Old School!

When people are being kind, they say my older son is "precocious."  When they are being neutral, he is "loquacious."  When they are being mean, he is described as "never shutting his pie hole."  Should anyone ever want to kidnap him, there will be no need for a "looking for my lost dog, want some candy, your mom sent me to pick you up" ruse.  Just start chatting and he will happily tag along for the adventure (his FAVORITE word).

So, Saturday night he and I are playing bubble machine (we live it up around here, I tell you what.  Saturday night and I am on the front porch with the Gazillion Bubble Maker BBQ).  After 20 minutes of this shriek-inducing bliss involving a toddler repeating AD NAUSEUM "I caught that one.  Did you see?  Ohhhh, that was a big one.  That one was the best ever," the batteries die in the bubble machine.

Not one to be beaten by circumstance, I tell sweet bebe boy "No worries.  Mommy will make bubbles old school.  We can still play bubbles.  No worries.  Mommy always has a back-up plan."

... More time passes ... I am bored to tears wondering what has become of my life... Saturday night and I am blowing bubbles... alas...

(For those of you who don't know, we live on the top of a mombo hill.  For non-Coloradans, it would be called a mountain.  For the locals it is just a big-ass hill)

Suddenly, a man we don't know comes huffing up the hill.  He stops to chat while panting and heaving.

"Whatcha doing, little man?" ~ stranger

"Playing bubbles.  We were playing bubble machine but the batteries died so now we just play plain bubbles." ~ Bebe Boy who has never met a stranger and who, additionally, feels compelled to share lots of details and background

"After walking up that hill, my batteries are dead." ~ stranger

"You want my mommy to blow you old school?  She's very good."

I Almost Wept

So, like the good wife that I am, I agree to buy beer for Hubby.  I loathe beer and I especially hate buying it because it is heavy and I am weak.

I hoof in, get New Belgium Brewery's Folly Pack (it is great beer and they have a fabulous sustainability story. Seriously, look it up).  AND. GET. CARDED.

SUH-WEET.  SUH-WEET. SUH-WEET!  BoNANza even.

The downside is that it takes me five minutes to find my ID.  They would not accept my zoo pass or my frequent ice cream buyer card.  The nerve.

I finally find my ID and the-man-that-I-kind-of-love (you know, cashier guy) counts on his fingers.  Appalling.  Pathetic.  I want a refund on my taxes that went to pay for his education.  I am forced to wonder if he moves his lips when he reads.

But I still have a crush on him since he carded me.  Just a crush, no longer love.

Then the jerkface (you know, cashier guy) has the gall to state "You can almost drink for two."

ASSHOLE!  I will no longer marry you, I no longer have a crush on you and, in fact, I hate you AND your ancestors.

I calmly respond, "Yes, I can practically drink for two but you count on your fingers.  My toddler does not even do that."

"Man, that is harsh."

"Not as harsh as telling a woman she is older than dirt.  Have a great day."

Day 2 of Baby Gratitude

1) Pie (it is the day after Thanksgiving)
2) Pizza
3) Taffy (the Nanny)
4) Daddy
4) Juice

I am still no where to be found.  Alas.

Gratitude - Bebe Boy

So today is Thanksgiving.  I am always trying to instill a sense of gratitude in bebe boy.  Not that he has everything but, seriously, he has everything and more a little guy could hope for to end up happy, healthy and smart.  Having non-addicted, non-crazy parents who live in a developed part of the world is, I swear, 90% of the battle.  But that is just me.

So, I am explaining to bebe boy (who turns two next month!) the whole Thanksgiving thing and gratitude. Not sure if he gets it I ask "What makes you happy today?"  Here is his list (I swear I am not making this up.  I am funny but not THAT funny):

1) Football
2) Poop
3) Toots
4) Taffy (his nanny, who ROCKS and is actually named Stephanie but this has been reduced to Taffy)
5) Jackets

I have now decided I am going to record this every day (until I lose interest).

The Wonder of Boys

Before I had bebe boy, I thought most of men's craziness was simply upbringing -- they had fewer restrictions and more freedom than girls so they, well, acted crazy.  Then, I became a momma of a heavily-loaded testosterone boy and realized that there is NOTHING to nurture, it is all nature.  He is simply genetically pre-programmed and I am only here to provide band-aids and kisses.

Anyone who disagrees with me has never raised a boy.  Trust me on this one.

Here are some oddities that I have noticed about boys:

** they LOVE their penises.  I thought the fascination started at puberty but, nope, we have sonogram photos of the little dudes holding themselves.  Yes, in utero.  Bebe boy #1 shoves his hand in his diaper to watch a game.  Sad but true, started when he was months old.  Actually, the first time it happened when he was less than 24 hours old (Cowboy game was on, seriously, we don't miss those in this house even for birth) -- however, I cut him some slack on this one since he was still all bunched up and unable to focus his eyes..

** anything (and I do mean anything) can be used as a bat, a penis extension or a ball.  I am told that they will later use anything as a gun but we have yet to reach that point with them.

** they are born with that car sound boys make.  You know, the vroom, vroom, screech sound.  They start making it long before they play with toys that make it.  Bizarre but true.

** a girlfriend of mine had her eardrum ruptured by her 18 month old WHEN HE SHOVED A PLASTIC LIZARD DOWN HER EAR CANAL.  Girls don't do that.  Boys love their mommas but in a brutal, caveman-ish kind of way.

** they are endlessly fascinated by peeing outside.  When I told my brother that we were having a boy the FIRST thing he said was "I can't wait for little dude to whiz off your deck."  I (naively) defended my unborn swearing that he would never do something as appalling as that.  {Did I mention that I was not only naive but also a little stupid?}  My brother's response "Don't be an idiot.  I guarantee you Ken pees off the deck and so will little dude.  Hell, I even want to and it is not my deck."

Fast forward two years and "the little dude" has done the deed.  He was having a little diaper time on the deck (this involves running in circles, harassing the dog and wearing nothing more than a diaper.  He prefers naked time but, for reasons that will become perfectly clear momentarily... diaper time is a dodgy affair around these parts).  Hubs and I were chatting.  Gorgeous Colorado evening.  All is right with the world.

We hear the familiar sound of diaper velcro and look over.  Bebe boy has whipped off his diaper and is letting it loose over the edge of the deck.  He even has the pelvis thrust forward thing down (who knew THAT was inborn?).  When he is done, he lets out a huge "aahhhhh" and goes back to playing.

Hubs had to IMMEDIATELY call my brother and announce that the deed had been done at 18 months.  Oh the horror.

** Bebe boy is not yet two and yet knocked the stuffing out of Daddy last night with his plastic bat.  I am, clearly, not in favor of arming toddlers so my sympathy was lacking.  Hubby refuses to get stitches and is now walking around with a Scooby Doo Band Aid across the bridge of his nose.

** as I mentioned above, everything can be a ball or a bat if you just want to be a little creative (candles, zucchini, lemons, onions, cans of hairspray).  I think, as adults, men use sports analogies instead of physical substitutions.  For example, I call my brother to tell him that we are having another boy and this is his response.  "That's great.  You got a pitcher and a catcher.  Now all you need is a third so you can have a hitter."  When I tell Hubs I am pregnant with our second he says "Great!  We will go from zone defense to man-on-man coverage."

A simple yahoo would do but noooooo...

Poor Emo

Let me start with the fact that I adore my kidlet.  He is beautiful, funny, smart, kind and charming.  And he has an amazing sense of comedic timing to boot.  However, there are times that his precocious-ness is, well, not only embarrassing but also, potentially, fight-inducing.  

Today we are walking into Target to buy, of course, baby hangers.  I swear I buy baby hangers on a weekly basis but that is not the point.  

While we are walking in, Emo-kid is walking out.  Let me describe his ensemble so that my (almost) two year old does not look rude.  I mean, really, Emo had this one coming.  

Burnt orange, skin tight (as in you can tell his religion) capri pants with slashes and holes all over them.  Held together with safety pins and slung so low his underwear (tighty whiteys!  egads!) are showing.  Paired with calf high, multi-buckled boots and an Ed Hardy t-shirt.  And, naturally, the dyed black spiky hair, multiple piercings and 'tude.  

I mean, really, kid... you don't look like an intellectual/poet/dreamer who is too above this world.  You look like a pathetic kid who cuts himself in the bathroom while listening to bad music.  

Bebe boy thinks that Emo is, clearly, there for his amusement and is in dire need of attention.  And attention he will provide.  He is yelling at the top of his lungs (as only a toddler can do):  "Mom.  Silly.  Pants.  Wowie.  Crazy.  Mom.  Pants.  Silly.  Wowie.  Silly.  Crazy.  Pants."  Over and over.  The only stopping was to laugh hysterically (to the point of falling down) all while jumping up and down and pointing.  This was quite possibly the funniest thing he had ever seen.  {The only thing that can compare to his level of reaction was when the elephant at the zoo pooped and tooted for approximately 10 minutes straight.  That about sent bebe boy over the edge}.

Of course, the more I try to shush him the louder he becomes because NO DOUBT I SIMPLY CAN'T SEE EMO.  So, please, baby, point him out so that everyone can look at him.  I pick him up and turn him away thinking he might get distracted by something, anything else.  No can do.  He simply arches himself backwards/upside down and continues his antics.  

Emo is horrified and angry.  I swear his internal debate was "Should I go to my car and cut myself or should I attack the lady and her kid?"  

However, I assume ole Emo opted for self-mutilation because, well, he weighed about 75 pounds and appeared to suffer from an iron deficiency -- even me the very pregnant pacifist could have taken him on.  Hell, my toddler (who downed a 5 ounce rib eye last night) could have taken him.  

Poor Emo.  Got his ass verbally kicked by a toddler.  THAT is something to ponder while listening to Marilyn Manson.  

When You Come Home, There is a Dead Mouse in a Diaper

So, I am the first person to admit it:  I am over the top about everything.  It is not fake enthusiasm, it is genuine and deep.  Part of it stems from the fact that I am crazy-optimistic and part of it is simply that I was born under a happy star (so was my son which is one of my favorite parts of his little character).  Besides, if you have to go through life as either Tigger or Eeyore, why not choose a little striped bounce?

Here is the downside of happiness and enthusiasm when you are parenting... the little dudes get used to it and want more, more, more kudos, random hugs and high fives for. every. single. thing. they. do.

Normally, I don't find this to be an atrocious behavior or expectation.  The fact that he loads me and my pockets up with rocks, leaves, used gum, golf balls and handfuls of dirt is simply expected and accepted.  I wanted a boy and I got all boy.  Quit your bitching and be grateful.

This morning was an entirely different story.

My preggo self had settled onto the sofa for an exciting round of diaper folding [yes, I am THAT mom who cloth diapers and grows organic food.  I don't judge you (well, only a little) for your Pampers and McDonalds, stop harping at me about "it's good enough for everyone else, why do you have to be so picky?"].

I hear bebe boy squeal with delight in the utility room so I assume he has found the half eaten sponge football that I keep trying to hide from him.  {Don't judge me, this thing is nasty -- it has been through three dogs but when "faball" goes missing a full-on clearly-the-house-is-on-fire-and-the-dog-and-the-cherry-tomatoes-are-still-inside meltdown ensues so faball will remain a fixture in our house until bebe boy grows attached to something else.  There are only so many hills upon which I am willing to die, Marine, and a half-eaten Nerf ball does not even come close to the list}.

Little Sweetness (Daddy is the original Sweetness) comes toddling toward me clearly THRILLED with his find.  I don't see faball so I assume that he has found the mini-Stonehenge I am erecting from all the rocks that I find in our washing machine.

Then he presents to me... with all the elegance of royalty...  A. DEAD. MOUSE.

Mother of God, THIS is where I draw the line of motherhood.  I accept avocado in my hair.  I accept Elizabeth Mitchell on my stereo.  I {grimly} accept never again having a quickie on the living room floor mid-afternoon.  I accept rubber ducks and wind-up lobsters in my Jacuzzi tub.  Hell, I even accept having my pockets loaded down with stones a la Virginia Woolf.

But I draw the line at handling dead rodents.

So, I start screaming (over and over and over because clearly the problem will be solved at great volume and with maniacal repetition) "drop it, put it down, leave it, oh god, oh god, oh god, drop it, put it down, leave it, drop it, put it down, leave it, oh god, oh god, oh god, drop it, put it down, leave it, drop it, put it down, leave it, oh god, oh god, oh god, drop it, put it down, leave it, drop it, put it down, leave it, oh god, oh god, oh god, drop it, put it down, leave it, drop it, put it down, leave it, oh god, oh god, oh god, drop it, put it down, leave it."  Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

I, essentially, in my panic, have given myself an oh-so-pleasant combination of Tourette Syndrome, bi-polar syndrome (the manic side) and I-have-hearing-loss-but-I-am-the-only-person-on-the-planet-who-does-not-realize-it.  Yep, I was quite the femme fatale this morning.  Envy Sweetness.

Bebe boy is clearly perplexed.  I clap, thank him and give him high fives for dead dandelions, wads of dog hair and used gum but, for the best gift EVER, he gets nothing other than a screaming mimi jumping on the sofa?

So, he keeps yelling louder and louder:  "Mamama {Yes, I think it is cool that I am called an over-the-top moniker like Mamama with the slightest hint of a French accent.  And, yes, Bitter Berthas, he came up with it on his own} so yummy.  Look, yummy, Mamama."

{Don't get too disgusted at this point.  He has yet to grasp a full range of compliments so EVERYTHING that he likes is called "yummy" from dead mice to smoked gouda to dogs to the recycling truck.  Though, I must admit is is both adorable and ego-boosting to be called "yummy" first thing in the morning by such a sincere and enamored audience.  When he claps for me to boot... well, I am on the floor in a puddle}.  But back to this morning which was anything but yummy.

Eventually, he tires of my top-volume soliloquy and drops the dead beast.  Happily, it lands on a diaper.

This is the part where I look like a bad mom.  Prepare yourself.

I am afraid that he is going to pick it up again and, egads, throw it at me or the dog.  So, I quickly scoop him up and stick him outside.  It is cold.  Really cold.  And he is in the midst of naked time.  I know, I know.  I did warn you that this is where Mamama goes bad.

But I figure 1) it is only for a minute 2) you don't actually get sick from being cold and 3) the 150 pound hairy dog is out there too so they can cuddle if he gets cold while I deal with the mouse.  And, yes, I accept the fact that I am HOPING the dog will offer my sweet child comfort and warmth while he is outside a la Tiny Tim (and a naked Tiny Tim at that) and I am inside a la Ebenezer ensures that I will never be Mother-of-the-Year (but I have Mamama-of-the-Year wrapped up, not to brag).

I grab my Williams Sonoma tongs (best tongs ever -- which is not the point of this blog but good to know anyway) and grab both the mouse and the diaper it serendipitously landed upon.  The carcass package goes on the kitchen counter and I herd bebe and the dog back in the house.  {See, I am a good mom, I did not take the time to draw a bubble bath or polish my nails}.

For the briefest of moments, I actually thought about dealing with Mr Bubonic myself but then realized that I got married so I would never have to deal with tires, furnace filters or dead rodents.  This one gets outsourced to Daddy-O. I was in labor for 40 hours, you can deal with dead nasties.

I am 32 weeks pregnant so he is more than willing to answer his phone even if he is in the middle of a business meeting.  And, yes, I could have waited -- it is not like Mr Bubonic with Rigor Mortis was going anywhere -- but we all handle emergencies differently.  And please don't say that this was not an emergency ... crises are in the eye of the beholder.  And I beholded this as a full-on-eMERgency!

But I will {begrudgingly} concede the fact that, just perhaps, my response to his "hello" was just a leeee-tle on the dramatic side.

me (in a very high-pitched squeal):  "Mayday!  Mayday!  Huge catastrophe narrowly averted.  Baby, dog and the threatened area have been cordoned off and decontaminated.  Their debrief will begin once you have been fully appraised of the situation."

completely baffled hubby:  "WTF are you talking about?"

me:  "When you come home, there is a dead mouse in a diaper on the counter."

What We Believe

Taken from the back of the Zum Bar soap catalog

We believe in being in the mood and running in the nude.
We believe in second hand soap.
We believe it's smart to know the rules so you can break them.
We believe that good juju is the secret ingredient.
We believe in dogs in the workplace.
We believe everything is better when ordered extra dirty.
We believe in croute au fromage.
We believe you will see a monkey every day.
We believe in sweating with friends.
We believe that Zum Bum should be in every bathroom.
We believe the candy bowl should always be full.
We believe in dog day afternoons.
We believe measuring is overrated.
We believe in full moon Fridays.
We believe in turning the volume up to 11.
We believe that having to shout "we're green" means you're not really green.
We believe that cheap red wine is better than no wine at all.
We believe that artichokes may be nature's perfect food... actually, we believe cheese dip may be the perfect food.
We believe in hugging old people.
We believe plants make the best perfumes.
We believe snow cones are best when spiked.
We believe in shakin' our booties.
We believe in traveling in packs.
We believe in vegetarians and carnivores.
We believe there is nothing real about a maraschino cherry.
We believe the louder the music, the better the soap.
We believe if it comes from a grape, it's good.
We believe in afternoon delight, shahi paneer korma and full body massages.
We believe trial sizes are cool.
We believe that real and saggy are sexy.
We believe we can make people happier by using our products.
We believe humans could live on bread, cheese, wine, chocolate and avocados.
We believe in warm, wet places.
We believe Zum bars are best when used with a friend.
We believe pumpkin is not an essential oil.
We believe in not wasting a single ounce of soap.
We believe melt and pour is for amateurs.
We believe in wearing flip flops to work.
We believe movies are always better with martinis and recliners.
We believe in your mom.
We believe in the kiss-and-make-up club, not the fight club.
We believe in 3 o'clock snacks.
We believe plants heal.
We believe in real boobs and fake fur.
We believe in talking about our "shows" on Monday.
We believe in long, hot baths.
We believe in wearing black turtlenecks in the winter every day.
We believe the best ideas come from meetings in the masturbatorium.
We believe in Christopher Guest movies.
We believe in pure bred dogs, pound puppies and rescue pooches.
We believe we learned the truth at 17.
We believe cowboy boots can be worn with any outfit.
We believe in good, good, good vibrations.
We believe in "one in, one out."
We believe clowns are scary.
We believe in zumba.
We believe in that ass and you what ass we're talking about.
We believe the more dogs, the better the mojo.

Why, Yes, I Do Shake My Macarenas. Thank You For Asking.

I had baby boy #1 in a baby music class.  He liked it enough (on the plus side, there was dancing ... on the negative side, no snacks) but I hated it.  Hence, the "had" part of the previous statement.  I really did give it a shot but I really, really loathed this class.  Perhaps you will see why after this story.

The lady who taught it was more than slightly crazed.  Now hear me out before you get all judgmental about my judgmental-ness.  I think anyone who willingly wear sweatpants to work every day and sings

                "Bye, bye books.
               It's time to go away.
                  Bye, bye books.
               It's time to go away.
                  Bye, bye books.
               It's time to go away.
               We'll play with you
                    Another day."

with such gusto must, by definition, be slightly touched.  {Honestly, she made the random waiter/wannabe opera singer at Macaroni Grill look stifled}.

Now don't get me wrong: I love the idea of happy, singing people but she was just as alarmed at the fact that I do not sing "Bye Bye ___" to every object in our house as I am at the fact that she DOES sing to inanimate objects (her husband must LOVE this habit.  Like a gum smacker but louder).  We were just completely and utterly opposite in our views on randomly bursting into song about blocks/bottles/strollers and the attention these objects require from me to thrive in their role as, well, random household objects.

My issue (in addition to her false logic and poor arguing skills that I will explain in a bit) is that 1) I did all the work for this class and 2) I sucked at it.  As in I needed a remedial class and that is not acceptable.  Did she NOT get the memo as to who I am?  I am not a remedial kind of girl.

Furthermore, bebe boy did not have to sing, I did.  I never remembered my glasses so I could never see the cheat sheets on the wall unless I wore my prescription sunglasses indoors which, at 9 in the morning, makes me look like "Strung Out Barbie" and I don't want to have my baby taken away from me by the government.  Crazy Lady actually lectured me once about using the cheat sheets.  Seriously, lectured ME.

Crazy: "Didn't you study the songs in advance?"
me: "Are you kidding me?"
Crazy: "I gave you a CD the first day.  You should practice them daily."
me: "Are you kidding me?  You expect me to study for a one-year-old's music class?  We oink in here."
Crazy: "Have you EVEN listened to the CD or laminated your barnyard animal art?  Have you hung it on the wall yet?"
me: "Are you kidding me?  We, literally, oink in here.  And, furthermore, you think I will have laminated barnyard animals ON. MY. WALLS?"
Crazy: "Yes, I do.  How else will your child go to college?"
me: "Ummm, he has got a pretty good gene pool.  Kind of like beating a fast horse.  To make a barnyard animal reference that I imagine you to be very fond of." {I still find that to be a great one-liner.  I don't understand why she did not even chuckle}.
Crazy: "WHERE IS YOUR BAG OF SUPPLIES?  DO YOU EVEN SHAKE YOUR MACARENAS?"
me: "Do you find anything humorous about that question?"
Crazy: "No."
me: "Pity.  It is a good one."
Crazy: "Are you kidding me?"

So, she is asking me several classes later if we are doing summer classes.  I (perhaps a little TOO QUICKLY) say (okay, scream) "No.  It is summer and we don't do summer school in my family."

She is not amused with my lack of enthusiasm and asks me how I expected Junior to go to college without this class.  Like "E I E I O" is a pre-req.  SAT?  Check.  GPA?  Check.  EIEIO?  Check.

"I have several graduate degrees and I did not take music classes.  He'll be fine just, well, being a one-year-old this summer and doing his 'Oh how I love to eat cheese' dance.  No lamination required."

"You know that by making this decision, he will never be good at math," threatens Crazy Lady.

Now this is where I draw the line!  I will accept (not graciously, mind you) the fact that I suck at singing and all things musical/creative.  I will fully acknowledge that I did not prep properly for this weekly torture session.  But I. WILL. NOT. ACCEPT. my children not being good at math.  I don't care if I have to beat a love of numbers into them (sounds effective, no?), they will NEVER brag about not being able to calculate a tip.  (There is a blog coming up on that very subject.  But as a teaser 1) calculating percentages is not math and 2) no one would brag about being illiterate but being bad at math is not something to be ashamed of?  Au contraire!  One of my personal pet peeves.  Ugghhh).

I calmly respond "Clearly this is a case of 'post hoc, ergo propter hoc,' a logical fallacy."

Apparently, it was only clear to me since she simply stared at me.  After an uncomfortable silence I continued "Music classes are clearly NOT essential to success in mathematics, though some studies have shown them to be linked.  Correlation is not causation, however."

Honestly, I thought that I could not have been more clear.  I rested my case.  She stared at me.  Hummm, must further clarify my position.

"See, my friend, I have a Masters degree in Mathematics, with an emphasis in logic and statistics, as you can clearly see by my superior arguing skills.  And, I have had no musical training whatsoever as you can clearly see by my performance in this class.  A class designed for one-year-olds that I am, quite assuredly, a miserable and public failure at.  Henceforth, music classes are NOT mandatory for mathematical prowess.  Thus, my earlier statement of post hoc, ergo propter hoc."

I, literally, sighed with contentment.  Perhaps I even purred.  Happy in the knowledge that I had set her straight and that she would no longer declare this barnyard nonsense essential to future algebraic bliss.

No doubt I have much better math skills than I do people skills since I was completely ill-prepared for her frustration/anger with me.  She never invited me back to summer school or, hell, even fall classes.  Alas.

For the record, in case you were curious, my barnyard bag o' goodies was found (cheat sheets and all) months later in the trunk of my car.  It went into the recycling bin while I sang:

                "Bye, bye random bag of barnyard crap.

                                It's time to go away.

                  Bye, bye random bag of barnyard crap.

                                It's time to go away.

                  Bye, bye random bag of barnyard crap.

                                It's time to go away.

                     We'll shake our macarenas with you

                                    Another day."

Random Stuff

"We are eating dinner.  That means, sit down, limit your dancing and please keep your belly out of the barbecue sauce."

"It's a little like religion and a lot like sex, you should never know when you're going to get it next" sung of gumbo by none other than Jimmy Buffet

"That baby would never make it as a caveman, he is too loud.  And chubby."

"Man, that kid has a huge head.  He is like a human Bobble-head."  {Sadly, this is somewhat true.  The boy is in a 4T hat at 20 months.  What can I say?  Big head, big brain.  But he does not look like a Bobble-head nor does he fall over from the sheer weight of it.  No worries}.

"That woman is the social equivalent of waterboarding" (said about my mother by my hubby).

"You know I only shovel the coal on your crazy train.  Hell, I don't even get to ring the bell." (said by Hubby about me.  Not nice but true and funny).

We took the little guy to his first baseball game (last weekend).  He has always been obsessed with all things ball-related but it is at a crescendo now.  He insists on wearing his baseball glove at all times and everything is a bat.  If he is practicing his swing with a candle/umbrella/zucchini (we moved the huge plastic bat outside.  Clearly, this has not impeded the process), he wears the glove on his head.  Since I have taken all the balls out of the main level of our house (and this was no small undertaking), he has had to find viable ball-substitutes.  Therefore, our lemon trees are bald and I have been hit in the ear with a very large onion.  For the record, onions hurt.  A lot.

How Lovely. You Must Be So Proud.

At Christmas, I am, against my will, chatting with a loser {and it takes me a LONG time to declare someone an 'untouchable.'  Trust me on this one, she defines the word 'yucky.'  No worries on her reading this and getting offended because, as you will see, reading clearly is not her forte.  It may not even be a skill she possesses.  On some level this makes me really sad, on another level she is so past creepy that I simply don't care.  And it kills me to say that ...  And, besides, she found NOTHING odd or shameful about this conversation.  Months later I STILL feel dirty from it.  But, I, well, have standards and dreams for my boys (yes, even the one in utero -- with as much as he wiggles, I am guessing trapeze artist).  


{Small sidebar:  Boys, if I EVER have this conversation or one akin to it with anyone, expect a bill.  I am keeping (or will keep, once I get organized) a running tab of the salmon, spinach, DHA-fortified milk and bok choy that you have eaten on my watch.  If you turn out to be idiots, I ASSURE you, you will get a bill for all the brain food that I clearly wasted my money on.  Backdated.  With interest.  Loan-shark-esque interest at that.  Don't say you weren't warned}.


Feeling much better for having released that threat to the universe.  


This is the conversation:


me: "So how is your son?"  {This poor kid has lived with God-only-knows how many people and has been taken away by the great state of Texas.  Twice.}
loser mom:  "Good.  He's 19.  I think.  Maybe 21"


{How the f do you not know how old your child is?  And not even to the nearest year?  Honestly, this is how he ended up like he did:  his mom thinks (and, yes, I use that word loosely) he might be 19 or 21?  "Well, I think it is an odd number, could be prime, might be divisible by 3...."  What the hell is wrong with you, lady (yet another term I use loosely}.


me: "How lovely.  What is he doing now?"
loser: "He is thinking about going back to school and getting his GED."  (And, yes, I get the irony of leaving to school to go back to school to get a piece of paper that says "I dropped out but might be functionally literate nonetheless.  Please hire me.")
me: "Of course he is.  How lovely."


{Has anyone else ever noticed that every drop-out is simply "too smart for school" according to the parents?  I will admit it here and now:  I will refuse to accept/admit/acknowledge the fact that my kids are morons even if it is blaring in my face but, seriously, explain to me the logic in the statement "He was too smart for school.  The teachers were jealous of his intellect.  So he dropped out."  


Honest to God, I know a LOT of smart people and some downright brilliant people and somehow they all managed to graduate from high school.  Without fanfare or major cause for celebration.  Just a piece of stale cake and a pat on the back.  


Not that I am bitter, I don't really think high school graduation requires some kind of major hoo-haw or three-day pagan ritual celebration.  It is HIGH SCHOOL not NASA's astronaut program, for crap's sake.


And, please fortheloveofgawd, I am begging you NOT to tell me one. more. time. "Bill Gates dropped out of school and look where he is."  


1) he willingly left college, not the 8th grade  
2) he left Harvard rather than being booted out by the Pigsknuckle Public Education System 
3) not to be too much of a statistician, but Gates defies all odds on many levels 
4) if your kid ends up as Bill Gates (or even manages to stay out of prison), I will personally tutor him to get his GED (and I loathe tutoring, especially tutoring morons) and, finally,
5) post hoc, ergo propter hoc (correlation, not causation for those of you who did not take Latin or a half dozen logic classes).


Yes, I realize that that was a really long non-sequitor and you have my apologies.  But, once again, it is my blog so nanner-nanner-nanner if you don't like it.  It is funny and free.  Back on task now.}


In case you don't recall I am standing in a kitchen, wishing I were anywhere else, talking to a loser.


me: "What does he plan to do for a job?"
loser:  "He feels like he has three choices."
me:  "How lovely; options are good.  And they are?"


And I SWEAR TO YOU, I am NOT making this up.


loser:  "Rodeo clown.  Professional wrestler.  Porn star."


{I have a frighteningly long pause with, I fear, my mouth ajar}


me: "How lovely.  You must be so proud."

Diggity! (or Why Your Momma Talks to Homeless People)

Well, by the time you are reading this, my sweet boy(s), you will have figured out that your mom loves to talk (all state in high school, not to brag).  However, in addition to chatting to the usual suspects, Mommy has real conversations with the coffee place people, the farmers at the market (which, I swear, is why we always get the BEST tomatoes), etc.  However, I also think that it is important to connect with those people on the edge of society.  Please don't ever humiliate me by thinking you are better than other people.  You have been given a zillion things and opportunities that most people only dream of.  Until you know someone else's story, do not make assumptions about them.  And never think you are better.  But by the grace of God go you (well, God and Momma because I assure you, you will never be homeless on my watch).

But, anyway, back to the point.

Don't panic, I don't follow homeless men down back alleys and I avoid suspicious characters completely (Daddy would throw a fit).  But I do have quite the rapport with the slightly touched guy who collects cans around the University of Denver (and I mean he carries hundreds if not THOUSANDS on this Asian bamboo stick contraption across his shoulders and zooms around on his bike -- the guy must be in the best cardio shape of any homeless guy ever.  And. he. does. it. at. altitude.)  You would not know he is off until he swears to you that he is on DU's payroll as the official can collector.  Now the school is all about "A Private School for the Common Good" but hiring a can collector seems extreme even for DU.  And, if he does get paid for this, I really want some of my tuition money back.  Seriously.  Write me a check.

Anyway, this posting is not about that guy.  There is another homeless guy I chat with.  He loves my ass (what can I say?) and often wears pants the color of orange sherbet.  And they are always immaculate.  Somehow I have complete access to a washer and dryer as well as a dozen dry cleaners within five miles of the abode and I always have avocado or spinach on my clothes.  This guy lives on the street and has USMC style creases.  Clearly, he does not have an affectionate toddler who loves to eat but still... it just seems wrong.

Anyway, back to the point...

When I got pregnant the second time, I knew before I actually missed my period because I fully believe in those Test Five Days Earlier! pregnancy tests.  Yes, I know it is mildly obsessive but it is the only thing I am anal about so cut me some slack (well, that and eating organically).  And besides I only test if I feel that I am pregnant and, for the record, I have never been wrong.  So there.

Back to the point again...

So, I test positively on Saturday and it is Monday.  I know I am not showing because I have been pregnant for approximately an hour.  Sherbie comes zooming up to me to walk me to class (I LOVE that, by the way) and this is our conversation:

Sherbie:  Your ass is looking mighty fine today.  As usual.
me: Thank you, sir.  Your pants are nicely pressed.  As usual.
Sherbie: Thank you, miss.  I have some news for you and about you.  I had a vision, if you will.
me:  Oh really?  Please share.

Sherbie: 1) You're pregnant.
me: Uh-huh.

{For all I know, I could be talking to God; I am intrigued to say the least}.

Sherbie: 2) And it's a boy.
me: Uh-huh. (But there are 19 boys in Hub's family and 3 girls.  Of course it is a boy.  Not that he knows the family tree.  But still).
Sherbie: 3) And you're gonna name him Diggity.
me:  This, my friend, is where we part ways.

However, I was/am pregnant.  It is a boy (we found out today).  And, yes, his final prediction/vision was correct.  We have given him the call sign of Diggity.

OMA!

My neighbor babysat bebe boy twice a week for eight months and he ADORED her.  Unlike Mom and Dad (the duds), she did nothing other than entertain the baby all day.  If he wanted to throw a tennis ball to her dog for five hours, she was more than happy to accommodate (yes, he was often able to wear out a German Shepherd).  He called her Oma (she is Dutch and fab-u-lous in every way).  Oma also keeps a huge supply of bananas on hand (hers, clearly, taste better than the bananas I buy).  


It always amazes me that people assume that babies have no short-term memory or "real" feelings.  Here is a perfect example to the contrary...


So the other day we are going to see my midwife (yes, I am pregnant again in case you missed the announcement) and I tell Luc "we are going to go see someone who loves you very much."

He shouts "OMA!" and starts running for the door with a banana and a tennis ball in his hand.  I felt horrid disappointing him...

4th of July

Eat snowcones.

Make homemade ice cream.

Buy sparklers.

Thank a veteran.

First Phrases

So, when bebe boy was 10 months old he had 15 words.  You know, the usual:  Mama, Dada, ball, truck...
My favorites were "takoo" for "thank you" and his very extended "welcommmme."  And, yes, I was thrilled beyond all comprehension that among his first words were thank you and (you're) welcome.  Sniff, sniff.

At about 12 months, he lost interest in those words other than Mama, Dada, Wiwah (for Delilah the bulldog, his bff) and Hummy (what he calls our dog, Humphrey).

However, now he whips out the occasional phrase that is shocking and not to be repeated no matter how we cajole, beg. threaten.

The first one was "Ididn'tknowwhereyouwere?" while he wandered around with his arms in the air.

The second one was "LoveyouMom" after he ran across the room, planted a smackeroo on my mouth and then zoomed off.  Yes, I melted and, don't deny it, you would too.

Today, he fell asleep in his car seat clutching, of course, a ball.  He is endlessly fascinated with balls, it is such a cliche but, I swear, we don't encourage it.

He wakes up, looks around his car seat and asks "Wheremyballis?"  Not exactly correct English but give the kid a break he is only 18 months old.

His declaration of love for me was only a couple of days before his declaration of his love for football.

You have no idea how grateful I am for this...

#35 Quirky Reasons Why I Love You

All (or most all) parents love their children in ways they never knew possible.  I get that.  But some of my favorite things about being a mom are bebe boy's quirks.

I love how you prepare for road trips by kicking back in your car seat with a Perrier between your legs, one leg tossed over the side and a book in your hand.

I love how you never walk from one place to another:  you either run or dance there.

I love how you will completely un-selfconsciously rock out in public when you feel the need to (Dancing Queen, All the Single Ladies, Proud Mary are some of your faves).

I love how you sleep with your bottom in the air.

I love how you can, literally, dance your diaper off.  In public.  To Mustang Sally.  {No picture, sadly}

I love how cherry tomatoes hold a special place in your heart {I ate thousands of them while I was pregnant with you... coincidence?}

I love how you expect people to love you and to be kind.  You remind me on a daily basis to fully anticipate the laughter and fun in life.

Being your mom rocks, little guy.  Thank you for choosing me.

#34 On Why I Am a Bad Mommy

At times, I feel like I am not exactly an exemplary mom.  Now don't start calling CPS just yet on me.  I spend $10/day on just organic strawberries and Omega 3 fortified, organic milk.  Yes, I have drunk the Cool-Aid, but I can't argue with the results.  He never gets sick, has never even had diaper rash and has the sunniest disposition imaginable.  If it ain't broke...

And to my credit, I did not yell at you, sweet bebe boy, when you were gnawing on my Hermes bag.  I did not get upset when you gave me yogurt dreadlocks.  Hell, I laughed it off when you pooped in the tub (while I was in it, btw).

That being said, it seems like other moms are much more bedraggled by their offspring.  And, for whatever reason, I assume that makes them a better mom than me.  Yes, my shirts are always dirty (but I consider evidence of baby lovin' and hugs rather than a permanent state of filth) but other than that....

We don't have a Raffi CD so there is not one permanently stuck in my car CD player.  I figure when you drive, you can choose the music but in the meantime, Shortie, Mommy chooses.  {Though I must admit that it makes me melt that you are so enamored with BB King.  Have I mentioned that you are one kick-ass, cool kid?}

I have yet to buy fish sticks, chicken nuggets or that pre-packaged applesauce in little plastic containers.  You have teeth, you can eat real salmon and apples.  Momma does not believe in breading or artificial thickeners, whatever the hell they are.

We have no qualms about having a glass of wine on the deck while you zoom around in your Porsche pedal car tormenting the dog.  Not every activity needs to be interactive with Mommy and Daddy, especially while we are having margaritas.

#33 Know What You Like

Rather than what is trendy.

Here are your favorites thus far (indulge me, people, I am not getting any younger and I suck at journaling and scrapbooking -- when did that become a verb, btw?  So, I write things down here so I will remember then when I am in the old folks home):

"Dancing Queen" by ABBA
"All the Single Ladies" by Beyonce
dogs, the larger the better (and if the dog can fetch, boNANza)
ice cream sandwiches (that's my boy!)
cherry tomatoes
udon noodles
strawberries
your bottle of milk (half gallon a day... egads)
Oma
balls (or pictures of balls, you totally don't discriminate)
shiny, exposed areas of flesh that you can zerbert (see posts from 1/11/2010 and 6/21/2010 for proof of his love of the zerbert)

#32 Crummy Jobs...

everyone has to have had them so they appreciate all the great stuff they later have.  You, kiddo, will be no exception.  I assume that we will be able to well afford a car for you but you are going to have to earn it.

Here are some of the crappy jobs your daddy and I have had:

** an ice cream scooper at Braums (though, not to brag, I can still square dip with the best of them and I make a wicked milkshake)

** a clown at McDonalds

Daddy's jobs went to the dirtier:

** laying sprinkler systems.  In the summer.  In South Texas.

** being a short order cook on an oil rig.

Yep, they suck they make you appreciate the good life when you get it.  There is NOTHING worse than a kid with a sense of entitlement.  Nothing.

#31 And Speaking of Gay

from yesterday...

Other stupid (stoopid, even) things that I have heard since you were born about homosexuals:

"His hair is too long.  If you don't cut it, he is going to be gay."

"Boys should not wear cardigans, they will end up gay."

And my personal favorite:

"Aren't you concerned that he likes strawberry ice cream?  It is 'gayer' than chocolate."

Oh honest to God, if your grasp on heterosexuality is so tenuous that ice cream is the deciding factor, you are going to be gay, my darling baby boy.  And for the record, that is fine with your daddy and I.  Please do not be one of those closet cases full of angst and self-loathing.  You are one of the most beloved people on the planet, your sexuality could never change that.

Our view is what someone does in the privacy of their own bedroom (between consenting adults) is none of anyone else's business.  {Child molesters are another story but they are, statistically, heterosexual men.  And dead if they come near my sweeties.  And I do mean, D E A D but previous to death, tortured.  Hubby has a degree is that kind of stuff, don't tempt fate in case you are a fan of my blog}.

I know, I know.  Totally out of character but occasionally I post pictures of sweet bebe boy and it kind of freaks me out.

And, for the record, your daddy loves strawberry ice cream and he is decidedly heterosexual.