Motherhood Gone Mad

The Temper Monster

2010-01-06T06:59:00.000-06:00

We have a Temper Monster living in our house.
it's not a cute, fluffy monster like on Sesame Street.
It's not even iconic like Godzilla.
It's just a pain in my ass.
The TM throws tantrums, runs away, yells and screams until I want to pull his hair out.
The TM convinces my normally sweet children to act in a manner that reminds me of Jack Nicholson in his younger, crazier days.
Or Hannibal Lecter. So far, we have had no cannibalism. So far.
I don't have three children and a child like husband.
I have four children and a child like husband.
And The TM takes up a good amount of my time.
So I'm putting him on warning.
"TM, henceforth you will stop telling my children all sorts of rotten ways to behave, speak, and think. They are normally good kids, and you are making them horrible. I won't have it anymore. I am hereby declaring war. I am done pandering to your bad manners, your naughty ways, and your efforts to destroy our family. From this day on, I'm going to be going Rambo on your arse. This is the only warning you will be given. Get out or face the consequences."
Game on, buddy.
And the TM just flipped oatmeal at me.
Lovely.

Sliding in a winter wonderland!

2009-12-30T06:57:00.001-06:00

Sleigh bells ring! Are you listening?
I'm a'fallen, the ice is glistening!
a pitiful sight. I'm broken tonight.
Slipping in a winter wonderland!

We have had a crap load of snow dropped on our state in the past week.
It has closed roads, school, and canceled Christmas with family who lived in town.
I have been sliding everywhere I've ventured in the past week.
In my car. On my feet. on my well cushioned arse as it hit the ice and slid down a hill.
I am my own toboggan, thank you very much.
My children love it.
Or they did for the fifteen minutes they were allowed out in it.
After thirty plus minutes of preparation to protect them from the cold and to make bathroom trips an endeavor.
Think of that stupid movie A Christmas Story."
(And, no, honey, mentioning it in this blog does not make it a classic movie, just a pop culture reference utilized to make a point. It is still a stupid movie and a waste of my time.)
Our Giant Schnauzer loves it, but then again, he's an idiot, so it's understandable.
I hate it. I hate the fact that i am now adult enough not to have visions of snowballs fights and snow forts dancing through my head. I hate it that all I can picture is getting stranded with three small children.
I hate it that my first thought was to stock up on food just in case.
I hate it, that when the first snow flake fell, I morphed into an adult with responsibilities who couldn't enjoy the beauty of the snow because I was concentrating on not driving off the road when my windshield wipers froze and wouldn't work.
In short, I really hate the snow.
And getting old.
And "The Christmas Story," just to round out the trilogy.

Happy birthday Punk!

2009-12-26T00:00:00.000-06:00

My daughter, my wee little evil midget, Punk, turns two today.
Seems like only a heartbeat ago that she was in my tummy and I was trying to end our time share arrangement.
She was the surprise baby, the unplanned but wanted child.
She was the last surprise I've really enjoyed in life.
Punk is her daddy's joy, my laughter, and our families only girl grandchild.
She is rotten, spoiled, temperamental, loud, rough, sweet, girly, and in other words, a perfect Punk.
It is amazing, after two boys, how different having a little girl is.
She is definitely feminine, until it's time to get down and dirty. Then she's worse than the boys.
Punk has been practicing her feminine wiles since she figured out if she cooed and giggled, the men in her life would give her what she wanted.
She has perfected it to an art now.
And when someone doesn't capitulate quickly enough, she channels her inner banshee and glass shatters.
Punk is my last baby, the culmination of a family and a dream my husband and I didn't know we had. She is the marichino cherry on our sundae, the Cool whip on our pie. She makes the five of us a whole unit.
She, like her brothers, makes The Man and I laugh so hard we occasionally wet ourselves. And then she curls up and snuggles (once we've changed out pee dampened pants, that is!)
She is Punk. She is Perfect. She is Princess Piss pot.
And we love her.
Whole bunches. (Imagine baby arms thrown as wide as they can reach.)
Happy birthday, Punkin girl.

His and mine

2009-12-21T00:01:00.000-06:00

The Man and I have neatly divided our children as though we were King Soloman.
Not by our choice.
By theirs.
Bug has announced with vim and vigor that he is my boy.
Boo has declared his allegiance to The Man.
Punk has been cut down the middle depending on if The Man has food or if she wants to snuggle me.
Boo has declared he doesn't love me--only Daddy--and that he only wants him.
Bug throws a fit when dad picks him up and he's looking for me.
Punk is mercurial. If you have food, she loves you best. If she's tired, she love me best. If she's playing, Daddy's the main choice. If she's sick, Mama. If she's feeling fiesty, Daddy.
Ping. Pong. Ping. Pong.
Truthfully, its bittersweet to watch my now green eyed boy (his eyes change color and have been a very pretty metallic green for a month now) want the Man instead of me.
I birthed him. I nursed him. I have a displaced rib thanks to him.
And I can't even get a hug hello most days.
I know its a stage. I know in time, he'll turn on Scott with the swiftness of a striking snake.
And I'll watch the Man's eye become sad as his boy doesn't want him.
At which time, Bug will throw me over for his dad.
They are consistantly incosistant.
They are passionate in their affections.
And they change their mood more often than their underwear.
And it's fascinating to watch.

P A N T Y!

2009-12-18T10:30:00.002-06:00

That one simple word makes The Man whimper and plead for mercy.
And not in relation to my unmentionable undergarments.
But in relation to the fact our daughter will be potty trained very soon and will enter the world of PANTIES.
(I think I just heard him die a little right there. PANTIES! Oh! Dare I say it again?)
He can't stand the fact that his baby girl is taking her fledgling steps towards becoming a woman like her mother.
Who will marry a man like her father.
Who will have the same thoughts about The Man's baby girl as The Man used to have about me.
Used to.
I discourage those thoughts most vehemently now for two very distinct reasons.
1. I know what happens when you let a man have those thoughts. I have three kids and finally figured out how babies are made.
2. The Man is getting older and those thoughts make him excited and that is very hard on an old man's heart.
So I make it a point to respect his heebeegeebee's regarding panties.
I bring it up at every opportunity.
I show him the panties in stores.
And I'm even making up a song to the tune of BINGO to sing.
P! A! N! T! Y!
P! A! N! T! Y!
P! A! N! T! Y!
Panties are what she wears!

The Generation Gap

2009-12-17T07:43:00.006-06:00

The Man and I are currently embroiled in one of our useless, pointless, ridiculous arguments.
Seriously, when were engaged, we almost broke it off because of an argument over whether or not a certain sandwich was on McDonald's menu.
We don't argue about the big stuff. Never have.
We argue about inane things that don't matter at all in the greater scheme of things.
In case you aren't aware, The Man is a stalwart Christian Republican male. I, most definitely, and none of those things.
The Man is seven years older than I am and a veteran of two wars.
I, if I had been old enough to wear a bra, would have been burning it in protest of war. (The first go around. The second time, definitely old enough for the over the shoulder boulder holder.)
The Man is Conservative. I'm of the mind set you reap what you sow, and it will all come back around one way or another.
We vote for different presidents. We have different religious views. We don't even like the same foods.
And, somehow, we have survived fourteen years of marriage.
Go figure!
Anyway, this morning, on my way to work, we were having our normal discussion and The Man admitted that his generation screwed up the country (Vietnam, etc).
And I responded in my normal fashion. Rather than discussing the war and pertinant details of our discussion, I went for the part I knew would make him sputter.
"Yes, honey, you did screw up the world by getting into a 'Conflict' (I'm driving doing quotations with my fingers). But you really screwed up because you enjoyed people who liked to cross dress, wear platform heels, spandex, and make up."
Him: "Huh?" He is so eloquent.
"Yes, babe, your generations started the whole bring the cross dressers and gays out of their closets and into the main stream. Kind of hard to stand tall as a white republican male when you're wearing four inch stiletto's and fishnets."
Him: "Huh?"
"You know what I'm talking about, honey. Your generation supported cross dressers in their infancy. Way to go. You know, honey, with groups like Queen, KISS, and Elton John. You should really be proud that you made it possible for an entire series of generations to come out of the closet and stand proud."
At this point, he began defending his fave all time rock band, KISS, with all the vehemence of a die hard fan.
"Babe, you enjoy listening to grown men who prance around in tights, platforms, make up, etc. It explains why I find you wearing my clothes occasionally. But, you know what, babe. I support your right to cross dress if you want to."
(Just to clarify, he wears my socks, which he stretches out and ruins, my pajama pants, which right now are pink leopard print, and a few shirts. Not the low cut ones. He doesn't have the cleavage.)
Then, being the admirable debater that he is, he comes back with the witty reply, "Well, what about the New Kids on the Block?"
"One of them is gay, they may cross dress. Don't care."
Hell, we have Boy George and RuPaul.
But it all started with his generation, repressed and looking for an outlet.
And they found high heels, make up, and boas.
That's the legacy his generation gave my generation.
For which we all should be eternally grateful.
If, for nothing else, than for the fashion tips.
"I wanna rock and roll all night! And wear high heels every day!"
Rock on!

Old Man Winter

2009-12-16T09:58:00.002-06:00

The Man turns 41 this weekend.
And, true to form, I must celebrate in true wifely fashion.
No, I do not mean sexy negligees and sexual favors. That would require me to do something involving effort.
Nope, I will put pen to paper and celebrate in a more cerebral fashion.
The Man says 41 is much harder for him to accept than 40, so I'm gonna try to help him along.
The Man has much more hair than he used to. Unfortunately, it's not on his head. But what is on his head is turning a very distinguished gray. As it heads south for the winter.
The Man has great stamina. He naps for the longest time, at the drop of a hat. His narcoleptic tendencies are a running joke between us now.
He has a memory like you wouldn't believe. Meaning he forgets what he was supposed to remember as soon as he's told it.
He is a clean fanatic. His OCD tendencies are becoming firmly ingrained, so that, when we are old and gray, I won't have to do any cleaning, because, aside from naps and bathroom breaks, he will do nothing else.
The Man is aging into a terrific father. He's settling into his role with grace and style (and a touch of child induced deafness) and our children are the better for it.
And he might turn into an acceptable husband in time. Might. He's aging well, like a moldy cheese, and, I'm hoping, as he molds more each year, I continue to like that brand of cheese. If I start craving a sharp, young cheddar, there might be problems.
The Man thinks 41 is old. Well, honey, it is. But I think you've still got a few good years left before we start buying Depends and Geritol.
We'll save that for next year.
Happy birthday, honey!
Smooches!
(And watch me run away now!)

Memories

2009-12-14T00:01:00.000-06:00

I didn't really want a daughter.
Don't get me wrong, I love my baby girl.
After two boys, a girl was a strange and frightening thing.
She still is, but I like the strange and frightening quality of my daughter.
But I've discovered another joy of having a daughter.
I can buy her the toys I had as a child that have come back in style.
Cabbage Patch Kids. Check. One will be under the tree.
My Little Pony. Check. Got two of those.
I haven't been able to find Strawberry Shortcake, but she has a birthday this month, so I'm hoping an aunt will take pity on me . . .er, her . . .and buy her one.
Having a daughter is my own personal accepted way to jog down memory lane and relive my childhood.
She can ask for the toys. I can play with them.
Seems fair.
Heaven help her if she wants something I can't play with and don't have fond memories of.
I don't think she'd be getting it!

It's a bird! It's a plane!

2009-12-11T08:53:00.003-06:00

No, it's my child running away!
Bug has developed a new twist on his already twisted and convoluted behavior.
He wants to run away.
To New York.
To school.
To anywhere but here.
And I'm not allowed to go, but The Man is.
I want to go to New York, damn it!
I don't know what the deal is, what the allure is, because we simply key lock the doors and put away the keys when he gets in this mood.
No one escapes from mommy.
And he'll tell us it's not because he's unhappy (unless he's mad--then we are all unhappy!). He just wants to run away.
End of discussion.
His logic is childish and irrefutable.
And we're stumped.
If my baby is packing his bags, it makes me wonder . . .
If home is where the heart is, why does my oldest child ream of Broadway stages and escape?

Bribery and the bad parent

2009-12-07T07:36:00.004-06:00

Does bribing my oldest to have a good day at school make me a bad parent?
I weigh the moral pros and cons.
Am I teaching him to expect rewards for behavior he should do as a matter of course?
Am I setting him up to expect rewards for every little thing?
Am I just trying to help him and his teachers have good days at school, without screaming, fighting, and battles?
Am I reading too much into it?
I'm not exactly buying him a pony for these bribes.
I'm using an advent calender and the thrill of surprise and chocolate as a reward.
Bug loves to open the door and see what is hidden there, and last week, he had four out of five great days as a result.
But am I teaching him to associate food with joy?
As I spin in circles, catching myself coming and going with every parenting conundrum, I wonder--how badly am I screwing this child up?
And then I head straight for my chocolate.

another year older

2009-12-02T18:37:00.002-06:00

And not a damned bit wiser am I!
Seriously!
What did I learn this last year?
How to coupon my ass off to feed my family.
How to juggle bills so we have food, electricity, a home.
Patience? (That one earned a big old guffaw)
What have I learned this year that has value?
I have learned that my love of my children has no limits and that I am willing to move heaven and earth to help a five year old acclimate to school.
I have learned that I would cry when my three year old stopped sucking his thumb and suddenly became a big boy.
I have learned that a two year old can win an argument against me more times than i care to admit.
I have learned that, despite days where I want to walk away, walking away isn't an option.
They just follow me.
Asking for milk and telling me they are tired and that their brother is touching them.
Have I done anything worthwhile with another year of my life?
Not really.
I have survived, like the Gloria Gaynor song.
And this year, that was enough.
So pour me a birthday margarita and come sing drunkenly with me.
Because, this year, that is enough.

Forgetting

2009-12-01T00:01:00.001-06:00

My mother called to talk with me tonight and reminded me of something I'd forgotten.
My birthday next weekend
Seriously. Didn't even register.
I loathe my birthday. who wants to watch the years going by and celebrate that? Who wants to count the days of my mortality? ticking off the days until the end of my time?
As a mom, I spend much of my time worrying about my kids birthdays and holidays to worry about my own.
For example, Punk turns two after Yule, and with the holiday and birthday and normal everyday stresses, I don't think of much else.
Let alone my birthday.
Which seems to surprise everyone.
I often wonder if this forgetting is a protective measure, a sign that I am far too busy, or a sign that I have lost a part of myself to the monster called motherhood.
I suspect its an amalgamation of all three, but still.
It's always puzzling that I forget my birthday, that it sneaks up on me every year unexpectedly.
It's not like its not the exact same date every blasted year after ll.
It isn't like one of those Whack-a-Mole games. I know when it's going to rear it's ugly head.
But every year, it's a surprise.
Maybe the surprise is that I am really another year older.
And not so very much wiser most days.

Today will be three years

2009-11-22T00:01:00.001-06:00

Since my dear daddy passed away.
It's hard to believe.
Most days I still expect to see him walk through the door.
Or see him pat my mom's butt when she walks by.
Or watch him watching my kids.
When we are together as family, if I close my eyes, I can almost hear him chuckling.
I can almost feel his hand on my hair.
Or see him touch my babies as they run by.
Almost.
The hurt never stops. The missing never eases.
Every day, I wish he could just hold my kids. That my baby girl could have crawled into his lap and found the same comfort and safety there that I did.
That my boys could have run to him to tell them about their boyish adventures.
That I could hear the yell Peepaw and see his face light up with a bemused smile.
That I could say Daddy and have him call me Punk in that exasperated tone of voice one more time.
Tomorrow, I will hold my babies close and tell them about their PeePaw in the stars. The one who watches over them every day. The one who loved them so much.
Three years watching my children grow passes in a instant. Three years without my daddy is a lifetime.

Who is that strange man?

2009-11-18T00:01:00.001-06:00

Some days, I look at The man and I just don't know.
I don't know who he is anymore.
I don't know what he's thinking.
I don't know what freaking planet he's from.
Those are the days I question the wisdom of marriage. Really. I know it was the idea of a woman, because no man would choose to be saddled with one woman and her growing saddlebags for life.
After his accident, there have been a lot of those days. The ones where I study the man like a strange zoo exhibit and ponder my own sanity. Most days, I find my mental faculties sadly lacking.
But there are also days when I look at him and catch a glimpse of the young man I married.
The man who is one of a handful of people that can make me laugh so hard I cry and pee at the same time--a rare skill indeed.
The one who chases our kids around the yard playing soccer until he hurts his knee and limps to me for the sympathy he knows he's not going to get. (When you are on your deathbed, then I will sympathize. If I do that every time you are sick, you'll just get sick/hurt/maimed more often for attention, you know!)
The man I couldn't imagine my life without almost fifteen years ago (and, yes, I know we've been married 14 years, but December will be 15 years since we met.)
Some days, I want to chunk it all, move to a small, poorly inhabited island, and never have to see him or the heathens again. Especially when his DNA is strongest in our children.
But most days, I realize I don't have much room to complain. (Not that I won't complain, I'll just have to be more creative in my endeavors.) We have little money, but a lot of love and laughter and three lovely children who eventually fall asleep and are blessedly silent.
I am married to a man who likes to do housework, so I don't have to. Who enjoys getting down and dirty with the kids, again so I don't have to. (I am the more cerebral parent.) Who does yard work, again, so I don't have to.
And even though he drives me berserk and makes me contemplate homicide, I realize that, if I did off him, I'd have to do all of those things I don't like to do.
And my mama didn't raise a fool.

My daughter, the mute

2009-11-16T00:01:00.000-06:00

Punk has begun a new stage of non speaking.
That's not to say she doesn't communicate, but we have reverted to a strange early form of speech and action that leave me playing charades.
And i hate charades.
Ask her question that doesn't have a yes or no answer? She stares at you.
Ask her a yes or no question? Watch carefully for the small nod or shake of her head.
It's so minute, if you blink, you'll miss it.
And then she screams.
And heaven help you if you try to out guess her.
Then she really screams.
This morning, for example, I was having tea and toast. She was having milk and a breakfast bar. She finished her bar, so I gave her my toast. Which she looked at, grunted once, and waited until I turned my back to eat.
But when I asked her if it was good, I think I saw a small nod.
May have just been a trick of light.
Lest you think she has completely reverted to a nonverbal state, she does still say several word loudly and with great gusto.
Three to be exact.
No.
Dadddeeeeee!
Mommmeeeeeee!

Woe for the curly headed child

2009-11-13T00:01:00.002-06:00

All three of my children have curly hair.
With Bug, it's only in the back, giving him a mini mullet.
With Boo, who has coarse hair like his daddy, it's all over and, when allowed to grow, resembles a white boy's Afro.
Those two are easy. We keep their hair length at 1 inch, tops.
But Punk, poor, poor Punk.
My baby's got curl.
All over, in increasingly tight ringlets.
It's beautiful.
It's wonderful.
It's a pain in my butt to deal with.
To look at her hair, it doesn't appear to be that long. The longest ringlet falls just below shoulder level.
Until you get her hair wet and realize its past the middle of her back.
Her curls are so blasted aggressive that they don't seem to get any longer, just more abundant.
And knotted.
And harder to brush.
and by the end of the day, she resembles a pissed off poodle.
I use conditioners and detanglers. They roll over, show their soft, white underbellies, and plead for mercy.
And I have flashbacks of my own childhood and my mom manhandling her way through brushing my curly hair.
I still hate having my hair messed with to this day.
And I hate the thought that Punk cries every time she sees a hair brush no matter how much I try to make it painless.
I'm considering a Sinead o'Conner look for her, just to end the pain.
And I'm waiting for The Man to turn away just long enough.

Hail to our veterans!

2009-11-11T00:01:00.001-06:00

The Man is a Veteran. Twice over.
And while I make fun of one of his wars being about oil and greed, I do appreciate that he felt compelled to serve his country.
I couldn't drive my car without him.
And he was a big boat.
(I just love to hear him scream)
I have a special soft spot for veterans. My grandpa and Daddy were both veterans. The Man, who has a soft spot in general, is, of course, a veteran. Of the Gulf War and Operation freedom.
While I don't agree with the Military (Capital letter--government) I do support the military (small letter--the people). They are simply doing what they believe is right, serving their conscious and their country.
That I can get behind any day.
So when you see a veteran handing out flowers for donations, pony up. They've earned it and more.

When even a margarita won't help

2009-11-09T06:47:00.003-06:00

Yes, I had one of those weekends.
Saturday, due to a brief financial windfall, found The Man and I dropping the heathens off at Grandma's so we could go Yule shopping.
Whereas both boys through fits worthy of note, although Boo did recover much fast than Bug.
Bug hid in Grandma's garage, ate breakfast in Grandma's garage, and in general, was a pint sized twirp.
But the Man and I prevailed, saving a whopping $115 dollars on Yule presents ( we got $350 for $235!) It was his first couponing shopping adventure with me (a virgin! Oh my!) and he had a glazed looked in his eyes the rest of the day.
Then off to the grocery store to restock our pantries. The Man has vowed never again.
So my plan succeeded, because I loathe taking him to the store with me.
He messes with my rhythm.
Sunday was just me and the heathens.
And it was not a pretty picture.
The boys were wild and succeeded in interrupting Punk's nap, so I had a screaming, fussing 22 month old all day.
Seriously! I looked at her, she cried. I tried to pick her up, she cried. Tried to leave her alone, she cried. Tried to stay with her, she cried.
It was lose/lose proposition.
Until she finally passed out, in the recliner, at 5:30pm and slept 13 hours straight.
And this morning? She's still giving me the stink eye.
But she's Daddy's problem until 5 o'clock tonight.
I'll take pissy customers any day.

For the love of a Woobie

2009-11-03T07:10:00.003-06:00

http://www.babysleepshop.com/acatalog/info_26.html
My oldest boy, from the time he was three months old, had his Woobie, a beloved Noukie Doudou named Paco that was chewed upon, carried every where, and slept with.
Paco the first was lost on the side of the turnpike in a freak wind related accident.
Paco the Second was throwing away by a two year old.
Paco the third--we just don't know where he went. He ran away from the craziness.
Paco the fourth was lost last year, and after $40 a pop, i deigned not to replace him.
Bug cried. He asked for it. And we diverted like the cowards we are.
After more than a year of looking and admitting defeat, Woobie showed up again this last weekend.
There was a joyous reunion with flowers and protestations of undying love.
A boy and his Woobie--happy days.

Frankestyle

2009-11-02T13:30:00.003-06:00

We survived Halloween.
Barely.
We had a zombie soccer player, Frankenstein (mispronounced each day as either dragonfly or Frankestyle) and a pissed off pink poodle.
We called in reinforcements in the form of our willing nephew and set out.
I took pissy poodle, figuring she would wear out more quickly, and The Man and Guy took the boys.
We girls out lasted the boys, but isn't that normally the case?
Punk didn't want to stop. Even when her little legs were so tired she was stumbling. Even when the houses became fewer and further between. Even when her bucket over floweth with teeth rotting goodness.
My girl persevered.
While the boys when back to Grandmas and handed out candy.
Suckers.
Wooses.
Wimps.
Let the girls show you how its done!

When it rains

2009-10-29T00:01:00.000-05:00

I get hit with cats and dogs and step in a few poodles.
Yes, I am being cheezy, but there's not much more to say.
We've hit another wall, a new snaffu, another delay in resuming that path our lives were once on.
If we don't get back on that path soon, we won't be able to find it for the overgrown and grass.
Maybe we're not supposed t resume that path. I don't know. But right now it seems fairly idyllic when compared to our current trail, which is full of worries, budgets, and blasted sticker burrs.
Whatever the future holds, i just wish we could start moving forward instead of inching our way along, wondering what lies around every corner.

Three days

2009-10-28T06:42:00.002-05:00

Bug has had three good days of school thus far--last Friday was a winner, and Monday and Tuesday have been great.
We're creeping into Wednesday hopeful and quaking with fear.
And this morning, he woke up in THAT mood.
The "I don't want to" and "I'm gonna have a bad day" mood that sent me scurrying to the bathroom to take deep breaths and pray toe very deity I could come up with.
Shiva and me--old buddies. Buddha got his belly rubbed. You get the picture.
So i did what every self respecting parent would do when faced with insurmountable odds.
I tickled him until he almost wet himself and oxygen was a luxury.
His mood perked right up then!
Then w danced the good day dance, sang the good day song, and I retreated while I was sort of ahead of the game.
I will spend my day at work worrying, stressing, and waiting for the call to tell me how his day went and if I need to pick up bribes for his teachers to let him come back tomorrow.
His attitude is really affecting my pocketbook.

Bed Bugs

2009-10-23T00:01:00.000-05:00

I have bed bugs.
Not the gross, biting kind, but the giggling, wriggling, little boy kind.
Every night to early morning, I end up with an unexpected bed mate.
A very cute one, but still.
They hog the covers, put toes up my nose, fart, drool, and snore.
And I end up not going back to sleep.
I've tried being stern about it.
Which results in tears and wailing from their room.
And I still don't sleep.
I was always very firm in my belief that children should not be in their parents bed. Until Punk came along, and, desperate for sleep, I caved.
And it's been snowballing since then.
And since Boo started school, its become a nightly thing.
I wake up to find him in our bed, on the end of our bed, staring at me from the side of the bed.
I hear his bear jangling as he comes down the hall.
I am sleep deprived because my kids want to be with me, in my bed, and they aren't good bed mates.
They turn sideways, upside down, fling arms, head butt me, and all the while, I'm huddling behind my pillow praying to the blasted Sand Man to knock them out so hard they stay still.
I love my bed bugs, but I'm about to unleash a big old can of Raid on them if I don't get some sleep soon!

Suck that Thumb!

2009-10-22T00:01:00.000-05:00

After 3 1/2 years of avid devotion to the art of thumb sucking, Boo, per the advice of his dentist, will kiss his oppose able digit goodbye.
No, we are not chopping it off, but we will be stopping it from dwelling in his mouth before I have to bankrupt myself on braces in ten years.
I did the research and ordered a product with great recommendations that should be arriving in the mail by this weekend.
If it, unlike my other mail, isn't high jacked by my deranged mailman for some house built out of mail and junk.
So we will enter the fray of a mad preschooler who can't get his thumb sucking fix. We'll suffer through detox.
We'll bounce off the padded walls while Boo wails and moans the loss of his beloved thumb.
We just hope it works.
And that our middle child doesn't fall off the wagon and go on a thumb sucking bender to rival all benders. Think "The Long Weekend" Boo style.
*slurp! slurp!*

The sound of . . . .D'oh!

2009-10-21T00:01:00.002-05:00

The Man has had some choice parenting moments lately, including but not limited to:
Bathing the heathens then giving them dinner. With ketchup.
Telling me Bug will not run off at school.
This particular piece of parental wisdom resulted in me chasing my five year old, gasping, wheezing, fat flapping in the breeze.
He stopped so I could catch him, kind child that he is.
The Man is really having some d'oh moments lately.
Not that I am perfect. Not that I don't do stupid, boneheaded things that make me slap myself senseless.
I just can't remember any right now.
Convenient huh?
And before he gets his feelers hurt, he is a great parent. With lapses of memory and judgement thanks to the onset of dementia brought on by his ripe old age of forty.
*gasp*
While I am spry and lively and in control of all my faculties thanks to my youth.
(I can hear The Man sputtering indignantly right now!)