My husband is a saint.

Anyone who reads this blog realizes that.  Can you imagine being married to me?  It’ll be 2 in the morning and I will bolt out of bed, run down the stairs and make magnets.  Read email while The Boy takes a bowl filled to the BRIM with milk and cheerios up the stairs, except by the time he gets upstairs, there is no milk and cheerios in the bowl.

D:  WHAT is going on here?
K:  (reading email) Huh?
D:  There is a trail of milk all the way up the stairs and down the hall.
K:  (thinking good for The Boy to at least keep the cheerios in the bowl)  Really?
D:  And there is a puddle of milk here on the counter.
K:  (glaring at The Boy because despite it being HIS bad behavior, I’m getting chewed out for my failure to pay attention).  I already cleaned up one puddle.  There is another one?
D:  Didn’t you know what he was doing?

Of course I knew what he was doing.  But I am determined to make the Number One Parenting Mistake.  Inconsistency.  That’s me.  I told him 7 times that he couldn’t take a bowl of cereal upstairs to eat in his bed.  I cleaned up the first mess.  I told him to sit down to eat.

and then I gave up.  Because he doesn’t listen to me.  Because I have passed (from my gina-saur–thanks Cake Lady for that one) myself.  I don’t know how all of you people who have known me all of my life or who have been forced to ride in a car with me in the early hours of the day when I c-a-n-n-o-t-s-h-u-t-t-h-e-h-e-l-l-u-p did not ever beat my incessantly talking mouth.  I am exhausting.  Alway have been.  No caffeine, no sugar, doesn’t matter.  And now I am getting it back in spades.  I do NOT want a closing argument intended to sway me to see your most ridiculous side.  I am TIRED, people.  I am TIRED of listening to the 30 minute explanation for WHY I should allow you to take a bowl of cereal up to bed.  Tired.  Tired.  Did I mention I was tired? 

I just want to check my email.  I just want to respond to my email.  I just want to be at some small point where I feel like I am caught up on work or at least the end is in sight. 

Maybe my goal should be to see the end of toddlerdom in sight.  Oh, wait.  The Baby just toddled by with a dinner plate and a full set of utensils.  That light at the end of the tunnel?  We call that a mirage. 

(live near clifton, VA?  They are having their annual Spring Scavenger Hunt tomorrow at noon.  The Easter Bunny will be there.  I am TOTALLY sitting on his lap for a picture.  I hope I don’t break his leg…)

I need you to just not ask my why I am doing buttons related to brides.  All I can say is that Kimberle and The Babysitter will be happy.  My husband?  Not so much.  And while I was making this one, The Boy stole my glue stick and dug all the glue out.  But isn’t it the cutest thing ever? 

While I made this one, The Baby decided to wash his hands in the toilet.  There was extensive discussion regarding what was actually in the bowl when he started his little bathing, but his brother swears he FLUSHED the poop before his brother went on in.  Then these came in the mail.  Can you even imagine placing your martini glass on this cute little napkin?  When I went outside to pick up these boxes, The Baby decided to walk down the stairs.  Except he can’t walk.  And certainly not down stairs.  When he hit the landing, he was pissed.  Thank God for carpet.  The Boy?  Downloading Go, Diego, Go videos from YouTube on my phone and sending them to all the people on my contact list.  That and he rearranged all the icons on the front page.  I would change them back but I have no idea how to do it.  He tried to explain it to me but it was too complicated. 

When these arrived, Michael from my new wireless merchant service place was trying to give me excellent customer service by visiting at my place of employment.  Which is my living room.  It used to just be the basement, but I am now trickling up the stairs.  As Michael discussed discount rates and fees, The Baby began to unload Michael’s briefcase.  He called him “Dad” and stole his pen.  The Boy began jumping from the crates of shirts onto the top of the back of my chair.  every once in a while he missed.  And landed on my head.  The Boy then began to push The Baby around in the Little Tikes car at about 40 miles per hour.  It was only a matter of time before the big wipeout occurred and everyone was crying.  Michael?  Still trying to explain the process.  Me?  Offering Michael hard alcohol.  He graciously refused.    I decided not to hold it against him.

And aren’t these the cutest little hostess gift?  I’m hoping I can keep them away from The Boy.  And his father.  Those boys are FA-reaks when it comes to post it notes.

yesterday we went to the coffee shop for a singalong. I know. Mommy Needs a Cocktail in a social setting a) with her children AND b) with other mothers/children. It’s bound to end poorly.

So Mr. Skip is singing, singing, singing and all the kids are dancing around. All except two. The Baby has his arms wrapped around my neck so tight that I’m starting to get an oxygen-deprivation high and The Boy is curled up in a ball on my lap. It is evident that we do not get out often.

The Boy is silent. Up until Mr. Skip says that Ol’ McDonald has a horse on his farm and the horse says “quack.”

You would have thought Mr. Skip had spit on a picture of His Eminence, Bob the Builder. He leaped out of my arms and ran across the room.

TB: Noooooooo. A horse doesn’t say “QUACK.”

The room goes silent.

Mr. Skip: well what DOES a horse say?

crickets

People began to laugh. I started to prompt him, but it was too late. Mr. Skip was saying “neigh” and The Boy was throwing himself into my arms with a look of horror on his face. Horror at failing in front of everyone. Horror at the laughter. I whispered in his ear that we all get embarrassed sometimes and that it’s tough to remember stuff under pressure. For heaven’s sake, I failed the bar exam once. Mommy knows embarrassment. Ten minutes later the show was over and everyone left but us.

I turned around to see The Baby toddling away from me with a yellow back and I caught the scent that could make grown men cry.

 Did I have a diaper?  Of course.  Wipes?  Maybe.  Dry/clean clothes?  Who the hell do I look like?  June Cleaver?  We live 5 minutes from the coffee shop.  Blowouts only occur when you are at least 45 minutes from home.  It was at least 40 degrees out.  He’ll be FINE.  Parenting a la Britney-style.

I looked down to see there was crap on the floor.  I snatched him up and ran to the bathroom.  I’m in the middle of changing him on the floor (don’t ask) when I start to contemplate exactly how I am going to take him home after this mess.  His shirt is shot.  I held his pants up in the light and couldn’t see anything.  I went in for the sniff. 

Except I brought the pants too close to my face.  Up against my nose and mouth, actually.  Right into a smattering of something wet.  The door flew open because the Cake Lady felt the need to check on us.  But when the stench of the lav hit her in the face, she started to violently gag.  She slammed the door closed.  The Baby started to toddle away from me and I am sitting on the floor, realizing that I have now put my face in my son’s crap.  I promptly put his pants back on him since it appeared that I wiped the poop off with my nose.  Those pants were practically clean.  I set the baby down outside the door and then I stuck my face under the sink. 

It’s times like that that environment be damned, you just want a bottle of clorox in which to bathe your face.   

The Boy:  MomMomMomMom.  What’s this?
K:  It’s 25 cents.  We call it a quarter.
TB:  A quarter.  That’s what I need.
K:  Why do you need a quarter?
TB:  For Harrison Michael’s candy machine.

And he placed the quarter in the pocket of his shirt.

I love the Cake Lady but what person has a candy machine in the kid’s toy room?  She blames it on The Mister, but either way, it’s bad news.  Just last week the boys figured out how to shake it with just enough velocity to make some candy come out.  Apparently The Mister fixed that problem but someone has done the math that the candy machine requires “a quarter.”

Fastforward 5 hours later when we go over to Harrison Michael’s house.  I dropped The Boy off and left.  Five minutes later I got a phone call.

Cake Lady:  You are NOT going to believe it.  I just went into the toy room and they looked like chipmunks with Skittle juice running down their faces.  I made them spit them out.
K:  In your hands?
CL:  Hell yeah.  I have to be with them.  I don’t want them all cracked out.
K:  Maybe I should explain.  Eat figured out that he needed a quarter.
CL:  nooooooooo.

That was last week. We are going on day 5 that The Boy knows he needs a quarter.  I now feel the need to turn him upside down and shake him before taking him across the street to play. Just this morning, I caught him in his father’s drawer routing around.  He skipped right over the $150 knife, the two sharpie markers, and keys to God only knows what.  I watched him slowly, stealthily slip a quarter out of the drawer and put it into his pocket.  Just as quietly he closed the drawer.

K:  WHAT ARE YOU DOING????

 He jumped two feet in the air, which is about 2 feet taller than he is.

TB:  I’m not doing anything.  I didn’t touch anything.  I didn’t get dad’s quarter.

I’m not saying I advocate breaking and entering. I’m just saying that one day the Cake Lady and The Mister are going to come home to a home without two candy machines. And I’ll have an alibi. Cause I’m smart like that.

Tonight The Cake Lady and I were sitting on the couch, talking about, well, I can’t say it on the internet because I really don’t need those kinds of hits.  She paused for a moment.

CL:  Isn’t it SO nice that your husband is upstairs watching our boys?

What I love most about The Cake Lady?  Other than the fact that she was helping me put ribbon on the 9 million shirts I am taking to the DC International Wine and Food Festival this weekend?  Her naivete. 

K:  He’s not watching those kids.
CL:  But he is up there in that room with them.
K:  And the room is only 10 X 10.  Yet still, shockingly, he has no clue what is going on.
CL:  You are joking.  What is he doing up there?
K:  He has his earplugs in and he is listening to some ridiculousness that he purchased online.  Like Animal Farm. 

As a side note, I asked if he remembered that Animal Farm is like an 80 page book so that it was basically like buying an episode of Dora the Whora, but he said he didn’t realize that until AFTER he listened to all 27 minutes of it.

CL:  He’s listening to a book?
K:  And has NO idea what is going on.
CL:  In that small room?
K:  With the door closed.

Not three minutes later, we heard The Husband bounding down the stairs.

D:  Did you people leave in a nudist colony in California?
CL:  Oh, no.  Is he naked again?
D:  They both don’t have any pants on.  They were sitting on the end of the bed so all I could see was from the waist up.  Apparently they took their pants off.
K:  What did I tell you? 

The best part. They probably took their pants off 45 minutes before. For what reason? No one knows. Who wants to even go there?

(oh, and if you are still waiting for all your free stuff I’m supposed to send you from past contests (HI, MELISSA!!), I’m going to send out all that stuff on Friday. You kids are so nice for being so patient!)

So we are downstairs sitting on the couches, drinking the coffee I made from the beans The Cake Lady brought. 

CL:  The boys are being to quiet.  We should check on them.
K: They’re FINE.

The fact that I am such a moron amazes me too.

CL:  Seriously.
K:  Listen.  We have nothing upstairs.  Not even nothing dangerous.  Just nothing. 
CL:  But we haven’t HEARD them.

The Baby was asleep but I decided to check on The Boy and His Lovah so his mother would feel better. I did the low crawl up the stairs and listened at the bedroom door.  They were going on and on and on and on about nothing.  I have no idea where they get it.  We went back downstairs to go on and on and on about nothing. 

K:  I told you. 
CL:  I know you did, but I don’t trust them.

10 minutes later they came down the stairs.  Without their shoes.  Which, might I add, is something I NEVER would have noticed.

CL:  Where are your shoes?
Harrison:  I left them upstairs.
K:  I’ll get them. 

I raced up the stairs and threw open the door.  My sinuses could not have cleared faster if I had stepped into the Roman baths. I raced back down the stairs.

K: Where is it?
The Boy: I don’t know, Mom.
K: Where is the bottle of Vick’s Baby Rub?
The Boy: Mom, what are you talking about?
Harrison: We don’t have it.

I snatched him up because he was closer and shoved his feet into his mother’s face.

CL: Yep. Where is the bottle?
Harrison: We didn’t do it, Mom.
K: Where did you put it on?
CL: Just tell us and it will be okay. We just need to know that you didn’t eat it.

Not exactly. It won’t be okay. I don’t care if you ate it. I just want to be sure that when I step into the bathroom, I won’t lose both feet from underneath me.

K: Yeah, what she said. Where did you put it?
Harrison: Just our feet.
CL: Good. Why did you put it on your feet?
The Boy: That’s where it goes.

Nana. We have Nana to thank for that one.

And the bottle is still MIA.

If your bored, you can also find me over at PBS waxing unpoetic about my former dating life and Pride and Prejudice. Leave a comment so I look popular. You don’t even have to tell me I look pretty…