When people found out that I was due with The Baby (aka #2, not to be confused with #3) on the exact same day as The Boy, I was berated.  Which is my personal favorite.  Like I really care what you think about my family planning (or unplanning).  But if it makes you feel better to tell me, I’m here to serve.  And listen.  As well as I listen to anyone, that is.  Which isn’t that well at all.  Ask my husband.  He’ll be happy to talk to someone who is actually listening to him.

“They’ll have to share their special day.”

“You’ll probably even make them share a cake.”

Hi, I’ll probably make them share a room, do the same sport in school so I’m not going to two different places, and make them share a car.  The only out they probably will have is college, but that is only because one of the children is showing a disturbing tendency to do WHATEVER THE HELL HE WANTS WHEN HE WANTS which will most likely not be conducive to going to a distinguished university.  But, hey.  I’m a product of community college and look how good I talk. And how fun I am.  Snotty education (you know of what I speak, Shane) is well-represented in this family and frankly, parties would be a little boring without me around here.

They are boys.  I know this because right now one is behind me, standing on the counter, pouring water from cup to cup to dirty cup on the counter and, evidenced by the splashing sound, his aim sucks.  I’m sure girls do these really messy things.  I just don’t remember doing them anywhere other than within the containment of a large bath tub as a child, where messes really should be contained.  But do they really care about having to share their birthday week?  I would have to think they were wussy if they did.

So now birthday week is upon us.  I know this because when I got home from the wine festival on Sunday, my children presented me with an ice cream cake.  “Happy Birthday, MOM!!!”

Hold your congratulations.  It wasn’t even remotely my birthday.  I looked at my husband and he just shrugged his shoulders.  See, we have started the birthday confusion here and now I am paying for having two children born 4 days apart. And I would like to thank my husband for feeding into the confusion.  He mentioned something about having more time on the weekends to celebrate.  Except I didn’t get home until 7, so I’m not sure that counts as more time.  Remember last year when I went to the Bizarre Bizarre and I came home at 9 to find my in-laws and my family had celebrated The Husband’s birthday without me?  Complete with streamers and cake.  I’m thinking they might just start celebrating all holidays on weekends when I am working.  But back to the birthday confusion.

You see, today is Nate’s School Cupcake Birthday.  Not to be confused with his REAL BIRTHDAY TOMORROW.  Then Thursday is The Boy’s School Cupcake Birthday.  Not to be confused with his REAL BIRTHDAY on Sunday and his REAL BIRTHDAY PARTY on Sunday which is also Nate’s REAL BIRTHDAY PARTY.

It only seems fair that we start the week out with an ice cream cake and end it 8 days later with TWO cakes made by the Cake Lady’s able little hands.

I have to go and frost the cupcakes.  And damn preschool for having 1 child beyond a box of cupcakes for two classes.  Seriously.  Wouldn’t it have been awesome if I had just had to make one batch?  Lazy, lazy mother.  Wait until #3 has to celebrate his birthday 1 month early with his brothers.  I just might do it…

You have some questions right now.  Yes, The Baby has a butter knife in his right hand.  Yes, that is a quart of motor oil to his right.  The food getting spit out of his mouth?  The pizza from yesterday that he found somewhere that he was properly advised NOT TO EAT because it is a day old and would taste like crap.  Which apparently was not believed.

I then went downstairs to upload the pizza debacle.  When I came back up stairs, I found this.

Technically it is the dining room table but it is still in the living room from New Year’s Eve.  Yes, that happens to be a 5-gallon bucket of deck stain on the dining room table.  It has to warm up to actually be put on the deck because you can’t put deck stain on a deck in weather under 40 degrees.  It was colder than 40 degrees where the stain was in the garage.  Grant it, it’s colder than 40 degrees on the deck.  Hey, I’m not the mathematician in the family but 2 plus 2 is looking a lot like 5 right now.

The stickers on the reading glasses?  So Dad knows which ones are the correct ones.  Not to be confused with just trying them out at the store to see which ones are best.  Let’s just buy 4 pairs and play the “I CAN’T READ” game every single time a pair goes on.  Or at least 75% of the time. The crumbly mass The Baby is sitting upon?  Hot crushed red pepper.  He was actually sneezing.  Pink earphones?  In a package when I saw them last.

The Republican haircuts?  I know the craze is to make your child look unwashed by letting their hair grow long and unruly.  We like to use clothing as a conversation piece about whether these children ever get bathed.  And when someone has vomited in the barber shop just a couple of days before, they do their best to make sure you aren’t coming back any time soon.

There are an incredible amount of hand prints on that mirror, right?  Those prints are from a year ago.  My husband keeps his stash of his beloved Windex well-hidden.  Oh, who am I kidding?  I can barely keep the fam in clean underwear and socks.  Clean a mirror?  Surely you jest.

Nasty feet with unclipped toenails?  Check!  On the table?  Check!  Not just on the table but the nicest table cloth.  Interestingly enough, no one even hedged or looked apologetic when I busted them.

It’s not even 10:30 yet.

Jess is very concerned about what we intend to call The Baby when we have the newer, more important Baby.  It’s clear The Boy is a disappointment.  We may as well get a jump on moving beyond the middle child and focusing on the child that is most important, Baby #3.  If you have an opinion (as I know you do), let me know in the comments what you think the name should be for The Baby and for this little rug rat that is determined to come out via my belly button.

So I’m on the computer today in the kitchen.  That would be The Boy’s computer.  He told me this himself.  Had he also told me where his brother hid my laptop, I might have let him right back at his pbskids.org games.  Instead I was trying to do accounting type things on the computer because for whatever reason that computer is the only one with Excel.

What I didn’t realize is that the boys got hungry and helped themselves to a bag of dried fruit.  A Costco-size bag of dried fruit.  I estimate they ate about 10 oz. a piece of a mango, apricot and PRUNE medley.

Oops.

Warning.  Crass conversation ahead.

The Boy:  Mom.  Pee just shot out of my butt.

People, I have three sisters.  Growing up we referred to bodily functions such as these as No. 1 and No. 2.  No lie.  My kids barely know their ages so the number thing was out.   Now I’m forced to have conversations that include words like pee, fart and poop.  What.  the.  hell.

K:  Ethan.  Technically that is not pee.  I think you might be sick now that you ate that half of a bag of dried fruit that you stole from the kitchen cabinet when Mom was trying to focus on her 2009 goals for world domination in the Smart Ass Tee department.  Where’s your brother?

I didn’t even need to ask.  I could smell him from about 20 miles away.  We spent the better part of the afternoon and evening running between two bathrooms.  I’m sorry.  Did I fail to mention that yesterday The Baby decided he was going to potty train himself.  He made it 24 hours before needing a new diaper and then all bets were off as his ass nearly exploded every 30 minutes after that.  They both offered to share the toilet at the same time but a mother has to have limits at some point.

After about the 11th trip to the lav, I began to wonder why anyone would ever pay for a colonic.  It can’t be cheaper than a $4.85 bag of dried fruit.

We have this little problem in our family.  Everyone wants to go everywhere with everyone else.  I moan but I really want to be with all of them too.  Actually, I really want to be with my husband so I tolerate his clones.

So tonight we all headed out to pick up the combi double stroller we found on Craigslist and then off to the Apple store to rectify the problem that is my fat ass.  I know it’s shocking that Apple can fix the size of your backside, but it’s true.  No, actually they can fix the problems caused by your ass such as standing directly on your I-Phone as you get out of the truck.  Not good, People.  And because it already had 17 hairline fractures on the glass screen and I’m pretty much as irresponsible as they come, I offered to take my husband’s I-Phone that looks like it was purchased yesterday (even though today is its one year old birthday) and get him a new 3G I-Phone.  He says that life is sometimes unfair in a good way in your direction but it so rarely is unfair in his good direction.  It was the least I could do.

We were getting out of the truck and I finally just asked who smelled like ass.  In a house full of men, they pretty much all do but every once in a while someone carries his ass smell around in his diaper and I try not to propagate that smell at all cost.  Why should strangers be traumatized?

K:  I think The Baby smells.  Do you want to change him?
D:  Eh.  I’ll change him in the mall.

Fast forward to the Apple store, then the AT&T store and it was as if time stopped.  No one took The Baby to change him.  I think he still stank but no one was listening to me.  Derek then started to complain that Nate’s diaper had leaked and asked if I could go buy him pants.   I looked down and both Derek and The Baby were soaked.  It was weird.  He headed off to Cheesecake Factory where we were on the eternal list and I headed out to find sweat pants that did not cost 19.99.  WTH?  I’m sure people buy $20 sweat pants for their 2 year old but I am not one of those people.  I found a pair of pajamas for $8.99 and The Boy and I headed out to find the other two.  My new-used phone rang.

D:  Nate’s not wearing a diaper.
K:  WHAT????
D:  Nate has no diaper on.  That’s why the leak was so bad.
K:  What do you mean?
D:  Did you forget to put a diaper on him?

This is a valid question to ask a pregnant woman.  Along with, “did you make sure you took ALL the kids before you left the house?” and “did you blow out all the open flames before you left the house?”  Anything is fair game.

K:  I remember putting a diaper on him.  And he stank when we got out of the truck.  Was there poop in his pants?
D:  Nothing.

Maybe I should mention that Nate has been taking off his diapers after he “fills” them.  Somehow his clothes remain on but you’ll find a crap diaper under the dining room table.  It’s happened twice in the last three days.

K:  Dear.  God.  Where do you think he took it off?  OMGOMGOMGOMGOMG.  Did you leave him alone anywhere?
D:  Of course not.
K:  Where is the damn diaper?
D:  Um, Merry Christmas mall employees?

Because making minimum wage at a lousy job at the mall two days before Christmas isn’t bad enough, you now get to find a “filled” diaper under a rack somewhere at the end of the night.  Nice. To the people at the mall, I am so very sorry. So. Very. Sorry.

I went to a Holiday Cookie Exchange party the other night at The Cake Lady’s house.  It’s only been since I have moved to this house that I have “friends.”  Before I had “friend (Hi, B, Renee, Cath!!!  Singularly and never in the same place)”  Now I go places in packs like the rest of you popular people have been doing for years.  I pee with other people now.  It’s nice.

Of course I didn’t tell The Boy that I was going to The Cake Lady’s house because if he knew I was going to be with his lover Harrison then it would have been all over.  I just told him that I was going out with Wendy.  And the interrogation began.

E:  momomomomomomomom.  I want to go with you and Wendy.
K:  You can’t.
E:  Why?
K:  Dad would miss you.
E:  Dadadadadad.  You wouldn’t miss me.  Why can’t I go with Mom?
D:  How come you always put on makeup when you go out with your girlfriends?

Um, cause I’m hoping to pick up the guy who cleans out the fish tank across the street?  It’s a vag1na party, for heaven’s sake.  I’m putting on makeup to cover the fact that I am twice the weight of every person who will be at this party and will be nibbling on nothing, complaining about moving from a size 2 to a 4 during the holidays.  A juniors 4, that is.  Nothing says “Look at my face instead of my ass that can barely fit through a doorway” like harem red lipstick.

K:  You can’t come.  It’s just for moms.
E:  But MOM.  I want to go to Wendy’s house too!!!!
K:  You can’t go to Wendy’s house.
E:  So you are going to Wendy’s house?

Rookie, rookie mistake.  Had I been the interrogator, I would have given the suspect my best “SUCKER” face.  His father looked on in dismay.  The kid is 3 and he just flipped his mother.  This isn’t looking good.  Wendy showed up in the nick of time and brought a plate full of kick ass cookies just for the kids.  We left. Apparently their father let them have two and then they had to go to bed.  He put the tray up on top of the fridge.  We had an awesome time at the party and I talked too much.  That happens when they only let you out of the psycho ward every 6 months for visitation.

The next day the kids were being kinda quiet in the kitchen and there was some noise but I wasn’t paying attention because I was busy taking the 600 dead lights off the tree and putting on the new strands.  I love Christmas.  Because the lights had to work the first 20 minutes I put them on the tree and then put all that breakable stuff around them.  Dammit.  Suddenly I heard The Husband YELL.

It appears that The Baby (you read that right) decided that he and The Boy needed some of Wendy’s stash and he found a stool in the laundry room.  He brought it out and put it against the counter.  He climbed onto the counter, up on the microwave and began reaching across the top of the fridge from the top of the microwave for the cookies.  When he couldn’t reach them, he decided to just push the tray over onto the floor for easier access.  Why do all that work for one when you can have 20?  It was only then that The Dog decided that maybe he too should indulge in some reindeer games.  When The Husband entered the kitchen, he said there was a feeding frenzy on the floor, with the kids trying to eat faster than the 95 pound Lab.

You tell them never to stand on the top of the microwave, but do they listen? No. You think you lock the stools up in the laundry room but does that stop them? No.

I’m so glad my husband is leaving me alone with these children tomorrow. Go to work. Really. I’ll be fine. I have to wonder what happened to that last pack of matches though…

“Failure to send me to Girl Scouts” to the list.

You don’t even want to know how long it took me to start the fire in the wood stove today.  I had to start that fire because winter has arrived here.  Fall?  Who needs fall when you can wake up to 30 degree weather?  And since The Husband is running interference with The Baby who wakes up at 6:23 a.m. every morning like clockwork, he apparently has no time to build a proper fire before he leaves for work.  I was still recovering from getting up 9 times to put The Boy back in his bed in the middle of the night.

I called Sweet Home Alabama to complain about my lack of Scout skills.  She mentioned that she had been in the Girl Scouts.  Apparently I have been led astray about ways my parents have overtly failed me in life.  SHA doesn’t know how to start a fire.  She doesn’t even know her knots.  WTH??  What are they doing in Girl Scouts if they aren’t teaching them survival skills and how to light crap on fire?  Either way, I will now blame my parents for failing to sign me up for the Boy Scouts.  HOW DARE THEY????  Clearly they did not love me because if they had, they would have taken the Boy Scouts to the Supreme Court to get me admitted.

Or they could have just taught me to start a fire.  My mother?  Queen Firestarter.  I still remember my mother out in the snow, chopping firewood when she was 7 months pregnant.  Of course, I’m 5 months pregnant and I have contractions if I climb stairs too quickly.  I am clearly not my mother’s daughter.   That being said, would I be in a rush to teach MY offspring to start a fire?  Probably not.  Who am I kidding?  Not just “no” but “hell, no.”

So I guess I will let her off the hook.  The odds are pretty good that she probably DID try to teach me to build a fire but I was ignoring her as any good daughter does.  Sorry, Mom.

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