Today we went to Baby Girl’s first birthday party.  I walked in the door with shirts for Baby Girl and Laura told me that she missed me terribly.  How can you beat that?

The Baby spent the entire party shooting for the back door when it opened.  He was very busy because the ice was on the back patio.  He had plenty of opportunity.  I gave him my left eye and used my right to stare lovingly at my peppermint martini.  Nothing says ‘I love you’ like a peppermint martini on a cold, rainy Sunday afternoon at a kid’s birthday party. The Baby and Baby Girl were the only 1 and under crowd and all the neighborhood parents were there with their kids–friends of Baby Girl’s 10 year old sister Maddie.  There was a horrible screeching from the basement that someone identified as karaoke, but all in all, we were unmolested by tweenagers. 

That being said, all those parents of tweenagers haven’t been exposed to the “new parenting style” currently espoused by half-assed parents across America.  The Baby?  Crawling all over.  My goal? To keep him from falling down the two tile stairs into the living room.  My purpose beyond that?  Not much.  I looked over to see The Boy scaling a bar stool and belling up to the island in the kitchen.  I went over because I could see two mothers with near panicked faces.  I mean, what if his foot slipped and he fell to the ground on his head, crushing his skull and becoming permanently brain damaged? I went over because I sensed a far greater danger.

K:  What are you doing?
The Boy:  I think I would like a martini (picking up a chilled martini shaker).
K:  I’m sorry?
The Boy:  (looking at Laura’s father–a pillar in his community, whose look was priceless).  I SAID, I think I would like a martini.
K:  Buddy, it’s not bedtime yet.  I think you would like a Sprite.  With no caffeine and that fake sugar that’s gonna kill us all one day.
The Boy:  I no like Sprite.
K:  Sprite it is.  You’re gonna love it.  It’s terrible for you.
Neighbor:   Did he just say he would like a martini?
K:  Um, yeah.  It loosens him up a little in these high-pressure situations like kids parties. 

I haven’t made a martini since like 2005.  I don’t even KNOW where he gets this stuff.  Honest.  I swear. 

I just walked into the other room and found The Baby swinging around an empty beer bottle. Funny thing is, he was IN HIS HIGH CHAIR. One would have to ask one’s self. How did The Baby get the beer bottle? He had tilted it over and gotten some drops on his high chair tray. He was running his arms covered in clothing over the entire tray.

Slop, slop. slop.

K: WHO GAVE YOU THAT BOTTLE?

Even as I said it, I knew I was an idiot. I want you to know that. I KNEW I was an idiot.

I ripped the bottle out of his hand and started to clean his tray. Except there was an overwhelming smell of Windex on his tray. Where his food was. I just assumed that the foam on the tray was beer. Wrong. So now the baby is swimming through Windex and Sierra Nevada while eating his chicken noodle soup.

K: DEREK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
D: (turning to The Boy and noticing, for the first time, that he has a Windex bottle in his hand). Ethan?
E: I didn’t do it, Dad.

If I had to guess how many times I’m gonna hear that one in the next 20 years.

D: Ethan, were you cleaning the tray?
E: I was cleaning it, Dad.
K: No, he was trying to poison him.
D: Babe, he was trying TO CLEAN.
K: Clearly he didn’t learn that from me. He was trying to poison him. I just know it.
D: (now laughing) Ethan, you can’t clean your brother’s tray while his food is on it.
E: Okay, Dad. I clean it later.

If only he was a fastidious with his ass after he goes to the bathroom.

Long time no blog.  It’s really because everything was so mind-numbingly boring over here during the holidays.  I had nothing to write.  No one was sick, everyone was well behaved….  I couldn’t even finish the sentence without laughing.

I do now remember why we have never purchased a toy for The Boy prior to this Christmas, and why we will NEVER be buying him a toy again.  We bought him a wooden alphabet puzzle, dinosaur magnets for the fridge, a Dora memory game and something else.  He got presents from his cousins and grandparents but what did he play with?  The ONLY two toys his BROTHER got for Christmas.  A wooden stacking toy from Mom and Dad and this from his grandparents.   They were the best Christmas presents he never got.  Ask me how many times I have sung the alphabet song?  Go on, ask me.  Actually I think I stopped counting after about 9 billion.  Maybe I should have given The Boy’s presents to The Baby.
The Baby, of course, was delirious to celebrate his Christmas by eating scraps of wrapping paper he found around the house.  Or that he found on the wrapping paper roll.  All 25 yards of it.  Merry Christmas to him!

I got an I-Phone for Christmas from Baby Brewing.  Baby Brewing wanted to get me a cheaper phone, but then Baby Brewing realized that Mommy could do work 24 hours a day if she had an I-Phone.  Someone orders a shirt at 2:30 a.m.?  Mommy can get up, run downstairs and MAKE IT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT.  Mommy was able to do work while waiting for the Christmas Eve mass to start at the National Cathedral. At least Mommy wasn’t one of the people pulling out the cell phones in the MIDDLE OF THE SERVICE to take pictures of the Bishop.  Baby Brewing also got The Husband an I-Phone.  Baby Brewing thought it was a small price to pay (who are we kidding–to charge) since The Husband is Baby Brewing’s number one Employee/Bitch.

Mommy also got a metal halide light that will hopefully enable her to burn screens INSIDE rather than waiting for the planets to align sun to shine.  So far it’s been a little dicey but Mommy has faith.

Mommy doesn’t know how she started talking in the third person but it is annoying the hell out of her.  That and The Husband just caught her hiding downstairs.  She asked if he wanted to join her but he mentioned something about feeding the children.  Technicalities.

We had a little argument going.

The Husband: Did you water the tree today?
K: (thinking he was talking about the key lime tree he planted in the back yard in 20 degree weather) Um, no.

No further discussion. Fast forward 3 weeks later.

K: Do you know when you watered the tree last?
D: I ASKED YOU to water the tree.
K: That’s not the question. The question is when did you water it last?
D: I ASKED YOU to water it. You’re home more than me.
K: Oh, so because I’m home all the time, I have time to water that tree. That tree is not my responsibility.
D: Who said it was my responsibility?
Kate: You guys are really fighting over whose responsibility it was to water the tree?
K: YES. And it wasn’t mine.
Kate: And the tree died as a result?
K: Exactly.
Kate: Oh.

I then proceeded to cut all the branches off except the top 6 inches. I figured we could burn them in the fireplace and have the place smelling like Christmas for the next 3 weeks. My father showed up not much later.

Dad: (coming into the room) I like your tree, Kris, but it could be a little fuller.

Ha, ha, ha. I guess it’s gonna be a two tree Christmas. Damn it.

I’m up to my eyeballs in shirts last week.  I’m taking pictures, I’m making shirts, I’m taking more pictures.  I’m losing my mind.

My husband says to me…”hey, babe.  Clinton Portis is supposed to have a good week.  You really should play him.”

Famous last words.  In my spare 2.7 seconds of time, I log on to my fantasy team and put in Portis.  I do nothing else.

I don’t put Barber in….

I’ll say it again, I put Portis in instead of Barber.  But I’m too tired to notice.  I proceed to get my ass handed to me because Barber makes 30 points ON THE BENCH.  I’m out of the playoffs.

My husband wins and goes onto the finals.  Had I won last week, I would be playing him this week for The Winner Who Takes All.  That is, officially, the last day I ever take his advice on anything.  Ever.  Now?  Now I’m in the competition for number 4.  Woo.  effing.  hoo.

The Boy:  Mom.  Mom.  Mom.

K:  Quit splashing me.  Yes, Ethan?

The Boy:  Mom, are you reading Jane Austen?

K:  Yes, as a matter of fact I am.  And if you splash me one more time, you are getting out of the tub.  Do you understand?

The Boy:  I unerstand, Mom.  I unerstand.  Mom, that’s Jane Austen?

K:  It’s Emma.  Jane Austen wrote it.

The Boy:  Mom, when I get out of the tub, can we play with your Jane Austen doll?

K:  Only if you promise to tell your father about it when he gets home.

The Boy:  I tell him, Mom.  I tell him we play Jane Austen.

K:  That’s why I love you, buddy.