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    My rookie-like behavior continues to take the world by storm

    March 9, 2008

    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.   

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    It’s only a matter of time before it’s the Sierra Nevada

    March 5, 2008

    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.

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    It’s all an illusion of proper parenting

    February 27, 2008

    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!)

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    It’s as fresh as the air in a eucalyptus forest

    February 22, 2008

    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…

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    The phone is still in ICU, but we get to visit her every two hours

    February 6, 2008

    First of all, I want to thank everyone for the kind emails and comments about the near death of the phone.  I have yet to throw her into the face of someone working at an Apple store, but I think she may get her first flying lesson tomorrow.  It is remarkably difficult to operate a phone that doesn’t have the numbers 4, 5 and 6. 

    Today was quite a day.  The house got cleaned.  Don’t look at me.  That would be Maribel.  The nanny/housecleaner/taskmaster who will be coming twice a week so I can clean my house get things done.

    M:  What’s wrong with you?  We have one more room to clean today.  Are you tired?

    K:  Yeah, I’m tired.  I didn’t sleep last night.

    This I’m telling to a woman who left her house at 3:30 to catch a ride with her husband to get dropped off at my house at 5:30 so her husband could make it to work by 6.  As a matter of fact, I am one lazy ass.  Thank you very much.  6 hours of cleaning my house and I just wanted to lie down on the very clean living room floor and die of a heart attack.  But God forbid we don’t clean the dining room.

    There was one point that she caught me watching Bob the Builder.  Hey, it was that really good episode when they build the well.  It’s fascinating.  But she snapped her fingers and I was off to find a home for the 900 yards of ribbon and 30 lbs. of card stock.  She kept saying that The Husband wouldn’t even recognize the house because it was so clean.  She said he would be confused and turn around to leave.  I said as long as he took the kids with him, that would be okay with me.  Did I do one shirt today?  No.  No, I did not.  I did not make that shirt for your daughter, Ali Landry.  Your daughter will have to wait because there was no making Maribel wait.  She wasn’t tolerating any of that.  She had high hopes when she left today that upon her return on Monday at oh dark thirty, she will find a clean house.  Ha!  If she wanted to see the house clean, she should have taken a picture before she left.

    But thanks to Maribel’s torture, I have a clean house and now The Baby can have a birthday party.  Yay, BABY!!!  So it’s not actually your birthday yet.  Close enough for government work.  Wondering how that whole peer pressure, your brother had 80 photos hanging from the ceiling for his first birthday, is going to go. 

    maybe I could teach the kids how to print pictures between now and Saturday.  Using their powers for good instead of evil.  We’ll give it a whirl. 

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    Half-Assed Parenting Tip #3: If you are going to give directions, you may as well give them all

    February 1, 2008

    The Baby won’t crawl down the stairs.  The other day I heard him heckling me from the second story.  When I came around the corner, there he was standing at the top of the stairs with one leg hovering over as he was getting ready to step down.  This is logical, of course, because he’s been walking all of 20 minutes.  I, for the MILLIONTH time, told him to “turn around, feet first.”  I came to the top of the stairs and turned him around and put his feet first.  He screamed, locked up his legs, turned around and lunged for my neck.  Lazy little bastard.  He just won’t come down the stairs.  It’s not difficult, but he refuses to learn.  Fastforward a few days later.

    We are all piled on the bed yesterday.  The Husband was already gone and the kids were clammering to get up.  I was clammering for five more minutes sleep.  Times about a thousand. 

    They start playing this game where they are chasing each other over the mountain.  The mountain being my ass that is clearly the highest place on the bed.  Over, over, over, over.  They are hysterically laughing.  I’m torn between deciding if I am going to wake up and tickle them until they throw up or sleep another 5 minutes.  I mean, once you get out of that bed, it’s over. 

    Suddenly I hear The Boy pop down off the bed and jump into the rocker in the corner. 

    The Boy:  I’m rocking.

    K:  That’s great, Eat.

    I open my eyes to see that The Baby has decided to follow his brother off the bed.  But here’s the thing.  He’s trying to figure out how to to get me to put him over the side of the bed and onto the floor.  I find this annoying. 

    K:  If you want to get off the bed, turn around and put your feet fir…

    He flips around before I can finish the sentence and goes feet first off the bed.  The very, very high bed.  He lands with a thud and I lean over the bed to see how he is doing on the carpet below.  He’s lying flat on his back and he is PISSED. 

    K:  Like I was saying, Feet first and “HOLD ONTO THE BLANKET to slow you down.”

    Funny me.  I thought I had at least 2 months to drill this into his head before he did it.  Oh, well. 

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