In The Last Week, My Kid Has Become A Total Clutz. Or, How My Kid Preps For The X Games

My kid is a walking bruise. I'm starting to think that his sudden growth spurt has thrown him completely off his game. Either that, or perhaps I should cut off his happy hour consumption. But you know, the kid has things and issues he has to deal with so hitting on chicks at the local hole is all he's got. I mean have you seen the economy, his stocks are shit.

Wait! Before you run off to nominate me for yet ANOTHER parenting award, I mean seriously, my mantle can't take anymore, let me tell you what I'm talking about.

At this very moment, that little slumbering wino angel has a huge scrape down his back, a bruised cheek, a healing bloody nose and a scrape on his knee. Now you may run off to cast that ballot but he was only in my care during ONE of those incidents.

The scrape on his back we are assuming that he got himself stuck in the little ol' picnic table he was playing on at lunch on Friday at daycare. I mean a kid has to practice sleeping on picnic benches for his obvious future of hobodom.

The cheek happened when Jason was playing around with him and he smacked his face right into my knee. For the record? Totally my UFC knee so you know, he's got a belt coming his way and some deal pushing burgers and TapOut wear.

Let's see here. Oh, right, the bloody nose. Well you see, he was standing on a cow, while playing with his little buddies and totally took a header. I heard he made a full 8 seconds though, so you know PBR (not Pabst Blue Ribbon, ya'll) here he comes. Yee haw.

And, then he scored himself some mild road rash while heading out to check the mail with his dad. This? From the kid who was beggging me to buy him a skate board while he jumped in circles around the house while watching Bucky Lasek and Danny Way this weekend. He yelled "DAKE BOARD" and then would ollie off the couch.

Evidently, when little boys are issued, they need to come with some sort of warning. Because while I'm telling him to, "rub some dirt on it", my heart is breaking into a million pieces.


PS. When you are watching the X Games in 16 years and you see some crazy blonde woman, who is so young enough to still have blond hair, scraping her kid off the ramp, you can say you remember when.

Texting With Monkey, Or There Is No Way In Hell I'm Going To Survive This Parenting A Tween Thing

Friday night Jason got home and said it was time we got new phones. He and I would upgrade and Monkey would semi-upgrade to my old phone. (Which is now covered in Pooh Bear stickers.)

(I said semi and pooh!)

With the upgrade in phones, we also added unlimited texting, which basically meant that Monkey could text now and texting was destined to become her new job, which would replace the old job of looking at me like I was dropped on my head and put on this planet to totally jack up her life.


Saturday when her dad came to pick her up, the Dude ran down the hall yelling "Sissy, your dada's home!" (How is that for blended family dynamics?) And off with her dad she went, about 2 hours later, the first text rolls in:

Hi mom. :) :P...

I responded and then she came back with:

Cool!!!!!:)...

And then:

Realy?!?!?!?!:)...

And:

Realy?? OMG!!:)

On and on this went for 3 hours until she ended with:

KINGKONG!!!!!!!!!!:) :) :) ...

Ten fucking exclamation marks. King Kong all one word, which still beats really with one L, I guess. This makes me question the school system that awarded her straight A's. Also, I'm not really sure what the hell she was talking about. I don't think she was even watching King Kong.

The good news is that this is the most we have talked in a year. You know, since "the hormones" kicked in. Well, with the exception of that day when I told her where babies came from and completely ruined her life FOREVER! Why AM I so weird and gross? The bad news? I was trying to drink in relative peace from my children and now she could reach me anywhere. Thanks 3G network! No really, freaking thank you.

In the morning I was a little hungover, eating an ice cream bar and french toast and greeted with:

God morning!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!:)...



When she got home from her dad's that afternoon I said, "Let me see your hands."

And then I broke her number 1 button pushing finger and told her she'd thank me later. Because no kid of mine was going to abuse punctuation in this manner. If she couldn't punctuate maybe she'd focus on her spelling.

I'm pretty sure this is the same program they'd use in Summer school's across the country.

The next day I caught her texting her friend:

i just got back from the grocery store

No punctuation.

"Monkey, go put that damn phone in your room!"



She had to explain to her friend later that it's not that she's NOT excited about the grocery store, who wouldn't be, it's that she is grounded from exclamation marks. And only allowed 25 texts a day.

***

PS - I totally lied about the breaking of the finger.

PPS - I just sprained it a little.

PPSS - Still lying, I kicked her in the shins...

Do I realy need to go on???!!! :) ;P :) ... OMG!!!

A Word About My Mother

In honor of Mother's Day (a completely fictitious holiday obviously created by the greeting card people, that I partially depend upon for a paycheck) I'd like to take a moment to thank my mother...

For never REALLY selling me to the gypsies.

I mean, you threatened it a lot and there was that one time you put me out on the front stoop with a sign that said Five Bucks(which I thought was a little low but whatever), and then that guy with the van that had blacked out windows tried to actually pick me up, but you stopped him.

And that? Was awesome.

Thanks Ma.

Scenes From Our Sick Day, With Snot

Light On The Vulnerability, Please

Climbing into bed last night, it felt like one of those nights where I would lay there awake, tossing and turning. But, as I laid my head on the pillow, it felt like the events of the day were piled on my chest, dragging me down into sleep.

The day had been wrought with lay offs and pay cuts, and when someone tells you that you're pay is getting cut and you don't have a choice about it... you suddenly realize just how vulnerable you and your life actually are. You realize you're happy just to have the job and the pay cut seems suddenly like a bonus.

Granted I work in a place where the owners took the largest pay cuts, it still stung As the emails from my co-workers who were let go on Friday came rolling in, I suddenly realized that my job, the job that I love so very much could be ripped away from me. I don't "belong" there, I just work there.

I came home and watched my son struggle to breathe. Vulnerability is like an albatross around my neck today. Sitting on my back, watching my struggle with the realization that my life is not made of steel and brick, it is flimsily constructed of paper and strings. Creatively wound in the form of a soft hammock that cradles me, but that may just tip and drop me to the hard, rocky Earth below at any moment.

Also? If you're my neighbors, that flashing light wasn't code for 'please fucking help us we are being murdered', not that you offered. It was my kid and I fighting over which position the light switch would be in while he fitfully slept.

He won. Light on.

Is There Such A Thing As Zombie Slop, You Know, Like PIg Food?

Mr. Booms and I have always been "anti-gun" when it comes to keeping one in the house. I have many reasons including a kid accidentally killing himself when I was in school with his father's gun, and my brother finding my dad's and shooting a hole in their box springs.

Jason and I have been on the same page until yesterday:

Jason: I'm thinking maybe we should a gun for the house and keep it someplace like the attic.

Me: What? No, absolutely not.

Jason: What if we need to protect ourselves?

Me: We can get one after the kids have moved out.

Jason: Pssshaw. Why get one then? The only person left to protect would be you.

Me: True, I see your loving point. You know, now that I think about it, we should have one in case of zombie infiltration.

Jason: A handgun is going to nothing in case of zombies, honey.

Me: So not true. You aim for the head. Always aim for the head.

Jason: Yeah right, totally not going to work.

Me: Seriously? You're going to tell me how to kill zombies? I think I'm just a little more educated in this area.

Jason: Whatever.

Me: That's it, when they come you are toast. Zombie toast. I'm tossing you in while I aim for their heads.

Chances are I probably won't, but let's not tell him that just yet.

Also? I had a conversation with my 9 year old who asked me questions regarding "the period" and "the puberty".

Sigh.

Because Sometimes My Email Is As Freaky A Place As My Mind

I'm all frisky this morning just like my five pound Yorkie Poo after she gets groomed. Probably because my hair is nearly the lightest shade of platinum I could muster without turning it blue (actually it was blue for a moment), and I'm back to my awesome bangs. I couldn't handle that side swept, get a hair cut already, bullshit I was sporting.

What I'm saying is my ass is wagging around like I just found a ball I totally forgot about under the couch and it's the coolest shit EVER!

Also, I came into some fantastic email love from Miss Yvonne and sometimes you realize you can touch someone's life even if the entire state of Oklahoma separates you from them. Check it:

Depeche Mode came on XM this morning on my way to work and it made me think of you, and then right after that Billie Idol's Dancing with Myself came on. For reals. I was air punching the shit out of my drive today. It was like you were there, except you weren't and I was by myself shoving my fist into the air and curling my lip and then the lawn guys at my office saw me and started laughing and I was all "fuck you, lawn guys! You don't even know how cool I am...I'm Miss Yvonne, assholes!" and then I did a double air punch just to spite them.

And, you know that touches me in a special place I call my heart. It's like feeding little hungry children and shaking hands with lepers. Only the kids are still hungry and there isn't enough hand sanitizer in the world to make me touch those zombie freaks.

It's okay, lepers don't have feelings so don't get all crazy on me.

Inside of the little oasis that is known as my email is also an email exchange I had with the Dirty Pirate Hooker, in which I offer up some fantastic parenting advice she in no way actually asked for:

DPH: Omg, my kid is Hitler this morning. I refuse to sieg heil.

Me: Well you should, or she's probably going to rape you and throw you in the gas chamber and that would be all kinds of wrong.

DPH: I'd take a violent rape and gas chamber over her attitude today.

Me: Holy shit. What the fuck is the matter with you?

DPH: I don't know. I haven't had enough coffee yet.

Me: Well apparently. You're kid is a tool of the devil. Pretend like you don't even notice.

DPH: I wish I could video her rants in the morning and show her why I'm a drunk in 10 years.

Me: Can't you just get her up from bed at like 10:00 at night and show her that you're a drunk now?

Oh you said show her WHY! My bad.

And that is why I'm watching episodes of In Treatment lately. I need to brush up on listening/advice giving skills.

The moral of today's story. If you send me an email, it might just make it to my blog. Actually, more than likely it will. My life is a little on the slow side. And, if we're all not careful, our kids are going to get video of us looking like David Hasselhoff with a cheeseburger.

My Neighbor Kid Is An Asshole

And, just wasting my energy on this little tweentard mental ninja of Jedi, fuck with my daughter's mind tricks is pissing me off.

Here's the thing. The kid made my kid cry and now she's going to pay.

She's run a steady show of bitchiness that we have tolerated up to this point. My soft spoken, kindhearted daughter typically shrugs it off and goes on her way. But, she's fucked with her brother and now Monkey is not happy.

Monkey takes very good care of her brother, because as she said, "He's the only one I have now and I want to protect him." So when the neighbor kid got pissed at Monkey for paying attention to her brother and not to her she blurted out, "He's only your HALF brother anyway." She just tossed that in her non-stop stream of snotty, bitch face comments.

I just realized I'm too mad to even do this right now.

My kid sat, curled up against my side, sobbing last night.

Jason and I tagged team the kid at the bus stop this morning. First, he pulled up next to her and said, "Before you come over and play again, I'm having a talk with your mother." Without knowing this, I pulled up next to her:

Me: You know, you really hurt Monk's feelings last night?

It: How?

Me: By telling her that her brother was only her half brother...

It: I didn't mean...

Me: I don't care what you meant. Are you aware that her brother died?

It: Yes I am.

Me: Well then have a little consideration for her feelings about her brother. He is the only one she has and she loves him. You need be a little bit nicer to my daughter, young lady.


Yeah, I busted out a young lady.

Whatever.

This is stupid.

That kid sucks.

Updated: I've Been Laying Low

I don't post for days and then I do and when I do, I cover you all in my roller coaster of emotions that is me.

As most of you know, I am the mother to two beautiful, healthy children. I am also the mother of a dead child.

With the recent deaths of babies circulating around the blogosphere, I haven't said a word. Mostly because I didn't realize just how raw my insides still were until it happened. I read the first sentence of any post lately and I burst into tears.

I can't equate the pain of losing a child to anything else. When it happened to me I felt like my insides and been yanked out and shoved back in, but not in the right places and I was just supposed to wake up the next morning with all of this weird, twisted madness inside me and make it all work.

And it didn't. It didn't work.

And I felt selfish for being so eaten alive about someone who held such a short window in my whole life. But it was my whole life.

If you read nothing else today besides this mess, then you are missing out on the best thing I've read in a very long time.

Simply put...

Thank you, Maggie.

Thanks for remembering for me.


**Update: I just wanted to take a moment to thank all of you from the bottom of my bruised soul for the amazing comments and emails I've received. I am a huge wuss. I know this. I know how selfish I've been with trying so desperately to ignore the current atmosphere of Twitter and blogville. I know this too. I like to imagine these things don't happen to other people. I like to pretend it's only Jason and I that shoulder these horrid things. Unfortunately, it's just not true. I also know that the support you are lending to these families is going a long way in the weird combination of dark and bright days that will be their recovery. Thank you.

Now if you don't mind, all of this "feeling" is killing me and I need to go on calling people douchebags again before I remember how fragile and almost human I am.

Things I Wish I Was Doing Right Now (Complete Filler, Photo Dump)

Jason finally took our Florida pictures off the camera after asking me for the millionth time if I had done it yet.

And now that I see the pictures,I wish I hadn't because I'd rather being doing all of this rather than all of this (waving my hands over this blog in general):

This Is Being Written By My Left Lung, Which Has Developed A Mind Of Its Own

The plague has fully set into my chest now. I fear that this may be my last transmission from this desolate place. (Except for my guest post over at Rassles that will be up tomorrow).

"The Carrier", the original infector, is climbing all over my still partially animated remains, with his off-kilter equilibrium.

If you don't hear from us again, please send the CDC and that crew from E.T. that was lead by Peter Coyote. You know, the one in the awesome suits that tented the house and scared the hell out of everyone. Oh, send Reese's Pieces too.

The plague has started to set into our mental capacities. The Carrier is repeatedly hitting the dog over the head with a pillow and screaming like a tiny manshee. I fear it's only a matter of time before we are completely lost.

Warn the others.

The end is near.

The apocalypse came in the form of a really cute, blonde-haired, blue-eyed toddler.

Of course it did.

PS - The Carrier is super cuddly and still managing to find books for me to read over and over again even though I swear I hid every single one of them. Also? He is playing with cat balls and we don't even have a cat. Which reminds me, at the doctor's office we read a book about a bear that draws and his berries and I don't even think that "berries" was supposed to be code for his balls or anything. I now have to go and watch Yo Gabba Gabba or freaking AFV for the 800th time.

Basically My Kid Is Tormenting Me By Messing Himself Up As Much As Possible

On top of having like infected lungs and weird mutant viruses that only bad little girls who don't belong to me would carry, my kid is tormenting me. I'm even typing this with one hand. Mostly, because my lap is the only seat in the house to watch Nemo from and he even tried to rip off my right tit while climbing up into my lap.

I didn't really need it anyway, because I think he has also infected me with his mutant germs which are going to cause my right lung to swell and it then can take the place of my boob that he just ripped off without a second thought.

So I'm coughing and administering breathing treatments to "the carrier" and he's doing things like making me read this asinine book about brown bears with blue balls and he's seriously wiping out like every two seconds. He completely crash landed in our hallway giving himself a goose egg and a bloody nose. So now he has snotty blood all over his face which makes me feel just horrible for him. And then he does things like hits me in the face with the moose book again so that I will read it to him for the 80th time. Seriously.

Basically, what I'm saying here is that we are just going to sit around all bruised, bloodied and hacking until it's time to go to the doctor again.

Because the co-pay wants to tell me to suck it just one more time before this is all over.

I'm Pretty Sure Billy Idol Knows Who I Am And Probably Thinks I'm Awesome

Sometimes when you profess your love for air-punching gods you get noticed. My righteousness is now a part of Billy Idol's history.

Billy? I'll be expecting a phone call.

And a signed picture.

Oh and lessons in air-punching.

I know this isn't a real post, but I'm sitting at home with a sick kid, watching the other guy who calls me his muse, Bruce Campbell, waiting for Joaquin Phoenix to call and tell me that he wrote the best hip-hop song that a hairy white-guy who has no business even saying the words hip and hop in the same breath has ever written and it is about me. And probably buying whole foods in bulk and firing his housekeeper because what else would he write about? Except maybe being a train jumping, breakdancing hobo. He's totally got that going for him.

My musiness knows no bounds.

Also? My kid has wiped his nose on every flat surface of the house this morning. So you know, I have that going for me.

Milking It

And I know you were wondering what has sent me flipping and flopping over the deep end.

I'm not ready!

I'M NOT FREAKING READY!!!!

Today is not yesterday

Today is not yesterday, mostly because I'm at home again. Crazyman's sitter took the day off so I'm at home with him and his fantastic sippy cup throwing abilities. As a matter of fact, I can feel his eyes burning a hole into my head as he is willing me to look at him so he can throw his cup again to alert me to the fact, again, that he wanted the orange one and NOT the blue one.

I'm so ill equipped to do this mothering thing the way he sees fit. I don't know how he copes. I'm guessing lots of cigarette smoking and complaining to the bartender when he sneaks out to knock a few back at the local hole in the wall.

My asshole dog decided to chew on the bathroom rug and eat a spot bald on it. She's protesting the fact that she has already eaten bald spots into her smelly stuffed dog that I won't let her keep on the couch today.

I'm regretting teaching her to fetch, because everytime I throw the half bald, stanky ass stuffed dog carcass down the stairs she brings it right back. Note to self: scrap the design for the dog carcass boomerang. It's annoying and nobody wants the dead dog body to come back.

Nobody.

Besides when you throw U-shaped dead dog bodies, parts tend to fall off. And I'm thinking of the liabilities of people getting hit in the head by dead dog testicles at the park. People can complain about ANYTHING!

All of these things are better than yesterday when some guy with a tiny dog came in with a bag of dog shit and slammed it onto my desk because the owner of the black dog (my boss) evidently didn't pick it up out of the dog park behind our office. He kindly wanted to return it to the rightful owner and my desk looked like just that person. I personally want him to prove that the shit didn't come from his dog and that it did belong to our dog. I'm thinking a taste test is in order. It would be much like the Pepsi Challenge of the 80's but with more of a need for breath mints in the end. Seriously, he doesn't have a leg to stand on.

I spent a good amount of time debating on whether this incident was better or worse than the time the hobo came in and accused me of having his shoes. He swore up and down that I had his shoes. My co-worker assured him that I did not have them and that it was best that he move on. He said he'd be back.

I'm really glad he never came back though, because do you know how hard it is to find a good pair of hobo shoes?


PS - I was really disappointed when I tuned in to see the 8 armed OCTOMOM on Dateline last night only to find out that it was a freakshow of a totally different kind. What a bummer.

Wolf Man's Got Nuggets!

This is being written from the comfort of my living room couch on a Monday morning. Monkey is sick today. She's simultaneously warm and clammy after having tossed her cookies. Or I guess she tossed her wolf nuggets.

Delicious and nutritious, wolf nuggets.

Last night as Jason was making dinner, I decided to learn my kids the Gospel that is Teen Wolf.

I know, I should have my parental rights stripped for the delay in that major milestone. But better late than never, right?

So, Jason is in the kitchen being my personal chef and the kids and I are watching Scott Howard's coming of age story when Monkey eeks out the most loaded question you can ask in our house.

"What's for dinner?" she almost absent mindedly muttered?

"Wolf nuggets.", I said.


Monkey: What? Wolf nuggets?

Me: Yeah, wolf nuggets, what of it?

Monkey: Nuh uh.

Jason: Yeah huh - wolf nuggets. But you know they are illegal, so don't tell anyone.

Monkey just looks sickened.

Me: Yeah, totally. Jason had to go to a special market to get them. He had to know a password and everything. What was the name of that market, Jason?

Jason: The black market.

Me. Right, the black market. So, it's delicious and nutritious wolf nuggets for us.

Monkey: Sick!

Jason: AAAAAOOOOOOOOOOOHHHH!

Crazyman: AAAAAOOOOOOOOOHHHH!

Monkey: Gah.

We settle down for a bit. Crazyman sees Jason is prepping dinner so he goes and climbs into his booster to demand that dinner cooks faster.

Me: Mmmmm, I can't wait for some wolf nuggets.

Crazyman: AAAAAAOOOOOOOHHHHH

Monkey: Ugh. (Her shoulders start to hunch, beginning the process of her folding in on herself.)

Me: (To the tune of Hot Blooded by Foreigner):

I got Wolf Nuggets
Check it and see
If I've got one then I've got three

Come on baby, give my nuggets a chance.

I've got wolf nuggets, wolf nuggets!

Crazyman: AAAAAAOOOOOOOOHHHHH

Monkey is totally screwed up at this point. Sucking lemons doesn't come close to her expression.

Me: Go ask Jason to see the nuggets.

Heading into the kitchen, she sees Jason holding up the chicken fried steak he's making and Monkey promptly looks like she's going to puke.

Crazyman, still in his booster, banging his fork: AAAAAAOOOOOOHHHHHHH

Me: Never say die, Monkey, never say die.

Jason: Dinner's ready!

Monkey sits at the table and her shoulders hunch further in, completing the "my parents are such turds" folding herself in half, tween maneuver.

She eyes the food on her plate, willing the vomit to come and get her out of the whole scene.

Jason: It's chicken fried steak, Monk! Give me a break!

Me: giggling

Crazyman: AAAAAAAOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHH

Rosebetsey's Baby

Lately you may have noticed that I've been going off on tangents that involve zombies, shivs, Teen Wolf, air-punching, air-punching while watching Teen Wolf and so on.

For those of you who have read Rosemary's Baby or at least seen the movie, then you will understand why I've gone insane and have almost, just almost started eating raw, red meat and drinking a "shake" every morning.

Because when you give birth to the most adorable version of Satan's seed you go ape shit crazy.

And if you don't believe that Satan's seed part, I beg of you to lay your eyes on this grandiosity of magnificently, adorable freaking ornery:



Yeah! That tore it's way out of me like the Alien! And no, Peter Coyote was no where around when it happened.

My New Diagnosis

In the big ol' crap pot pie that is a Mid-West winter, it took me more than 3 times my normal commute time to get to work in blowing snow that was awesomely forecasted as "flurries". I was out of Diet Coke this morning and about 20 minutes into waiting to just get ONTO the highway I realized my cell phone was dead.

Rad.

Last night I was doing my usual flirtatious tango with sleep, complete with the rose in my mouth as sleep swept me and dipped me but didn't really whisk me away until I finally just willed it to come over me. As sleep and I did our dance of love, I was watching The Principal's Office on TRU. And let me just tell you, teenage boys are hormonal and damaged goods. What a bunch of tools.

My favorite moment came when one of the kids revealed that he had a disorder I'd never heard of but am completely familiar with. It's called Oppositional Defiant Disorder. And I'm totally familiar with this disorder because it's basically called being a teenager.

Symptoms of this behavior are:

• often loses temper
• often argues with adults
• often actively defies or refuses to comply with adults' requests or rules
• often deliberately annoys people
• often blames others for his or her mistakes or misbehavior
• is often touchy or easily annoyed by others
• is often angry and resentful
• is often spiteful or vindictive

See also: Betsey when she is drunk.

While I know my brother is wrought with this and my husband is pushing it into his 30's, I think I had this when I was a small child.

Some examples:

How about the time I annoyed my mom who told me not to drink the nail polish remover when I was like 2 but I did it anyway? Firemen and stomach pumping should be a staple at any good party, trust me. This also totally explains my ability to drink like a man. A big, huge, hairy man.

Or the time I totally proved my mom wrong about the correct use of Kleenex and threw an entire box of tissues into a candle in her bedroom? Again, I love a good fireman and pushing the envelope on 'renters insurance'.

And then when I was about 5 I had hair down to my butt and when my mother told me not to take the curling brush and wrap it in my hair, I totally won when I went ahead and wrapped it right in there... I twisted and turned until it was hanging about an inch from my head. Good times were had that day as I got repeatedly slapped in the head and told to sit still. Why my mom didn't shave my head, I'm still not sure.

Oh and then there was the time I wanted to play with my grandma's shaving cream in the bathtub and was told to be careful not to get it in my eyes, whatever. I proceeded to make myself the biggest, whitest, fluffiest beard you've ever seen and then really? Was the look complete without eyebrows? Oh hell no! And you know, no girl can have a beard without the full ensemble. So yeah, I took a big plop of it and stuck it right in my eye. My mom's laughter while I screamed was awesome and not at all a topic during later therapy sessions.

My favorite was when I was 8 and I got a pocket knife and was cutting a huge box to make it into a store to play in. My dad gave me the pocket knife and told me to be careful as he went to go take a shower. Two minutes later he was pretty annoyed by my wails and bloody hand. God, I showed him. Take that you showering, not watching the kid with a pocketknife Dad!

Hey!

Now that I think about it, I don't think I suffered from ODD as much as a case Darwinism and lack of parental supervision.

This also explains my ability to drink like a man, a big hairy man.

My Son's Deepest, Darkest Secret

Isn't this exactly the very thing that critics of mommy bloggers everywhere rail against? Telling your children's secrets on the internet and how they will hate you when they finally discover what you have done? Well have no fear, my husband and I don't so much have college funds set up as we do have therapy funds for our offspring. You can take that idea if you like. I think the insurance world is missing out on that one.

So my beautiful son has a deep, dark secret that has in turn become my deep, dark secret. I find myself avoiding writing about it and if I do have to tell someone about it, I do so through clenched teeth, while making excuses for him. On top of that, I make excuses to myself that his father did it until he was three, so it's genetic and not my shortcoming as a mother at all. Of course not.

My 19-month old MUST have a bottle when he wakes up in the morning and when he goes to bed at night. I know, I know, shut up. I feel you out there judging me and quickly clicking on the comments section to leave some well meaning advice, but please don't. I mean I could tell you how he is standing here next to me in his pajamas and winter coat with his hat on, but I won't. One secret a day is enough for anyone.

Crazyman drinks that morning bottle like it is his job. Like if he stops sucking for one instant before every last, little, sweet drop of milk is totally gone he will shrivel up and die. He struggles to breath through snotty noses to get to the bottom of that heavenly chalice. His first words each morning are "baba" and may the Lord have mercy on your soul if you don't produce it fast enough.

And yes, I've tried to stop it, but you don't know. If you utter the words 'no' and 'baba' in the same sentence the flood gates of hell rip open. If you say those two words in sentences that just follow another, his head spins and he tries to rip your face off. This is not a choice, it is a way of life.

So really, you must realize just how excited I was last night when suddenly my son decided that he could no longer drink his milk out of bottles with pictures on the side. This is a simple fix, I just give him one of the THREE bottles that we have that have no pictures of giraffes or Gumby on the side. Only the thing is at 19-months he isn't equipped to say "You know, Mom, I'm getting a little too mature for these cartoon characters to adorn my beverage. Could you kindly choose a more mature vessel for my sustenance?" No. What he is equipped to do is whine at length for his "baba, baba, MAMA BABA" and then swat the bottle with Glo-worm on the side out of my hand with only a scream and no worthy explanation. Many times I tried to give him his much loved baba and many times it flew across the room with grace and a splatter of the white stuff. Over and over he pointed to the cabinet and yelled "baba!" and gave a look that said "Woman, understand what I say, read my mind, I will use my baby Jedi mind tricks to make you jump off the roof!" And I tried, oh how I tried. Suddenly, as if God Himself spoke to me, it occurred to me and I put the milk in another bottle. And in that moment, I swear to you, I heard Heaven's angels singing in my ears. The roof of my kitchen opened up and God's Glorious Light shined down upon me as if I just pulled Excalibur out of the stone. I had won, even if it was only a small battle.

That was all fine and good until this morning my husband gave him that fucking Gumby bottle.

I will now be off to clean up the mess caused by fire and brimstone, which by the way, brimstone is a bitch to get out of upholstery.

Why Being Home With My Kids Rocks - Day 1

It's not even 11:00 am yet today and already Crazyman has had breakfast, a bath, a make-shift lunch, a handful of crackers, a cup of milk, a cup of water, half my Diet Coke (well, actually, his t-shirt got that, all over the front of it), a bite of sugar cookie and has ripped the rubber end off the door stopper 12 different times. Only to bring it to me each time and declare that it must be put back on NOW! He didn't use so many words but his body language was very clear. I didn't know that at 19-months his manual dexterity and middle finger could be so developed.

His sister has said "no, stop it" no less than 357 times. I told her if I heard the word 'no' again, then I would be saying it to Santa Claus myself as in "No toys for my kids!"

She then pouted and displayed her incredibly poor sitting posture on the couch. To which I reminded her that the song clearly says, "no pouting" I also added that I think it originally said, "No slouching" as well but was edited out later in the remix. She then edited me out by shutting down and glazing over in true tweentard fashion.

While putting away laundry this morning I very clearly heard this come out of the living room, "No buddy, we don't stick crayons up our nose." Quickly, I took the crayon out of my nose and started stomping and then threw myself on the ground and screamed. I was just about to declare that, "Nobody understands me!" and "You're all assholes!" when I suddenly realized she was talking to her brother.

It's amazing how quickly you give into the locals ways, isn't it?

Anyway, I've had one whole Diet Coke and 1/4 of a flat, shaken up and dumped out Diet Coke. I have one more in the fridge and I'm eyeing it but I'm also eyeing the bottle of vodka too, so that's not saying much.

With one kid down for a nap and the other wrapping up her presents for the family, I await my husband's arrival home from work.

He really should be sharing in all this Holiday Joy with me.

Don't you think?