The Litany of Brittainy

Because I'm Mature Now. Or Something.

noreply@blogger.com (litanyofbritt) — Thu, 21 Oct 2010 17:21:00 +0000

Everybody take a number, and you can all get your chance to whip me with a wet noodle, or the noodle of your choice. I haven't blogged since I was a mere babe, and I deserve to be punished. There is no excuse, people, but I think the zoloft sucked out all my funny along with the angst. Except that it left enough angst for me to be too ashamed to face my blog or anyone else's, because I judge everything I say/write and then berate myself for it for the rest of eternity. Like the other day when my vet tech friend came over to pull a giant tick off my dog, and then she gave him a bone and he ran over to the doormat to eat it and I innocently told her its because my dog is a wicked carpet-snacker. Which might not have been so heinous if my friend didn't happen to be a lesbian, and so everytime I think of it I want to punch myself in the face repeatedly. Blogging does that to me too. I have remorse for basically everything I do. I probably need more Zoloft.

I've had endless streams of emails, (READ: three), wondering where the hell I have been and when am I coming back and whatnot, and that's when I learned the problem with disappearing off the face of the internet is that you can't come back without a missing limb or stories of rescuing orphans from mountain tops. Because simply saying "Oh, hi. I'm a lazy person with not a lot to say," doesn't quite cut it. But here's to hoping a slightly relevant video of my hand playing ukulele will trick people into forgetting what an internet-abandoning asshole I am. Why the hand? Because my hand doesn't need to put a bra on and brush its hair in order to be video taped.

If only I could send my hand to the bank and grocery store. My hand needs to start pulling its weight around here.

I turned 30, and the huz did what he could with 4 days notice, (because I lied through my teeth about my real age), and threw me a party. The man got up at 3 am to decorate so I would be surprised when I woke up. I was so appreciative of that, but then I wanted to stab him because for all the years I've known him, he has feigned decorating ignorance and his job has always been to remove the children from the house and leave everything up to me. That bastard was hiding his superior decorating skills all these years. Now his official title is Balloon-Inflating-Streamer-Hanger-Upper. It is not Cake-Picker-Outter though, since the I Hope You Die cake. In case you can't see it, this is a cake topped with the grim reaper holding a hatchet, and watching over a freshly dug grave, that is meant for me. Internets, this was an option at a bakery somewhere. Under the category: birthday.


Because nothing says "Happy Birthday" like a shallow grave.

Later on this happened, because shockingly, everybody I know brought me wine. And shockingly, I tried to drink all of it.

So it didn't surprise anyone when this happened shortly thereafter.

You'd think he'd have learned by now to watch his back.

My mom says that since I'm 30 I need to be more mature and keep my house clean,(though I'm not sure it counts if my mom is still wagging her finger at me to get me to do it). Even so, I've been trying to keep on top of dishes and laundry heaps and the piles of crap that seem to have a magnetic pull to my kitchen island. I can say that here because you can't see through the screen to the hot mess that is actually happening up in this piece. Count your blessings, internets. Mackenzie turned 5 in September, and Tinkerbell and birthday banners are still dominating the walls. There is no excuse for probably anything I have done in the last two months. Maturity is overrated after all.

The Last Post Of My Youth

noreply@blogger.com (litanyofbritt) — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 20:44:00 +0000

I remember the first moment I knew I was getting old. I was in a Strawberries record store, reminiscing about the Garbage Pail Kids to the teenager behind the counter, who snapped her gum at me and said these words:

"Uh, that was before my time."

I let her live, but talk crap about her every time I re-tell that story. I think she ruined all teenagers for me, because now when I see teenagers I think they should go put on a belt and get off my lawn. I did particularly enjoy the teenagers in my old neighborhood, who thought they were invisible when ten of them hid from the passing cars. Behind, like, three trees.

Nothing says "I climbed out my window to smoke pot with my friends" like removing all doubt of guilt by doing this as soon as you see headlights.

I was all set to be 29 again this year, so when the huz starting throwing around the talk of thirty, I feigned an insulted gasp, and then berated him for not knowing my age. My plan worked perfectly until he caught up with my BFF, who set him straight because, "she does not get to get out of turning thirty." So now I have to wax my eyebrows and put a bra on, and hide my laundry piles for a party tomorrow.

And this morning I woke up to this:

I feel some gray hairs growing as we speak.

Owls Inappropriately Harming Children And Other Things To Never Say

noreply@blogger.com (litanyofbritt) — Thu, 12 Aug 2010 01:59:00 +0000

My last post was two manic Mondays ago, but rest assured the universe punished me for you. It's been a long-ass week, Internets. The awesomest part was being Goat Thing Of The Day over at Nanny Goats In Panties. For obvious reasons, and because its proof that when I promise you handmade thank-you cards for being a faithful reader I'm not just blowing smoke up your ass.

Another fun thing was throwing a Christmas party for the kids. Summer be damned!

I did it for the children!

Tried to teach the girl child to ride her bike. To no avail. The horn and the bell definitely work, though. I assure you.

Then this, and shockingly, nothing bad happened.

It is hot out there, people!

Something bad happened later though, when I splashed hot grease across my arm while cooking, and tried to soothe the burn by teabagging myself.

By applying actual tea bags to my arm, sickos. And no, it didn't work any better than the time i tried to catch flies with an actual bowl of honey. Cliches are big fat lies.

My lovely mother took both my kids for an afternoon and Mackenzie for a sleepover. I wasted the first hour of no kids hanging out at my mom's house with my kids, but then I came to my senses and went home to refuse housework and productivity, and instead eat ice-cream on the couch and watch season three of Arrested Development. It was awesome.

Bedtime rolled around and it was time for my mom to return my son, because he ruined the chances of future sleepovers for himself last time by sleeping across my mother's head and causing her "the worst night's sleep she had ever had in her life." I totally feel her pain because he has caused the worst two years' sleep of my life.

My mother was walking to the car with Jack when an owl hooted, commencing an irrational fear of owls for Jack, which he complained about the whole way home, by relentlessly repeating "Ow-woos scare me," and pointing at every passing car screaming "HE NOT AN OW-WOO!" It didn't make sense to me either, but the face he makes when he says owl is hilarious, and so for the past two days I have been harassing him to say it.

ME: Hey, Jack, do you like owls?
JACK: No. Ow-woos scare me.
ME: They do? How come?
JACK: Ow-woos say "HOOOOOO HOOOOO." (Makes perfect O with his mouth and is adorable.)
ME: Thats scary?
JACK: Yes. Ow-woos hurt my penis.*

That is when I realized that my son had removed his diaper and had a sudden change of focus. And also when I stopped trying to get him to say owl.


But I still think its funny.

At some point during the week my tiny ear holes nearly earned me a psych evaluation at the ER. This is how I learned that when you are calling your doctors office to report weird side effects from your new happy pills, you should never use the phrases "...it sounds like her voice is inside my head," "it is driving me crazy," or "maddening" to describe your sudden changes in hearing no matter how non-insane it seems to you. Trust. It might not actually be a medication side effect, and might be more of a tiny ear hole being blocked. This is not coincidentally how I also learned that it is horrifying to hear your mother tell you "you have the tightest, tiniest, slit of a hole I have ever seen", no matter what context it is spoken in. Even if she happens to be bending your neck at an inconceivable angle to shine a flashlight into your ear at the time.

Also this week I decided its time to go back on Weight Watchers. Because nothing says "inspiration" like wearing your mother's fat clothes after she loses a bunch of weight.


Bite it, Owl.

*He also mentioned that a crab hurt his thumb, and that it was swimming in the toilet. For what its worth.

Just Another Manic Monday

noreply@blogger.com (litanyofbritt) — Mon, 02 Aug 2010 19:23:00 +0000

Although I don't wish it were Sunday, because tonight Secret Life Of The American Teenager is on. I realize this means that I have just pissed away whatever cool points survived after my last post, but truth be told, I haven't missed an episode. The acting is bad, the content is totally unrealistic, and the character development is non-existant, but I can't stop watching. Honestly, I don't care for any of the characters except for Adrienne and Ricky, and of course Amy's mom who is played by Molly Ringwald. I should probably quit right here, and accept the fact that there is not another adult on this planet who watches that show, and probably very few teenagers. But it is what it is, and until Grey's Anatomy reclaims its place as my TV love of the week, SLOTAT it is.

In other news, in spite of my dwindling cool points, some people still publicly profess their love for me on their blogs, which is akin to saving me a seat with the popular kids in a high school cafeteria. If I went to highschool, otherwise that would be really creepy. I'm really screwing this post up. And my head hurts. I blame this guy.

But I digress.

The talented, and nice-ass having EricKa, over at Alabaster Cow has named me Alabastard of the Week, which is a great honor, and maybe moved my coolness back up a notch. You should check her blog out if you haven't already, because she will make throaty, laughy sounds come out of you.

Also, my bloggity friend Drama Mama over at The Scoop On Poop has bumped my coolness up one more time with a new blog award, and she has also passed along The Duct Tape Award For Bloggy Goodness, and The Chupacabra Award For Excellence, and people are pretending to be excited about them, and that gives me a fuzzy feeling inside, and thus i chuckle. If you haven't visited her yet, you're missing out, Yo. Plus, everytime someone visits her, a unicorn is born. I would imagine.

And now, five random things about me that you didn't know you needed to know until just now, mainly because I was supposed to do this several awards ago:

1. I was hit by a car at my best friend's birthday party when I was a kid, and was mad about it ruining our sleepover plans.

2. I named my daughter Mackenzie, because it sounds pretty, and also because it means "child of the wise leader."

3. When I was pregnant, I was afraid my son's name translated to "satanic cult leader," but thankfully my mom assured me it meant "dark haired little one," and she forwarded to me the three specific sources I cried for. (Jack is blonde. Just sayin'.)

4. I pretty much suck at making lists like this.

5. Pumpernickle is german for "devil's fart." (See 4.)

Enjoy those morsels of bloggy randomness, Internets. And maybe next time get that turkey club on rye.

Oh Yeah, My Infants Were Bloggers Too

noreply@blogger.com (litanyofbritt) — Sat, 31 Jul 2010 02:03:00 +0000

As you may or may not know my mom, at Dawn's Daybreak, made me start this blog. If there is an award for dorkiest blogger, I'm pretty sure I won it right there. But its true. Blogging is a family affair. Before I blogged, Mackenzie tappa tappa tappa'd at the keyboard all the live long day. Her blog was called The Kenzie Chronicles, and not only was she a gifted little one year old prodigy, but she was frickin' adorable. I just read some of her posts, and chuckled and cried a little because now that wee baybeh is almost five years old. Read all about her pleas for psychiatric medication, and that time we went on a field trip that was almost the last field trip ever taken.


That mohawk finally toppled over around 5 months.

Later, not about to be outdone by his older sister, Jack began the Jack Journals. I would give you specific examples of his work, but that would be redundant since his blog is only a page long. Once he learned to move, he gave up his internet career, and followed his dream of getting into stuff, and laughing in the face of childproofing.

*guess what's awesome? I just hit publish by accident before I was done.*

*Ahem*

Word.
Here we go!
Okay now!
Yadda, yadda, yadda and then my mom sort of insisted that I start a blog too, and keep up with the family tradition of word play on first names and dude. Do you have any idea how many inappropriate things rhyme with Britt? No, I'm gonna give you a second... So, that's why Britt was out, and Brittainy it was, and what the heck else rhymes with Brittainy but litany? There you have it, three generations of blogging up in this piece.

This was supposed to be a post for True Story Tuesday. The one time I ever write a blog post in advance and something bad happens. I may have fooled some of you into thinking that I know what I'm doing, but no. I have no idea how to recover from publishing a half finished post by accident, and all that frantic editing made me thirsty. *Clink*
So peace out.
Until next time, Internets.

*uncomfortable pause*

*backing slowly away*

*waving awkwardly*

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand scene.

It's Funny Because It Didn't Happen To Me (This will offend at least half of you.)

noreply@blogger.com (litanyofbritt) — Fri, 30 Jul 2010 02:58:00 +0000

There are certain things that will always make me laugh. Jack making his funny face, ( It is funny. Take my word), any random episode of Scrubs, and someone getting hit in the nuts. I'm serious, if you have balls and something bad happens to them in my bubble of observation, I will laugh at you. Then I will think about it later and laugh again. Jack swung a lightsaber into my brother's danger zone, and dropped him to the ground, and I guffawed even though it was a little sad because my brother is only 12. But its the nature of the beast, internets. I can't help it. And you can't either, that's why America's Funniest Videos has been running for a hundred years. That crap is funny.

My son has grown to be just the height where all his swings, punches, and head butts are balls level to a grown man. This has provided me with ample snickering and snorting opportunities. So many, that I can distinguish a balls injury scream from a regular old stubbed toe, or finger smashing scream. And in those times I don't even have to see it to chuckle, and later when I want to relive it and chuckle again I get to mentally change the circumstances to fit my mood. Its like Mad Libs of the balls. And it brings a smile to my face when even Zoloft can't.

There are those of you who might say: Scoff! You shouldn't laugh at such things, Woman! Our balls are sacred! You don't know pain like ball pain!

And to those I say this: Dude. I gave birth to a ten pound baby. After 17 hours of labor. Cut your balls in half, drive a truck through them, then staple them to your ass, and get back at me with your kicked in the nuts whines. Because I win. Granted I puked and cried the whole time, but still, I win.
And then another time, someone cut me open and took a human being out of me. Check mate, Balls-owners.

But that's not what I came here to say.

You know those moments when you are trying to convince someone that they are wrong and you are right, (bonus points for being obnoxious and arrogant about it), and just as you play your best card, the proof of your wrongness occurs? That sucks. Unless it happens to the other person, and then its awesome?

That just happened.

The huz and I were in the basement, and I was trying to chase the sound of a cricket around. Jay insisted it was outside the door, under the bulkhead. Then we debated about whether or not a cricket could fit its bastard little body under the door, and Jay was all, there is NO WAY a cricket could get under that door. (He built that door.) Its not possible. He waved a dismissive hand and spun away from me as a gesture of righteousness, only deliver himself directly into the path of the cricket, which he murdered by punching it into the cement floor. I'm telling you, Internets, the man is a damned neanderthal. But the sweet pleasure of reveling in the win? I could eat it with a spoon.

Well, do ya?

And Not Because You Are Sticky Or Terrifying

noreply@blogger.com (litanyofbritt) — Wed, 28 Jul 2010 16:47:00 +0000

Recently a few things have happened.
Firstly, a few of my blogging buddies have publicly bestowed upon me some awards. Many thanks to Teri at The Biopolar Diva, Mungee's Ma at Mungee And Me, Drama Mama at The Scoop On Poop, and Melanie at Read It In 7 Days. I will Proudly wear this Versatile Blogger Award from this day forth.

Another award I received comes from Adrienne at No Points For Style.

Adrienne explains the guidelines for the award like this:

The No Points for Style Bad Ass Blogger Award is given for just one thing: bloggish bad-assery. If you read my blog, you know how highly I value honesty – the kind where a blogger spills her or his guts in such a way that we all remember that we’re never, ever alone in the world. This award is for bloggers who write posts that cut right to the heart of the human experience. It doesn’t have to be tragic or devastating or earth-shattering (though it may be); it just has to be real.

I earned the privilege of wearing this badge with this post about the heinous PPD experience I had after the birth of my son. My guts are still hanging out all over the place from that post, and I'm proud to be "Bad Ass." So, thanks again Adrienne. No Points For Style is a highly recommended read for anybody who is affected by a child with mental illness, or anyone who wants to understand mental illness from an honest and raw inside perspective that is beautifully, poignantly written.

If you haven't visited these lovely ladies, you are missing out. You should definitely check them out. Go ahead, I'll wait...

You back? Pretty great mamas, eh? You're welcome.
Now check this out.

I've made some blog awards of my own. Partly because I keep seeing the same ones floating around the blogosphere, but mostly because I'm off my meds. These were made up on a whim, (which will explain a few things once you scroll down), and specifically designed so I wouldn't find out later that I had stolen the image/likeness/idea of someone else would would want to sue me or throw tomatoes at my house, or whatever the punishment is for being an unintentional copycat. If these exist already, I appologize. And I'll give you the number of my psychiatrist. Now without further ado I bring you:

The Chupacabra Award For Excellence

No chupacabras were harmed in the making of this award.

and

The Duct Tape Award For Bloggy Goodness

Extra bonus for me? I fulfilled both blog fodder, and quality time with the kids requirements by coloring these. Yay, Crayola!

Today I am offering awards to the following bloggers, for being awesome in one way or another, or various ways at the same time. Around here we call that multitasking. The recipients may choose the award they would like to receive, because I'm too lazy to choose for them. I'm positive that I have not included a boatload of people who I love, love, love, and I blame the little children who crowd around me with their wants and needs, and have caused this post to take a day and a half to write. I will be throwing out another round of awards in the near future, as I know these are more coveted than the Nobel Peace Prize, and other prestigious prizes that I can't think of right now.
And the winners are, in no particular order:
Katie at No Missed Opportunities
Alexandra at Good Day, Regular People
Cheeseboy at The Blog O' Cheese
Drama Mama at The Scoop On Poop
Teri at The Bipolar Diva
Adrienne at No Points For Style
Wombat Central at Postcards From Oblivion
Joanne at Laundry Hurts My Feelings
Mungee's Ma at Mungee and Me
Melanie at Read It In 7 Days
Ericka at Alabaster Cow
Midwestern Mama at Are You Serious?
Ratz at What Can I Say
An Imperfect Mama at Really? I'm A Mom?
Maxabella at Maxabella Loves
Kate at Help! I'm Surrounded By Penises!
Kristy at Pampers And Pinot
Dawn at Dawn's Daybreak (and not just 'cause she's my mom.)
Margaret at Nanny Goats In Panties

Another thing? There are no rules for accepting these awards. You can gift them to 40 of your blogger friends, or you can hoard them for yourself. You can blog about 9 little known random facts about you or not. You can print them out and give them to Grandma for Christmas, or you can glue them in an anonymous ransom letter, the possibilities are endless! Just wear it with pride, and leave a comment telling me which one you picked. To appease my curiosity.

Also, I'm thinking of big changes around this here blog. I'm looking for a new design, and probably a new name. Possibly a new server, who knows. Suggestions are welcome. Because I have no idea.

P.S.
Spell check is arguing with me about "Chupacabra." It gives me only the option to ignore. No such luck, Spell check. Wishful thinking will get you nowhere.

Post It Note Tuesday, yo!

noreply@blogger.com (litanyofbritt) — Tue, 27 Jul 2010 18:22:00 +0000

You should go here to see more of today's Post It Tuesday posts, and wish Supah Mommy a happy almost birthday.

The Wrath Of A Thousand Chupacabras

noreply@blogger.com (litanyofbritt) — Mon, 26 Jul 2010 15:05:00 +0000

Today I am made of evil.

There is no specific reason for this, though I suspect it has something to do with a medically unsupervised weaning of Welbutrin, an inadequate dose of thyroid medication, a looming head cold, and a newly discovered carpet of fire ants on my two day old hydroseed. Hydroseed that I have been demanding and stomping my foot about for two years. Hydroseed that I have to go out and water numerous times per day, (which is man's work), and get dirty. Hydroseed that smells like bad perm and egg farts combined. And if after all that, when my lush green lawn grows in, and I prance around barefoot in it and am eaten alive by a swarm of fire ants- or worse!- if my kids are eaten alive by swarms of fire ants and then forevermore refuse to fulfill my fantasies of them cloud watching in the grass, and grass galavanting, and other grass inspired activities, then surely my head will split open, and surely hell's demons will fly out and terrorize the neighborhood. So relocate or die, fire ants. Or suffer the wrath of a thousand chupacabras. The sanctity of my neighborhood depends on it.

I tried to find a google image of a thousand chupacabras to illustrate my point, but all I got was this.

Thanks for nothing, google images.

Jack is running around in a viking helmet, and just toddle-ran over to me to tell me that I'm his "best girl" and give me a hug, and smear his cracker face across my shirt, so now if those ants don't die, they will only suffer the wrath of 999 chupacabras.

Maybe I can bottle the fury of that one last chupacabra and use its energy to clean my house, or maybe I can tame it and keep it as a house elf like in Harry Potter, and it can work for me in exchange for bread heels until someone gives him a sock. Or whatever the hell happened in that book. I haven't read Harry Potter since 1999 when I worked in that New Age/ Porno shop in a strip mall in Raynham. More on that later, because that's a funny story,(actually several funny stories), and I'm not ready to break out of my shell of evil to be funny.

Until then, internets, I leave you one last public threat to the fire ants who better die soon.

Okay, google images. Pals again?

Oh, real mature.

Hell Just Froze Over

noreply@blogger.com (litanyofbritt) — Fri, 23 Jul 2010 14:38:00 +0000

My girlchild has never been much of a girly girl. She doesn't like tulle or jewelry or nail polish. She hasn't played with a baby doll in her life. Since she was an infant she has been into trains and trucks. Spiders, snakes, and octopuses. Robots and pirates.

Rawr!

About a year and a half ago, she developed a love for superheroes.

Wham!

Ka-powza!

Fff-sha!

And villians.

The child would light-saber her own mother to death, and wear tissue boxes on her feet to be a robot, but I couldn't get a tiara on her head to save my life.

There were to be no tu-tu wearing girls in the house, and I was resigned to it, and happy with it. Last Christmas when de-hoardering her closet, I gathered the tutus and tiaras and plastic shoes and sent them off into Craigslist-land. And no one mourned them.

Yesterday, we went to the fair with my mother and brother and Mackenzie fell in love with a sparkly magic wand and matching ribbon tiara. I couldn't believe it either. When we got home she found a purple tutu that survived Craigslist somehow, and then this happened.

Silly Bands, necklaces, and ribbons, Oh MY!

Suddenly I have a Princess Mackenzie before me, and she is flitting around the living room waving her magic wand, and she decides I need a crown so I can be the queen.

"Queen Cleaner."
(Way to kill the mood, Princess.)

But I set her up with the fairest sequins and pom-poms in the land, and the lovely maiden crafted me a crown.

For those of you wondering what's in the bag? I have no idea. Bah! Now I have to go check. Okay, its brown curtains, and rubber ducky appliques for a bathroom. Happy now? Also who wants some brown curtains and rubber ducky appliques?

Oooooooohs! Aaaaaaaaaaaahs!

As she was going to bed she asked me to make one for her, which how could anyone with a soul refuse? But then there were special requests. It had to be soft, and sparkly. Pink and purple. I only have green construction paper! Panic! So I spent hours making her a crown out of felt and lined it with soft white fleece, and a purple sparkly heart, which would have taken 20 minutes if I didn't insist on doing everything the hard way.

She loved.

But there was just one more request.

And all was well in the kingdom.

Oh, and something else. Today is the last day of voting for the Not Mom Of The Year award hosted by Life Without Pink, and The Mommyologist. I am in third place and could use 30 or so votes to pull ahead, so if you could go here and vote for me, a little fairy will get its wings, and all the babies in the world will giggle. Please and Thank You!

I'm Old As Shit

noreply@blogger.com (litanyofbritt) — Tue, 20 Jul 2010 17:53:00 +0000

I look at a picture of myself from six years ago. It was taken at a barbecue, in a friend's backyard. I was at the carefree age of 24. All the youth is in just the right places. Nothing is sagged, nothing wrinkled. My purse lay on the ground by my feet, and I'm willing to bet it didn't contain a single diaper, juice box, or prescription medication. The bottle in my hand is filled with Smirnoff instead of Enfamil. The sun sets on the horizon, and there are not cranky children at my feet, and all I have to do the next day is pull a morning shift. I have no plans for the rest of tomorrow, and there is very possibly a nap in the afternoon agenda.

Fast forward to today. I am approaching thirty. Next month is the big 3-0, and the youth has been sucked through my feet, and back into the Earth from whence it came. Things sag woefully, and there are the the sketches of wrinkles around my eyes, and across my forehead. A tiger has dragged its claws across my stomach, which has contained two ten pound people. Tiny, plastic things are strewn on the floor all around me, and my knees pop and crackle when I bend to retrieve them. Most of the contents of my purse belong to my children. I haven't had a full night's sleep in years.

Can 6 years make such a difference? In 6 short years I feel like I have aged decades. My values have changed. My politics, my perspective. I come down the stairs in the morning holding my lower back with one hand, and my toddler with the other. I have a toddler. And he is the little one. I have a husband. And a mortgage. When did this all happen? When did I become a grown-up? How do I have gray hair, and bad knees before my 30th birthday?

I know 30's are supposed to be the new 20's, but God I hope not. There were a lot of dark days in my 20's. And here I am, the dirty thirty, and I have nothing to show for it personally. My kids will both be in school in a few short years, and I will be facing the workforce again after years of hiatis, with no real skills, training or experience in a field that I have interest in.

I still really have no idea what I want to be when I grow up.

Really. No idea. And I have this gnawing sense of impending urgency to do something. I thought I would have been somebody by now. If you had asked me ten years ago. I was supposed to be somebody. I was going to change the world. Not just diapers, and the laundry.

My future vision of myself included a respectable career. I fancied myself as quite the smarty-pants. In reality, I know a little about a lot of stuff. I have considerable skills in logic and reason. I think outside the box. But I would probably be plowed over by your average high schooler in terms of algebra and World History. At the door of opportunity, there is a long line of much more qualified people in front of me. Do I have four or five years to devote to school, for a career I may never persue?

Just thinking about it ages me another few years. If age is relative, I'm fast approaching 90.

Rockin On With My Bad Self, (with a side of ADD)

noreply@blogger.com (litanyofbritt) — Mon, 19 Jul 2010 18:18:00 +0000

This here post was one of ten finalists in the Not Mom Of The Year contest hosted by Life Without Pink and Mommologist. Now its all about the votes. You, beloved internets, can help me win by voting here. You can vote once a day through Monday July 26th.

And now for some awesome:
Jake Shimabukuro's ukulele cover of Michael Jackson's thriller.

I have more to say, but I have to go clean my house, so the lady from Craigslist who is coming to buy my mother's printer won't know we live in filth.

Which reminds me to tell you that every one of you needs this thing. Haan Floor Sanitizing Steam Mop. This is not sponsored in any way, Haan doesn't even know I exist. But dude. I often have 4 or 5 little kids in my house and I can mop my floor while they are all running loose and wild, and nobody will fall on their face, because the water dries instantly. It doesn't use chemicals so you don't have to buy floor cleaner ever again. Just water for steam. Yet, it won't give your kid third degree burns when he runs by. I frickin love this mop. If I won the lottery, and could only buy every woman I know one household object, (Don't ask questions. I didn't make the rules.), it would totally be this mop.

Birds.

Because Chiseling Dried Paint Off Stuff Is My Favorite Thing To Do. Apparently.

noreply@blogger.com (litanyofbritt) — Mon, 19 Jul 2010 00:47:00 +0000

You know how sometimes you need ten minutes to unload the dishwasher without toddlers falling eyeballs first into the spokes? And you think if you can set the kids up with a distraction, you might get those dishwasher minutes, plus a few extra twitter minutes? But then the genius distraction backfires, and you end up with a shimmering turquoise toddler, and the threat of a shimmering turquoise everything else? Yeah, this was one of those times.

Way to think things through, me.

I could single-handedly keep Shit My Kids Ruined up and running with the way things end up destroyed, injured, or maimed in this house. And once, in the neighbor's house when Jack drew all over the wall in pencil, only to be out done later by the resident three year old, armed with a sharpie and a vision. Toddlers and malicious destruction of property go hand in hand.

Go clean up your mess, Boy!

Ironically, the thing toddlers like even better than vandalism is cleaning. A sink full of bubbles, star wars guys, a turkey baster, and a hand towel, is like heaven to my son. He will stand in a chair at the kitchen sink for a half hour "washing his troopers." Shortly followed by enormous puddles on the kitchen floor, and tracked in little wet footprints through-out the house.

And we come full circle. There is no crying about it either, or else the toddler will want to offer up his "help" and then you might as well kiss all those twitter minutes good-bye. Seriously, eff the dishwasher at this point. You can just eat your Ramen straight from the pot.

UPDATE:
I just noticed Jack color coordinates his destruction to match his outfit. I'm not really sure what that means.

I could throw up, I'm so happy about this

noreply@blogger.com (litanyofbritt) — Sat, 17 Jul 2010 01:26:00 +0000

I know.

NOT Mom Of The Year

noreply@blogger.com (litanyofbritt) — Wed, 14 Jul 2010 22:58:00 +0000

You won't be seeing me on Channel 7 News accepting an award for parental excellence, or weeping with joy all over a herd of screaming sextuplets. You would be way more likely to see me in a padded room, than in another Labor and Delivery room. My house is a mess. Dishes and laundry are the bane of my existence, as evidenced by the piles of them everywhere. We eat Ramen noodles for dinner. Microwaved Ramen noodles, and my kids eat more candy than vegetables. I call them "Beast" just as often as I call them by name. My son's first word was "Spongebob". They watch too much TV, and have never made a bed in their lives. I am so not Mom Of The Year, and if it weren't for pharmaceuticals, I would hardly mother at all.

Its not that I don't love my kids to bits and whining pieces. I do. Its just that my accessories are an enthusiastically and strategically positioned middle finger and a fishbowl of wine, instead of an apron and a minivan. But don't take my word for it. Let's take a look down memory lane, shall we.

Is this the face of an adequately mothered child? Hmmmm?

The thing is, sometimes my loyalty to funny outweighs my loyalty to, say, a germ-free environment.

Exhibit A

Exhibit B. (The dog started it.)

Sometimes a mama just needs a few minutes to herself, and a bathroom lock-down just isn't possible. What's a mama to do?Probably not this.

All parents lie to their kids, just a little. Santa Clause, Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy. But I tell my kids that when they are grown-ups they can take dinosaur rides to go visit the Easter Bunny.

They totally fell for it. Suckas!

But in truth, I'm not all bad. They are smart, socially stable, non-menace to society kids. And occasionally I even throw on that apron, and make cookies.

This was accidental bunny fornication, but still hilarious.

So you see, internets, I may not be the worst mommy dearest on the planet, but I'm obviously not mom of the year.

Visit Life Without Pink and Mommyologist to learn more about Not Mom Of The Year, and see more submissions.

Funny is as Funny Does

noreply@blogger.com (litanyofbritt) — Tue, 13 Jul 2010 11:13:00 +0000

Today I'm featured on LOL, which as you can imagine, is dedicated to funny. You could spend many hours reading, and snorting coffee out of your nose, and finding more funny blogs to stalk. Which is what I would be doing if my son wasn't a potty-training refusing exhibitionist.

As I just wrote that, he took off his diaper and deliberately peed in the living room. I interrupted him mid-stream and put him on the toilet. He said he didn't want to pee anymore.

sigh.

This Blog Will Travel

noreply@blogger.com (litanyofbritt) — Fri, 09 Jul 2010 11:21:00 +0000

Guess what's awesome? I'm the Best Scoop Of The Week over at The Scoop On Poop. I am pretty excited about this because A) Its my first guest post, and B) Its like being invited to sit with the cool kids in the high school cafeteria. Except not because they want to trip you, or steal your pudding, but for some other non-threatening, and genuine reason. I'm not really sure where I was going with that analogy. Stephanie is a grown-ass woman! (But I bet her hair is really shiny.) And she knows that "real life is full of poop" and ain't that the truth. So please go check out my featured blogger submission, where I tell you about the worst vagina accident ever- complete with loss of consciousness, some head injuries, and the time I almost died. And be sure to check again tomorrow, when I am guest posting again, and don't forget to take a look around, because you'll find a lot of funny, and giveaways too, links to Stephanie's cooking blog, (which I have just drooled all over), and check out the other Best Scoops Of The Week, where you will meet some other pretty awesome people. And you can be awesome too, just follow the link at the top of the page about guest blogging. Tell her Brittainy sent ya. It won't make a difference, but its a good ice-breaker. Or something.

What are you waiting for, internets? Get to clickin!

The Photobomber

noreply@blogger.com (litanyofbritt) — Fri, 02 Jul 2010 21:11:00 +0000

My dog, Joey, thinks he is one of my children. Thus, deserves to be in every picture of my children. Those who frequently take pictures of kids know this: One must take 14,000 pictures at once and hope that two or three of them come out well. (Especially when one's flash is broken.) And in my case, of those two or three that are in focus, this is bound to happen.

Whaddabout me? Whaddabout me? Whaddabout me?

I'm ready for my close- up, Mr. Demille.

Awesome photo op, foiled again!

I have spared you from witnessing the many pictures featuring Joey's butt as I click the shutter just as the dog strolls by. Countless pictures of my cherubs eclipsed by dogbutt in my electronic trash can. In actuality, he prefers being the sole subject of my photographic genius.

In an interesting twist of fate, I noticed after uploading this picture that JACK is the photobomber. As evidenced by the tell-tale diaper ruffle poking out of his pants.

Jack and Joey are like brothas from another species of muthas. This is why:

They were born a week apart.

When I arrive home, they will both be jumping up and down, and pawing at the front door. As a result, my brand new screen door lasted only a month.

They both constantly drag filth in the house.

They both drink water from a dog bowl.

They eat each other's snacks.

If I find mystery pee in the house, one of them is to blame.

Same goes for a chewed up toy.

They should both be leashed in public.

And last but not least is the sibling rivalry. If one is getting attention, the other will be crying at my feet. This is nearly without exception.

I should have been a cat person.

What Current Brittainy Would Say To The Brittainy of 30 Minutes Ago

noreply@blogger.com (litanyofbritt) — Wed, 30 Jun 2010 12:00:00 +0000

Hey there. Let me start off by saying all of this would have been avoided if you just put away the laundry to begin with, instead of screwing around on Netflix. Yes, I know you love Netflix for the instant streaming, and the documentaries. I know you are still mad about wasting a DVD shipment on Halloween 2, but you have to throw the huz a bone sometime. Brittainy! Focus!

Listen, you have a bunch of crap to do today, some of which will be in air conditioning, but much of which will be under the hot, hot sun. Now you can only find jeans, and all your capris and shorts are lost in the heaps, or currently in the wash. Your only option is a dress. I know how you feel about dresses, I know. But who's fault is this laundry problem? Hmmmmm?

Check you out. You've just noticed that you haven't shaved your legs in two weeks. Good for you, slacker! Now you can't wear a dress, because you don't have time to shave. Because Jack is an opportunist. What's that you found? Nair? Nair for men? Brittainy, how old is that bottle? You should probably look for an expiration d---. Greeeeeeeat. Now you smell like perm. Bottle says 5 minutes. Has it been 5 minutes? That smell? Oh that's your flesh melting off. Get in the shower, woman!

What's the matter? Having a hard time getting that Nair off. Oh, you have resilient leg hair, good for you! Well, no time now. It's been 5 minutes of unsupervised Jack. You are in the danger zone.

HA! You forgot your towel. Sucka!

Have a fun day in that dress, Wildabeast. Don't cross your legs in public.

By the way, Jack just dumped all the baby powder and a roll of toilet paper into the toilet. And now he is scouring his GI Joes with his electric toothbrush. Have fun with that! Buh-bye!

No Hags Were Molested In The Writing Of This Post

noreply@blogger.com (litanyofbritt) — Tue, 29 Jun 2010 11:47:00 +0000

You heard me. I don't understand it either. But truthfully, no hags were molested. Nobody was molested at all. And the only ones tortured were my readers. I need to make that disclaimer? Really?

Why, yes. Apparently so.

Frankly, I really have no idea what I'm doing. This is probably blatantly obvious to most of you. I don't know what RSS means, or search engine optimization. Everything I know about html I learned from myspace. Remember myspace? So when I read this post on The Bloggess yesterday, I thought to myself you can do that? Then I thought self, lets go check this out, and I immediately wished I hadn't. Admittedly, I snickered and snorted, and woke up the huz to tell him so someone else could laugh with me. But he had a bad attitude about it. Something about having to work tomorrow, and what the hell am I writing about on that blog? But he doesn't know funny. He looked on at me in disgust when I tried to get my mom to knit him some ball muffs a few winters ago. BALL MUFFS! I just don't get how he won't crack a smile for ball muffs, when he nearly had a seizure laughing at me when I almost had a heart attack. That is why if he gets frostbite of the balls while plowing snow next winter, I won't feel bad for him.
And why next time I look up the search traffic, and it says all kinds of people found my blog looking for ball muffs I will A) not be allowed to act shocked, and B) wish I had patented ball muffs when I had the chance. Maybe I'll still have a chance to market some muff muffs, which I imagine would kind of be like a knitted g-string. Or something. I know even less about knitting than I do about blogging. And I'm certainly blogging-challenged. Guess who agrees? Pretty much the whole internet.

In July of 2000, I was definitely not blogging. I was off tie-dying things and making hemp bracelets, and being a vegetarian, and reading books about karma and reiki. Until one day I couldn't resist my old friend, Cheeseburger. It was pretty much all downhill from there. I blame cows.

Another thing which I think illustrates my infant-like knowledge of the blogosphere? I don't plan out blogs in advance. I sit down, write something, hit post, and then edit all the spelling and grammar mistakes that I didn't notice in the first or second read-through. You know what a direct result of that is?

Blogger's Remorse.

I have it all the time. Especially on yesterday's post about hellish PPD. Not because I'm ashamed of it, because I'm not. That would be like being ashamed of being tall. It is just something that happened within the chemistry of my body, with hideous and ugly consequences. But I worry about others reading it who don't know that postpartum depression is an illness, not a refusal to cope. Not merely a bad attitude that you can snap out of. It is not a matter of strength and weakness. Its not a matter of not loving your kids enough. My Blogger's Remorse stems from being an actual human being behind the screen who wonders if someone might have read that post, or any post, and thought that I don't love my children enough. Please know, that is not the case, and I am leaving that post be, because while most of the internet has no interest in reading what I have to say, there are a few of you who might. My hope is that a hurting mother can draw from my experience that there is a light at the end of the tunnel, whether she can see it or not, and that there have been many, many others in that well of Darkness before her. And most importantly, that there are those willing to extend a hand down there to help pull her out. That there is life after Darkness.

My knight in plastic armor.

When There Is No Light

noreply@blogger.com (litanyofbritt) — Mon, 28 Jun 2010 01:08:00 +0000

I distinctly remember the first time I was acknowledged as being a mother. I had just endured hours of hideous, screaming labor, the kind that all the professionals in the room attribute to a first birth and a low pain tolerance, and the kind that none of those same people expect to end in chaos.

I begged and pleaded for a c-section, between throes of vomiting and weeping. A nurse said matter-of-factly that the doctor was scrubbing in, and so he didn't think I needed surgery, and I bellowed something about him not having a vagina, and therefore being unqualified to make such a decision.

This man performed my D&C when I miscarried two weeks before becoming pregnant with my daughter. He called me at home while I recovered, and helped mend my broken heart by educating me about how common and random miscarriage is. He gave me unscheduled ultrasounds when I had nightmares about miscarrying again. He was compassionate and kind, but at that moment I could have ripped his eyelashes out one at a time for refusing to take this child out of my body that very second. As it happened, my baby was just too big, and sometimes nobody knows the limits of a vagina like the owner and operator. My daughter's birth was complicated by Shoulder Dystocia, occurring in less than 1% of births, which essentially means that her head, cord, and one of her shoulders were born, but her other shoulder was caught up in my pelvis. Her cord was being compressed, and she was not breathing. Nurses surrounded me and pushed on my stomach while my OB pulled her out by the arm. At the time I had no idea what was happening, and at the moment of her delivery I cried, "OH THANK GOD," and sobbed. A nurse showed her to me, and then everyone was gone, and it was just me and the vag repairman.

Hours went by with no word. Finally, a nurse told me that my sweet baby's breathing was labored, and she was coughing up blood, and she needed to be transferred to a bigger hospital with a NICU. And I could not go with her. A special NICU ambulance team came to pick her up, and they strolled her into my room in her little traveling intensive care isolette to say good-bye, and one of the EMT's gently asked, "Mom, do you have a cell phone number so we can reach you?" I looked at my mother, who was standing at my bedside and totally expected her to answer the question. After a few awkward glances, I realized he was talking to me. I was mom. I was somebody's mother.

I spent the next two days alone. A special kind of alone, where a mother is in one place, and her baby is hours away. Her dad went to Boston to sit by her side, and I stayed back, and wept until my face swelled like a balloon, and I mourned the loss of the experience I had not just hoped for, but expected. My mother came to sit with me for awhile, and brought me lunch, but I had no other visitors. It seems people don't quite know how to visit a new mother, when there is no new baby. My first lingering moments of motherhood, the first few days of my daughter's life, were the most heinous, and lonely days of mine.

Until two years later when I had my son.

His arrival was scheduled and surgical, to avoid the same type of complication. He was born uneventfully on Leap Day, and I brought him home two and a half days later. As long as I kept up on the meds before the last dose wore off, the pain was manageable. And yes, that was a lesson learned the hard way. As was this:

Darkness, in the metaphorical sense, is a crawling and sneaking thing. It takes on the shape of exhaustion, and pain. Impatience and guilt. It is a chameleon, turning the predictable colors, and blending in with it's surroundings, but even if you don't see it, its still a lizard. Sometimes it morphs into an ugly thing of violence. Tears are surface things, the kind that can be wiped away, and masked. Violence is primal, and deep.

I felt like I was trapped at the bottom of a well, with my son. Life was continuing to happen above me, and I was slowly drowning, and over time I couldn't see the light anymore. I wanted to die. When my children cried, I didn't want to nurture them. My face got hot, my fists balled up, and I wanted to Shut Them Up. My infant wanted to breastfeed, and my muscles lurched under my skin, my hands shook, my toes curled, and I wanted to stuff balls of socks in his mouth to Shut. Him. Up. I imagined hypothetical mothers leaping from tall buildings with their arms full of children in suicidal desperation, and I empathized with them. I knew this, that I felt that way, and that it was mental illness. I had PPD with Mackenzie too, but not like this. I felt psychotic, like any second the neighbors would find me in the street, bra-less, and cackling, yanking unbrushed hair out of my own scalp in clumps, and throwing cats at people. I felt violent all the time. I never hurt my kids, and I never would have actually harmed them. But the point was, I didn't want to want to hurt them. I didn't want those thoughts intruding in my head in the first place. I was a mean, hateful, soggy, hysterical mess. I was constantly in a mental back and forth between wanting to die, and being terrified of dying unexpectedly. Between wanting to be away from my kids, and being terrified of being away from my kids.

Everyone I knew pleaded with me to call the doctor and get some help. I was afraid if people knew what was going on inside my head, that my children would be taken away, and I would be locked up somewhere, and that admitting that I was losing my shit, would be proof that I was losing my shit. But the night I shut myself in the garage with my car engine running, vodka and vicodin in my passenger seat, that was my breaking point. It was me or the illness. We couldn't both win.

I learned later that the visiting nurse who came in the first few weeks, had called my OB with concerns. That phone call slipped through the cracks. Ultimately, I had to phone in, spill my guts, and hope for mercy. And what I got was mercy, and kindness, and compassion. And zoloft. Eventually, I overcame, though not unblemished. I still wear the scars, in the form of memories, and guilt, because Mackenzie remembers. She remembers the unrelenting sadness. She was two and she hasn't forgotten that mommies aren't superheros all the time. Even mommies have their kryptonite. I wish she didn't know.

Looking back on it is painful, and it is hard to share. I'd like to say if I had to go back to the Darkness and relive it, that I would have acted sooner. That I would have worn my fingertips bloody trying to claw my way out of that well. That I would have put on my cape, and leapt tall buildings in a single bound. But that is the bitch of hindsight. Its illuminated. Truthfully, if I ever have more children, preventative measures would need to be in place for the PPD. It would need to be part of my birth plan, and I'm sure it would be since its a documented part of my history now. My history. Because I survived. If I could go back, I'd show the 2008 version of me that there is hope. If I would have listened. Hope doesn't exist when there is no light.

This post is part of Theta Mom's bloggoversary challenge: What makes you a Theta Mom? You can view other submissions by clicking here .

The Uke Zombie

noreply@blogger.com (litanyofbritt) — Fri, 25 Jun 2010 21:52:00 +0000

As You may or may not know, there is slightly more to my life than refusing to fold laundry, and unfortunate glitter incidents. I also really like coffee, avoiding social situations, and playing the ukulele. The last on the list is newish. I played guitar for years, wrote a few marginally good songs, and then forgot most of them. I have family in Hawaii and one one my aunts sent my a ukulele as a gift, and I became instantly obsessed. Because its cute and portable and has only four strings, and I love the little twang it makes, and its just plain a lot of fun. Since I already knew how to play the guitar, it wasn't hard for me to learn ukulele chords and I learned a bunch of songs in a short period of time, and I got to sing again. I used to sing a lot in the shower and in the car, but now I have to pay attention when I'm in the shower, in case the huz tries to sneak in with a bucket of cold water to throw on my head, and I can't sing in the car anymore, because the kids only want to hear their Backyardigans CD. And I can't really play guitar around the kids, can't really let loose and play, because as soon as I start, all the kids' wants and needs materialize and I have to immediately stop to set up some finger paint, or play-doh, or fix them a snack. Or they want to play it, which is good for them, but leaves me with an unsatisfied itch. Enter the ukulele. I can hold it out of the reach of little kids, and belt out a few bars without too much interruption, and its easier to play when I'm hiding from the kids in the bathroom. And since I enjoy it so much, it was all a matter of time before this happened.

The problem as it turns out, was it was a baritone uke, (the biggest in size), and it was tuned like it was a soprano uke, (the itty bitty one), and the string tension eventually caused it to explode in my face. The untimely demise of my uke was heartbreaking. I tried to fix it, to no avail, and in the end it went back to Hawaii to visit the uke hospital, and came home with just a tiny scar, and a new set of specialized strings. Strings that are literally impossible to find around these parts, and so when the A string exploded in my face a few months ago, it was like a fresh death all over again, and its been resting un-peacefully in its case ever since. I found a place online that sells them, so next time I have a free $20, thats where its going. I'll bring the uke back to life, and hopefully it won't eat my brains, and together we can make some music once again, despite the din of life happening all around me.

In the meantime, I'd like to share with you, internets, what its like to try to make a little music in the middle of the afternoon. You won't be hearing me on itunes in this lifetime, but you can find me around an occassional bonfire, and right here. And without further ado, I bring you my uke cover of Tracy Chapman's "Gimme One Reason." Because I frackin' love that song.

Friends Don't Let Friends Give Glitter To Toddlers

noreply@blogger.com (litanyofbritt) — Fri, 25 Jun 2010 12:32:00 +0000

Unfortunately for me, I wasn't being supervised by a grown-up with some common sense and logic, and passing out glue, and glitter, and scissors, and pom-poms, and construction paper seemed like a good idea at the time. Even though I had just mopped the floor. Why do I do stuff? Its like I enjoy making more work for myself. The irony of it is I was trying to occupy the kids long enough for me to do the dishes. And possibly fold some of the gazillion loads of laundry that are taking over my living room. Ask me if that was a successful plan. Go ahead. Ask me. ~~I dare you.~~

I figured naked glittering would be easier to clean up. Which may be so, when its not 80 degrees. Guess what sticks to a sweaty, naked toddler like a second skin? GLITTER! Guess what I will be finding on all the surfaces of my house for 6 months? GLITTER! Guess what my son will try to eat right in front of me, just to make me shriek? GLITTER!

This is the face of a two year old who is threatening to eat the glitter. In case you are wondering, Jack, I can still see you with this camera hanging off my face. Better luck next time.

Jack, inventing the newest Olympic sport, speed glittering.

It is slightly less nerve-wracking to let a four year old loose with messy, sticky craft supplies. Its less about speed, and more about putting "hair" on the pom-poms.

I would so rather clean up this mess, than be on the floor playing GI Joes. I will steam glitter from between the floorboards everyday for the rest of my life. But if I'm in one more GI Joe shoot-out, I'll kill myself.

In all seriousness, (GASP!), kids who don't make a mess are kids that don't have fun. I can tell you my kids have a LOT of fun. Which is why, nearly two years after moving into our new house, you have yet to see pictures. Because it isn't clean long enough for photographic purposes. Some day, I'll get those pictures, (because I need decorating and color advice), but today is not that day. Tomorrow isn't looking good either.

Bravery is Taking Small Kids to the Movies

noreply@blogger.com (litanyofbritt) — Mon, 21 Jun 2010 19:15:00 +0000

The last week has been a breeze at bedtime. No whining or crying. No negotiating or manipulating. No dragging of the four year old feet. Mackenzie couldn't wait to go to sleep. Why? Because every bedtime meant one sleep closer to the day we went to see Toy Story 3. Umm... If I had known about this magic, I would have started the Santa countdown already.

There has been a lot of buzz, (no pun intended), about the latest Toy Story saga, as I'm sure most of you know. With Mackenzie's built up anticipation on my mind, I worried that it might be sold out when the time came for us to go. Visions of painful disappointment and meltdowns danced through my head. Also, visions of Jay hounding me to get ready to go. My husband gets antsy 5 hours before the start of any event. This is not to say he does a whole lot to contribute to the readiness other than reminding me of my lack of readiness. But nagging me to get in the shower and pack the diaper bag before I've had my morning cuppa joe is how people get punched in the face. They don't call me Brittainy The Hammer for nothing. Because they don't call me that at all. But I digress before you all start sympathizing with the huz's perspective. Who's side are you on, people? I was worried about ~~running late, because I take frackin' FOREVER to get ready~~ the movie selling out. So Friday afternoon, Jack and I drove down the the theater to buy advance tickets. I just saved myself a huge line AND at least 15 minutes of husbandly nagging. I'm awesome like that. All think ahead-y. ~~And because I was already in the area doing last minute Father's Day shopping.~~

Finally, Saturday arrived as promised, and every 15 minutes from 5 to 11am I was asked if it was time to go. Jay threatened to rush me, but I cocked an overgrown eyebrow at him, sipped my coffee, reminded him of the four already purchased tickets, and he backed down. It was around that time when I had the horrible realization that the movie started right smack in the middle of nap-time opportunity. For those of you who have never owned a nap deprived two year old boy, think of the exorcist- but shorter and with sticky hands. So the only rational thing to do was leave an hour and a half early, and hope he fell right to sleep in the car. The heavens must have opened up and shone down on me at that moment, because my plan worked beautifully. (I'm menacingly twirling my ~~proverbial~~ mustache for effect.)

Jack fell asleep within minutes and we had plenty of time to stop at my mother's house to borrow her camera, (RIP, flash of my camera), and for the huz to take a phone call from a co-worker who had already seen Toy Story 3, and tell me the ENDING OF THE MOVIE, while we were driving to the movie. This prompted me to raise two overgrown eyebrows at him in disbelief, mumble unspeakable things under my breath, wag a finger at him, and punish him with the threat of watching Fast Food Nation, (113 minutes gone forever), again if that was the real ending. It was then that he made Big Fat Liar Face, which has thrown him under the bus so many times he ought to be a quadriplegic by now, and promise he hadn't just given away the real ending, which would have been the worst. Ending to a kid's movie. EVER. We pulled into the theater just as Jack was waking up, and I had just enough time for some mama-razzi before the rest of my family demanded I put the camera away and get on with it already. We mosied on in, but I wasn't finished with the camera. Mackenzie has seen others in the cinema, (The Chipmunks, Cloudy With A Chance Of Meatballs, and Iron Man 2), but this was Jack's first theatrical endeavor, the stuff scrapbooks were made for.

Typical mom picture with my reflection. NOTE: I rarely wear dresses. It was laundry day.

Because of this field trip, that wallet will be empty for the rest of the week.

My boy enjoying his first movie on the Big Screen.

It was the previews, internets. I didn't ruin the movie for everyone with all the flashes, and look-over-heres. Although Jack did shriek BUZZ YIGHTYEAR a few times. Cute voices don't ruin movies, do they? And luckily for the huz, it didn't end as prophesied, though it was pointing in that direction. I actually teared up a few times through-out, because my self-control is made of jell-o, and because it was a sweet and entertaining movie. We didn't choose the 3D version because the kids are so little, and we didn't want the glasses to irritate them and effect the experience negtively. But if you are braver than us, and happen to go see the 3D movie with littles, I offer you this tip to make the glasses fit. Bring with you the elastic from a party hat, and a roll of scotch tape. Tape the elastic to the arms of the glasses, and you can fit them custom to your child's head so they won't fall off every four minutes. I learned from trial and error when Coraline came out on blue-ray. I should win the award for letting my kids watch age-inappropriate movies. Have you ever seen Coraline? Good movie, but dark. Thought for sure it would bother the kids, but they both love it. My kids are so weird. Reminds me that they are mine.

Aaaaaaand scene. Wordless Wednesday

noreply@blogger.com (litanyofbritt) — Wed, 16 Jun 2010 12:26:00 +0000

Oil-based crayon. Also, eyeshadow and nail polish. According to Jack.

My favorite lipstick. Proof that the world's fastest shower wasn't fast enough.

What takes lipstick and oil crayon off every surface in the house, your laptop keys, and your kid's face, hair, and ears? Baby oil. There's your fun fact for today. Visit Kristi to see more WW's.