

When he straightened up, I could see that the gory mess had come from a nasty gash just above his eye. I would have bet money that it needed stitches or at least one of those butterfly-closure thingies - he pulled on his eyebrow and I could, like, see way down inside there - but it's sooo important to be manly about these things that he just insisted on a Band-Aid.

Apparently he had been "horse-scaring" and had tried to turn around in the dark, unaware that this was in his immediate path:
Yep, he busted that sucker right on the doorknob. Or some part of the fixture, anyway.

Here's the damage. I took this picture with my camera phone, and it doesn't even remotely do it justice, but you get the idea:

It looks small and harmless, but if you could see how disgustingly deep it is ... ugh. I still shudder to think. And Colin was beside himself, tears streaming down his face, crying, "My precious Daddy!" (If it had been me, he'd have probably been all, "Here's a Band-Aid, Mommy. Will you fix me some chocolate milk?")  

In true macho fashion, Curtis was up and running again within minutes after the bleeding stopped. Like nothing had ever happened. He only had one lament about the whole fiasco.

"I'm going to have a scar on my face," he said. "My perfect face."

Glad to see his ego wasn't bruised along with his eye. ;)   

Eyes Like a ... What?

As every pink carnation, huge balloon and heart-shaped box of candy reminds us (incessantly, starting at, like, Halloween) it's almost time for V.D. For the non-slutty portion of society, that means Valentine's Day. For the promiscuous non-penis-wrapping set, it still means ... well, you know. Itch, scratch, burn.

You'd think since Valentine's Day is our "dating anniversary" (twelve years and holding!) - and the occasion for which, a year later, he proposed to me - that Curtis and I would always do something extra-special to commemorate. But we don't. In fact, it's always boringly anti-climactic around our house (hehe, interpret that comment any way you want). Here's how it usually goes down (listen to me! I'm on some sort of pervy roll!):

Me (at, like, 2 pm when I realize the date): Happy Valentine's Day.

Curtis: Oh, is that today? Then Happy Valentine's Day to you too. *peck*

Seriously, that's how it goes. Tres romantique, no? Sometimes I bitch about it just a little bit, because I get sick of hearing, "I got the most beaaaaautiful bouquet from so-and-so!" and "Such-and-such bought me a gooooooorgeous heart-shaped diamond necklace!" and I'm all, "Oh yeah? Well ... my husband bought me a candy bar last Tuesday."

*cricket, cricket*

Usually when I gripe he offers to go buy me some flowers. And then I have to gently explain to him (using helpful words like "moron" and "geez") that while gas-station carnations are a nice gesture, they're not exactly the epitome of romance.

What do I expect, though? This is a man who told me on our third wedding anniversary that he had to get my gift "out of the car" ... which I then heard start up and pull out of the driveway. He returned with a pair of earrings half an hour later. Um ... awwww?

Romance just isn't one of Curtis's strong suits, I'm afraid.

But sometimes, on rare occasions, he'll surprise me. March of 2008 was the last time (step it up, Honey), when I found this touching and eloquent love poem, written on our shower wall in green bath crayon:

If you can't see what it says, allow me to decipher:
"Hair brown like poop,
Eyes like a frog,
Put your arms around me
and I'll 'do' you like a dog."

OMG. So. Romantic.

When I remarked about him putting the word "do" instead of the obvious profanity that would work in that space, he just shrugged. "Gotta keep it romantic," he said.

Here's to keeping it romantic, I guess. Keep spreading that V.D. love all year long, kids ... and I do mean Valentine's Day. ♥

Sweetheart, I love you like crazy (and I'm an expert on crazy), romantic or not. Thanks for being my biggest fan ... my daily inspiration ... and for, you know, being useful around the house and stuff. Mwah! 

Things That Are Actually Cool About Fatness

So yesterday I was huffing and puffing on the Wii Fit during my 30-minute step routine (and before you get all like, 'Stepping on a Wii Fit is like stepping on a book or something' let me interject that I have one of those stair extenders so it's actually a workout and I do little hops and stuff and I really am slightly hardcore with it thank-you-very-much) ...

Um, okay, where was I?

Oh yes. Yesterday. So anyway, I was doing my step and I thought about how hard I'm working to get all this yucky excess weight off, and I was wishing the whole process didn't take so damn long. I mean, how is it fair that I can eat an entire box a few pieces of chocolate and it shows up with near-immediacy on my thighs - yet working it off takes, like, weeks? 

Anyway, while I was thinking that, I was wishing there were something to enjoy about being fat in the meantime. And to my surprise, I didn't have to think all that hard to come up with a few things that, while I'd rather be skinny, make being temporarily pudged-up more tolerable.

#1: I have boobs. If you've been reading long, you know that I'm a flat-chested, two-mosquito-bites kind of girl until I get pregnant and gain a bunch of weight. But then? BAM. Here come the boobies. I revel in my useful cleavage and have been known to actually stand in front of the mirror and admire the way they fill out a bra. Because that's, like, never happened to me before. At least not in my non-fat life. So you see? There's the first good thing.

#2: I'm a soft place to lay. People like to lay on me these days. The kids, the cats, the husband, it doesn't matter - they all appreciate the comfort of a big, squishy midsection to use as their own personal pillow. I mean, they'd love me anyway, but speaking as someone who has been both skinny and fat, I can certifiably confirm that kids/cats/husbands seem more comfortable at the more, um, ample end of the spectrum.

#3: I can hold more kids. I don't know about yours, but my kids sometimes vie for my lap space. When you've got a kid for each thigh, it's not such a problem. But when you get to three or more kids and still only have two standard-sized thighs, space is a real commodity - one apparently worth bickering and poking and all-out scrapping over. Unless you're a big girl ... and then, voila, thighs enough for everyone! It's a win-win situation: the kids all have a place to sit, and I don't have to deal with the squabble over who's sitting where.

#4: There's just something about dancing when you're fat. I love to shake my groove thang. And one of the biggest surprises that came with fatness is how much more fun dancing is (when I'm by myself, anyway) when I have more "groove thang" to shake. Like yesterday I was rocking out to "Say Hey" by Spearhead and Michael Franti (that link is a little pop-up window that lets you listen to the song, no-strings-attached, and I dare you to try and listen without dancing a little in your chair because you can't. YOU CAN'T). And I was noticing how voluptuous my hips felt while I was swinging them around, and how the slight jiggle of my ass was actually a pleasant addition to the movement. You can't get that when you've got no ass, friends. No sir.

#5: I can always find my napkin. This may seem insignificant, but it's a decent perk. My mama always taught me to put my napkin in my lap at the table like a proper lady (too bad it's, like, the only lesson in proper lady-hood I retained). When I'm skinny, half the time the napkin ends up slipping onto the floor. But when I have enough belly, I can tuck the napkin between stomach and thigh, where it's pinned conveniently in place until I need it. Napkin problems? Not any more. At least not until I lose a few additional pants sizes.

So there you have it, guys and dolls. As much as I'd ultimately rather be skinny, and am working on that goal (40+ pounds down since Coby was born! Woot!), there actually are a few things to enjoy about being shaped like the Venus of Willendorf (the lovely statue featured up top). So while I've got the extra poundage, I'm gonna enjoy it as much as I possibly can. I know it's hard to do, but it's all about the attitude, y'all. Don't hate - celebrate!



When you think of a snack, what comes to mind?

I know, it’s gum, right?

... Yeah, me either.

Apparently, though, the folks at whatever company manufactures Extra sugar-free gum are thinking differently. I recently saw a commercial that touted Extra as "the long-lasting low calorie snack."


Come again, ad people?

I’m sorry, but GUM is not a snack. Day care teachers don’t hand out sticks of gum with midmorning juice boxes. Kids don’t come home and eat an after-school piece of gum. Have you ever walked around the mall and been like, "Hey, I'm starving. Let's hit up the gumball machine in the food court?" Doubtful. And when we wake up hungry at midnight, are we looking for a "midnight chew?" No. We’re looking for an effing midnight SNACK, that’s what. 

The definition of "snack" according to Merriam-Webster:

Pronunciation: ..'snak..

Function: noun: a light meal : food eaten between regular meals

See? This proves there’s no way that gum can be a snack. Even if you argue that it is in fact something you have between meals, you still don’t eat it. Unless you’re a toddler who doesn’t understand the concept of just chewing.

(Which, if you’re reading my blog, you are obviously not.)

If you think one stick of sugar-free gum is a snack, you’ve probably got an eating disorder. Please get some help.

Anyway, I’m off my soapbox now. Think I’ll go have a ... well, you know.

Wrinkles R Us

This is a picture of me, ironing in a hotel room on a trip to L.A. ... in March of 2007.


That was the last time I ironed.

Yes, it has seriously been that long.

I don't really iron all that often.

It's because Curtis is really picky about the way his stuff is ironed - so I figure he can just do it himself! Besides, he spent six years in the Air Force and was meticulous about ironing his shirts every single day. He's used to it.

(Oh yeah, and partially because I tend to scorch stuff.)

I avoid ironing at all costs. I know the tricks: tossing a wrinkled shirt in the dryer for a few minutes, hanging a dress over the shower curtain in a hot, steamy bathroom. Or - and this is my least favorite - just get your crap out' the dryer before it has a chance to wrinkle in the first place. (Which I usually fail to do.)

Sometimes I wonder if my stuff's, like, super-wrinkled and I don't even notice. Like, I'm so used to the wrinkles and they're so low on my priority list that I'm just blind to them, and I walk around and people are all muttering to themselves, "OMG. Did she sleep in a suitcase?" And then after that they're like, "No, that big ass wouldn't fit in a suitcase. She must just be superlazy about ironing."

... Or not. Whatever. 

Anyway, I still have the same $10 iron I bought to take to college coughtwelveyearsagocough.Why I thought I'd need to iron something there is beyond me, because I went to an all-female college and only got out of my pajamas to go to frat parties at the neighboring university ... um, class. Yeah. Class.

What about y'all? Is there a household chore that you avoid at all costs?

Guy-Stuff Glazeover

I once took my uber-girly friend Denni on a mushroom hunting excursion. For those of you who didn't grow up as country bumpkins, it's where you find mushrooms and shoot 'em.

I'm just kidding. You tromp through the woods until you see this ...

... and then you squeal and pick it and wave it around triumphantly at your hunting companion like, "I found one! In your face!" because it's totally a competition and then while you're doing your victory dance you trip over some mossy log and end up dropping the mushroom and your companion is all, "Ahahahaha, loser."

... Or maybe that's just me.

Anyway, back to the story. It was muddy - like really muddy. And I was glopping around through mudholes like nobody's bidness. But Denni ... she was gingerly skipping her way from dry patch to dry patch, griping the whole way about ruining her shoes. Outdoorsy stuff just isn't her thing. Apparently her last straw was when I blew a snot rocket (if you don't know, you probably don't wanna know). She wrinkled up her nose at me, disgusted.

"You should have been born a boy," she snarked.

It's true, at least in part. That's not the first time someone has said that to me; I think the first was when my future brother-in-law stopped by my parents' house and found me in a treetop. I didn't grow up as a tomboy, exactly, but some of my favorite childhood memories consist of wrestling with my brother Steve (under "stage names" like Big Bald Overalled and Jumpin' Pajama Jesus) and catching frogs from the nearby pond. And still today, I love getting dirty and sweaty. Toilet humor always makes me laugh. And I can spit a loogie further than anyone else I know.

But here's what pisses me off. If my chance of achieving ladylike perfection is gonna be blocked by certain "male-ish" traits, then why can't they at least be the USEFUL ones? You know, like the ones that make you good at working on cars and stuff? Spit and dirt and cussing like a sailor, well, they won't get you very far. A love of tree-climbing doesn't serve adult women in very many capacities. 

When it comes to doing "guy stuff," though, I'm at a loss. When I was in high school, my stepdad made my best friend Betsy and I sit through a lesson on how to change a tire. You know what? I still couldn't change a tire if my life depended on it - and I'm pretty sure Betsy can't either. (Sorry, Baba.) And the umpteen-million times my husband has tried to explain technical stuff to me, like how an engine works, some "ewww guy stuff" part of my brain just glazes over - no matter how interested I am in learning.

It just. Doesn't. Register.

Which is why I don't know what stuff like this does:

Or why I was temporarily baffled when Colin asked me for some "two-part epoxy" (really strong glue ... thanks Google) to hold a broken toy together. See? Even at four, he knows more about such things than I do. And not too long ago, Curtis was talking to my friend Jenna, who does have at least some knowledge of auto mechanics and whatnot. They were discussing something "misfiring on the third cylinder" (?) in her car. I was impressed - and okay, I admit it, a wee bit jealous - at Jenna's guy-stuff skillz. (Especially when, a few minutes later, Curtis congratulated me sincerely for resetting the microwave clock all by myself.) 

I'm not a girly-girl by any stretch of the imagination, but I don't know if I really should've been born a boy. I'd be about as manly as that guy on "Little Miss Perfect" who directs the creepy children's pageants.

I've always wondered what it'd be like to have a penis, though ...  

Tissues: a Tutorial

Dear Little Boys with Snotty Noses,

Let me give you a little tutorial, mmkay? This is a box of tissues:

And this? Is Mommy (in case you need further clarification, I'm the one on the right):

Mommy = long brown hair, black-rimmed glasses (now with one earpiece, wanna make something of it?), comfy pants, no makeup

Mommy ≠ box of tissues

You see, my darlings, as much as I adore your hugs/kisses/running face plants into my backside, I would prefer that you refrain from doing said activities when your noses are leaking like faucets.

Yes, I am still wearing my pajama pants. And yes, they are crusted with your breakfast and the baby's spit-up and Lord-only-knows what else (what have I been into that's yellow?). But that does not indicate an open invitation for you to wipe your snotty schnoz along the length of my thigh. I love our encounters, kids, but not so much when one of you leaves a trail.


Squirrels and Stuff

As I was sitting down to write this post, Colin playfully boxed my upper arm and was all, "Your arm is like a punching bag! Except punching bags aren't jiggly, are they Mommy?"

And that, like, totally de-railed my train of thought. (Ah, who am I kidding - that train never even left the station. It's Monday morning, y'all.)

Since I'm having trouble forming a coherent thought - let alone a whole string of them, blog-post-style - I'll just do some random bullet points. Literary rabbit turds, if you will.

- First on the agenda: I took a picture of a squirrel taking a nap on the railing of our back deck. I think it's interesting because, well, I've never seen a squirrel actually nap before. (Admit it, neither have you.) It's a bad-quality photo because I took it with a sucky phone camera, but here it is ...

Crazy, huh? He just sat there for, like, a half-hour or better. Chillin' with his eyes closed. Then he crapped on my deck and moved on. 

- Speaking of crap, I'm having a toilet issue. With my FOUR YEAR OLD, who has been potty trained for a solid two years now. The other day, I picked up a shirt off his floor that reeked of ... sniff, sniff, what's that? ... PISS. Upon further investigation, he admitted that he had indeed peed on the shirt, only offering a vague explanation like, "I was just tired of peeing in the toilet." A couple of days later, the same thing happened again - only this time, the shirt was on his bed! And this morning I walked into the living room, where he had been entertaining himself, to find a wet spot on the floor. All this in the span of a week or so. I've worked through some pretty crazy parenting dilemmas before, but this? Totally leaves me scratching my head. They're not accidents. He doesn't wet the bed at night, or pee in his pants, or anything like that. Developmentally, he's advanced (well, usually, snicker snicker) so I'm puzzled beyond belief at this weird behavior. Any advice? (PS - I'm starting to wonder if he might have been the culprit who peed on my pillow!) 

- I lost two blog followers last week. TWO, y'all. One at a time isn't all that uncommon, but two? Am I starting to suck or something?

- I took this hilarious picture of Cameron a couple of days ago when he somehow got his diaper caught on this knob on the side of my desk chair:

Now that's a seriously stretchy diaper, y'all.

- Finally, my hometown radio station (Y107, Columbia Missouri) is in SECOND PLACE in the Children's Miracle Network "Most Caring Radio Station" contest. The winning station gets a $50,000 donation to the community hospital, which in Columbia's case is the University Hospital. This hospital has played a very important part in the life of my family. It's where my mother works, where my niece spent a big part of her life battling (and beating!) pediatric cancer at two years old, where Curtis was recently hospitalized, and where my grandmother took her last breath. If you have a spare 2 or 3 minutes and an e-mail address, would you pretty-please-with-sugar-on-top go here to vote? (You can do so up to ten times a day!) If you could see me, I'm smiling all sweetly and blinking my eyes in rapid succession. To show you that, like, I really would appreciate it if you'd vote.

Okay. I think that's all the rabbit turds I can muster at this point. Time to hit the shower and shave the pits ... I'm tired of the hair getting caught in my waistband. ;)


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