Big trucks, mud and beads, oh my

Ever heard of Muddi Gras? Not to be confused with Fat Tuesday, this celebration of all things redneck is basically a huge group of people driving their biggest and baddest trucks through a field of watered down cow crap for fun. Talk about some good times!

We went this weekend to join in the festivities. Located in the middle of no man's land, a small paper sign off the side of a very long road directed us into 200 acres of dusty fields with a designated mud area. On the way through the field toward the lineup where we were to sign our lives away in on mud-splattered release forms, I was watching the little pickup in front of us. I noticed that the guy driving was holding a long squeegee, which I knew from past experience was a good idea. We forgot to bring ours, and I reminded my husband of that. He moaned and groaned about it for a minute, then stopped short mid sentence.

"Ummm, Robin, I don't think he brought that for the mud."

"Whaddya mean?" Really, why else would he bring a squeegee with him, and how could my husband tell? He pointed ahead of us.

"I think he's using it as windshield wipers."

It was sprinkling rain, and he was indeed reaching out his driver's side window and swiping the rain from his windshield with a squeegee. Let the redneckiness begin.

We drove through hundreds of big trucks to find a place to park. We got a good spot, one row back from the muddy field where the fun would take place. We got the kiddos out of the car and stomped across to check out the roped-off area. This is what we saw:

Hell. Yeah. Now if you're one of those urbanite types who can't even imagine what anyone would do in a field of mud this size, let me show you.

That's right. We drive through it. Woooohoooooo! People get muddy. People get stuck. People fling mud on other people. Talk about some good times. It brings back memories of being a teenager in a small town, where drinking MD20/20 down by the canal and going muddin' were the only things to do on the weekend. Sometimes, if we really wanted to live it up, we'd drink while we were muddin'. That's what we did this weekend. We drank cheap beer from cans and slung mud all over the place. Our Bronco took a mud beating, but it sure was fun.

If you're wondering, "Why are the windows down?" then you wouldn't be the first person to wonder that. The thing is... so much mud gets flung on every suface of your vehicle that you literally can't see without the windows down. You're probably also wondering how you participate in this dirty little dance without coming out looking like you got spatter painted in poop. The answer is, you don't. You get muddy and dirty, and you drink enough beer that you don't really care.

We saw a lot of interesting things while we were there. The following picture is a golf cart frame on some really big tires. Look closely at the sign on the front. It reminded me of those old "bikini inspector" t-shirts that used to be popular with the beer-belly crowd. The guy driving the Tittie Patrol had a bucket full of Mardi Gras beads, and he was tossing them to all the girls in bikini tops who showed him a good bit of cleavage. It was shocking and fascinating all in one jacked-up package.
Speaking of jacked up, check these out.

Everyone loves a classic car on track tires.

This is about as redneck as it gets... camo paint and confederate flags. This was not the only truck like this we saw. Hard to believe, I know, but true.

Yep - that's a Camaro on tires taller than the girl sitting on top of it. That girl was flashing everyone that looked at her. It was loads of excitement not only for my husband, but for my teenage son. That's redneck porn for ya right thar.

We grilled. We got muddy. We took pictures of big trucks. We laughed at other people muddier than us. We tried to go to a concert in an adjoining field, but someone unzipped the sky and we got rained out, so we went home.

I can't wait to go next year. :)

Reason 467 that kids are soooo much fun

We went out for dinner after a school function last night. We decided to take the family to Outback. Not neccesarily a high-end restaurant, but with a family of 5 and my mom to boot, we expected to blow at least a hundred buckeroonies.

Let me just tell you, eating out with preschoolers is not always fun.

I'll give it to my kids, we were walking in the door at Outback around the same time they normally go to bed. Any parent of a preschooler knows that once they hit the point where they should have been in bed, one of two things will happen: they will get cranky, or they will get hyper. My kids tend to get hyper. While the hostess was finding a table big enough to hold my crew, the spawns of satan that I gave birth to started tearing apart the waiting area. I was in the bathroom "freshening up" while we were waiting, and when I came back, Abby was running laps on the bench in the waiting area, and Molly had emptied an entire bookshelf of kids books and had started on a tub of blocks. By the time I got that cleaned up and finished shooting some daggers at my husband (love you, honey), our table was ready.

One table over from us was a family who lives in our neighborhood. They have two sons, who are around 5 and 7. As soon as the boys saw us, they started yelling Molly's name. Molly is a sociable kind of girl. She's also a flirt. The next ten minutes were spent watching the two boys competing for the attention of my three year old which made my husband pull out his Papa Bear card and remind our little girl that boys are icky. He's hoping she'll wind up more interested in watching softball than baseball, if you know what I mean. We diverted Molly's attention with two words guaranteed to get the attention of any child: chocolate milk.

I asked the kids what they wanted to eat. Bryan, being a sulky almost-fourteen year old, declared that there was nothing on the menu worth eating. Seriously, kid? STEAK. Helllooooo?!? The girls knew what they wanted, and after 2.4 seconds, so did the rest of the people in the building.

"Chickens, chickens, I wants chickens, Mommy, chickens!"

"Macardoni and cheese! Mommy, mommy, mommy, mom, mom, mom, hey ma, hey ma, can I have macardoni and cheese?"

It had been a long day. I'd have fed them chocolate bon-bons for dinner if they'd be quiet, seriously. We ordered. They colored for a minute, then decided to make the crayons naked. Yeah, that's what they call it when they strip the paper off the crayons. Honestly, I'd rather see them undress the crayons than eat the crayons, so whatever. I was not, however, pleased when Abby started singing her naked crayon song.

"Nekkie, nekkie, crayons are nekkie, nekkie, NAKED!"

We got our food in record time (can't imagine why), and the kids decided at that instant that they were no longer hungry. Of course they did. If they ate at dinner, what would they use as an excuse not to go to bed when we got home? I gave them some more crayons to undress and dug into my steak.

Let me take a break in my horror story to tell you about my steak. Outback has a filet mignon that they put this horseradish crust on top of. It is slap-yo-mamma good. I'm serious. Try it.

I ate about four bites of my steak when the real fun began. Abby stood up in her highchair. I hissed "Sit down now," in my most serious mom voice.

"I can't. My booty hurts."

Abby is going through this weird phase where everything she says comes out in an outside kind of voice. She's loud. She's also cute, so people pay attention to her when she yells things. Heads turned toward our table. I asked what was wrong with her booty.

"I have to POOP!"

Oh, dear God, please let that have gone unnoticed. A quick glance around the room told me that it was definitely noticed. In addition to being loud, Abby also repeats herself a lot.

"I have to poop! I have to poop! Mommy, I have to poooooopy!"

I'm trying hard to potty train her, which is not so much fun. She has no interest in using the potty at home, but she feels the need to sit on every public toilet we get within a one mile radius of. Of course, I took her. Of course, Molly had to go, too.

Forty minutes later (I swear, I timed it), we returned to the table. There was an elderly man getting up to leave at the table next to ours. He leaned over to Abby and said, "Well, little lady, did you do your potty duty?" It might have been creepy, but he was like 110 and adorable, and he said it with a smile, so it wasn't icky at all. Abby smiled her brightest smile and answered him with a yell.

"No, I no pooped in the potty. I poop in mine pants!"

If you don't have kids and decide one day to take that turn toward masochism, remember this piece of advice. Do not EVER take them out to eat. Ever. Trust me on this one.

Stupid shower tricks

I had an experience last night that left me shaking my head. I walked into my bedroom in a search for Abby's stuffed kangaroo, and I heard the shower running in my bathroom. Knowing it was my husband, I opened the bathroom door to find the Roo Roo.

I bet you think you know where this is going. You're wrong, and I know you're wrong because nobody in the entire world could ever guess what happened next.

My husband said, "Hey, Robin, is that you?"

"No, I'm the cable guy, here to fix your cable."

"Hey, come here real quick I need to show you something."

Husband, in the shower... hmmm. I'm thinking he wants to show me a pimple on his butt or something, so I sighed and started to walk out of the bathroom. He called me back. "No, wait, really I want to show you something."

Oookay. I approached the shower cautiously and edged the curtain back so I could peek in. My husband was standing with his back to me, soapy from head to toe. He instructed me to watch. Watch what? Before I could ask, he farted. I jumped back, surprised.

"Did bubbles come out?"

WHAT? Oh my God. My husband did not just ask me to watch his soapy ass to see if he could fart bubbles.

Yes, he did.

I left the bathroom in a state of shock and walked back to the living room, abandoning my search for Roo Roo. My son saw me and asked what was wrong, and I told him. After he stopped laughing, he noticed my evil eye targeting him for destruction.

"Honnnneeeyyyy can you come here for a minute?"

"Seriously? So I can watch you try to fart bubbles again?"

"No, I really need something. Please?"

I looked at my son and said, "I swear on all things holy, if he farts bubbles at me again, I'm going to throw myself down a staircase."

I so did not want to walk back in that bathroom. It took all my courage to step halfway through the door and ask what he wanted. Thankfully, he wanted to know where his razor was. I got him one of those cool fog-free mirrors for the shower at Christmas, and it has a razor hook on it, but I took it off this afternoon to shave my legs in the sink. Hey, I was about to go in public in capri pants, and nobody wanted to see the forest on my calves without a quick balance-on-the-sink-shave.

I gave him the razor, had a conversation about whose razor it actually was (and it's mine! I bought it, and he stole it!), then left the bathroom. When I went back to the living room, I found my son standing guard at the stairs, hoping to prevent me from hurling myself to my death. Okay, so it probably wouldn't have killed me, but it would have guaranteed that somebody else would be cooking dinner for a day or two, and he surely didn't want that to happen.

I found the kangaroo and snuggled it beside my already asleep daughter in her bed. I stood looking at my beautiful little girl, wondering how in the world she could be the product of a man who tries to fart bubbles in front of his wife.

It's a good thing I love him.

Queen does Little League

I'm going to cheat a little with this today. I typed out a long story on a message board this morning, and I'm going to cut and paste it here. Forgive me if you're reading it a second time.



A couple of years ago, my son played little league, and ended up on this team of all the "leftover" kids. They didn't even have a coach, just a bunch of kids most of who had never even played baseball. One of the parents stepped up and offered to coach, and they started practices.
It seemed hopeless that they'd ever be organized enough to even play a game, much less win one. Those kids were determined, though. One of the kids started bringing a CD player to practices with him and playing Queen. They'd get all pumped up and try their butts off to be the best they could be.

I'm ashamed to say that most of us parents had prepared ourselves for the "you don't have to win to be a winner" speech, when lo and behold, they won their first game. We figured it was a fluke until they won the next game, and the one after that. Word started spreading between the other coaches. They tried to prove our misfit kids were cheating. There was no cheating, just a bunch of kids who believed in themselves.

The team had only lost one game that season. It was to a team that was tough, with tough kids and tough coaches. They intimidated all of us, including the kids. It was the last game of the season, and we were up against that team again. They had also lost only one game. This last and final game was for the championship. The kids were nervous for a week. They wanted so badly to win, but knew that this team could beat them, because they already had once.

I'll never forget what happened in the minutes before the game that day. The coach had them all in the dugout, giving them their pep talk. The kid with the CD player turned on "We Will Rock You" at a low volume while the coach was talking. Slowly and quietly throughout his speech, the kids started doing the stomp-stomp-clap. The coach, bless his heart, didn't discourage them. He turned the volume up louder and stomped right along with them. I've never seen a group of 10 year olds so excited in my life.

That game went into overtime, and we won it in the last few seconds. Every single one of us was jumping and screaming and cheering, so proud of the group of kids that everyone laughed at when the season started. Before they left the dugout to run across the field to give the other team their high-fives, someone turned on that CD player again. Every single one of us sang "We Are the Champions" at the top of our lungs, even the parents from the other team. It was one of those days that will be forever imprinted in my mind, and forever associated with both of those songs.

I learned two lessons from this experience. Never underestimate the power of music, and never ever underestimate the power of children.

Guns, mud tires and a good ass kicking - ah, the news.

My husband loves to watch the news. He'll turn on the 24 hour news channel and watch it all day long. I hate the news. It's sad and scary, and I know if anything really important is going on that he'll tell me the story, then I'll Google it and get the accurate story.

That might sound witchy, but hey... I never claimed to be nice. The thing is, as much as he loves watching it, he doesn't really pay attention. His mind goes off on tangents when he hears key words. For example, last night there was a story about who knows what, but they said the word "gun." This set off a chain reaction in his head.

"I want to get a right to carry permit."

Uh-huh. Right. We don't do guns in this house.

"We don't do guns in this house, remember?"

"I won't get a gun, just a permit."

And how does this make sense? I asked him what he was going to do with just a permit.

"Keep it for one day when I can get a gun."

Well now, that just doesn't make sense, does it? That would be like getting a giant set of mud tires and having no truck to put them on. He'd want a new truck. He'd look for every opportunity to get a new truck. He'd wish for a new truck every single day so he could use his new set of tires. I told him this, and he looked thoughtful for a minute.

"You are so smart, Robin. That's why I love you."

Any average person hearing those words would assume they got their point across. I, however, know my husband, and I know that's not what happened. There was no point made, just a new idea planted in his head. "You are not getting a new truck with giant mud tires, because you already have one of those."

"Awww, man. But it was a good idea!"

Men. Ugh.

Luckily, his attention is easily diverted. He went back to the news, and I went back to folding laundry. I got a full 2 minute reprieve before his next bright news-inspired idea struck.

"Look, honey, there's a women's self-defense class in Orlando next week. Maybe you should check it out."

"So I can kick your ass more efficiently next time you come up with some hairbrained idea?"

Hey. That's not such a bad idea. :)

I walked out on a family dinner tonight. I used the "have to potty" excuse and walked right out. It wasn't a special dinner, just the five of us having some pretty darn good smothered chicken and veggies, but something happened that made me step away from my children and husband for a minute.

Have you ever been in the middle of a day-to-day routine and suddenly seen it from a different perspective? I was in mid-chew of a delectable bite of home cooked goodness, trying in vain to ignore the conversation around me, when I had an out of body experience and saw my normal family dinner as something far less than normal.

Things started off a little wrong when I called my family to dinner. We're one of those families that sit down to eat every night (although after tonight's revalation, that may change). We pull up our chairs all "Leave it to Beaver" style and have conversations and everything. I should say we attempt conversation, because anyone who has been in the room with a preschooler for more than 30 seconds knows it's hard to get a word in, but that's a whole different story.

When I called the kids to come eat, Molly was nowhere to be found. I had to look for her for at least ten minutes before I heard her giggle. She's recently made herself a nest inside a giant rubbermaid container that was once (as in three days ago) a toybox. Don't even ask me where all the toys are, because I might be compelled to show you a picture of their bedroom, and that would not be pretty. So she was curled up like a kitten inside her plastic prison, covered in a blanket so I missed her the first few times I walked by. She knew I wasn't amused. I mean, come on - my cheese was sure to be ungooeyfied by now.

We finally got everyone to the table, and the chaos began.

"Eww, is that a green pepper?"
"Mommy, I pooped."
"I don't like green beans."
"Molly, your corn is not a phone. Hang it up and eat."
"I have to talk to Mimi."
"Tell Mimi you're about to get spanked."
"Mimi, I have to go eat now."
"Eat your meat - a chicken died to feed you tonight. "
"What's that smell?"
"Mommy, I pooped."
"Stop kicking me. Mom, she's kicking me."
"Don't stand in the highchair, because if you fall out and crack your head on the table leg it's going to bleed, and I'm not cleaning up blood tonight."
"What time's your carwash Saturday? I want to come help."
"You're not going to do the milkshake song are... stop kicking me."
"I poopied."
"Molly, don't you throw your fork on the floor again or you're going to be in trouble."
"Myyyyy milkshake brings all the boys to the yard..."
"Mommy, I'm not throwing my fork. The wind is taking it over to the floor."
"Something stinks in here. Is it this chicken?"
"Mommy, I have poop on my hand."
"Molly, if a tornado takes the roof off this house, picks your fork up and throws it across the room onto the floor, you're still going to be in trouble for throwing it down, and I'm not kidding."

That last statement was met with complete silence from every member of my family. I could see that my husband was trying not to laugh. I shot him a stink eye and mentally dared him to laugh. My kids all sat staring at me as if they were waiting for a straightjacket to suddenly materialize on my body.

"WHAT? What are you all staring at?"

Not. A. Word.

I calmly stood, said, "I'm going to the bathroom," and walked out of the room. I stood in front of the mirror plucking stray eyebrow hairs, thinking about what had just happened. Yes, I said plucking. What else was I supposed to do? I didn't actually have to go, and it was the longest I've been in a bathroom without company in two years. So anyway, as I was plucking, my thoughts naturally led to the President. I stood there *pluck* thinking, "If Dubya were here for dinner," *pluck* "what would he think of my family?" *pluck* Ow.

I leaned against the counter, ignoring the blob of toothpaste crawling towards my hip, and thought on it for a minute. I felt satisfied with my conclusion. I'm sure if the President met my family, he'd write me an advance presidential pardon for any criminal acts I should commit, ever.

Satisfied with my eyebrows, I moved on to removing my toenail polish. I balanced on the edge of the tub, anchored by the blob of toothpaste that had made its way to my butt, and started swiping my nails with a blob of acetone soaked toilet paper. My thoughts broadened a bit. "What if Dr. Phil were having dinner with us?" He'd like my chicken. Yeah, he would. It was good stuff. He'd probably have seconds before he looked at me and whipped out a "What are you, stupid?" He'd definitely fly us out to be on his show. That would be great, except I can't get through a 30 minute meal anymore without having a nervous breakdown, so how in the hell could I handle a plane ride with my family? Oh yeah - I'll hide out in the bathroom. I wonder if they would confiscate my tweezers.

I eventually made my way back to the table. They were all done eating, sitting silently in their chairs. I sat down, picked up my fork, and finished my chicken. I looked around the table and said, "What? Why are you all so quiet?"

My bad. That one simple comment opened the floodgates, and I forgot to blow up my raft.

"Are you okay, mom?"
"You went potty long time, mama."
"Honey, do you have diarrhea or something? You were in there forever!"
"Mom must have really had to poop."
"Mom, why are your eyelids red? Were you crying?"
"Mommy, you pooped?"
"Are you sure you're feeling alright?"
"What's that smell?"
"It's Abby. She pooped."
"Not that. It smells like acid or something."
"Maybe it's your breath."
"She kicked me the whole time you were pooping, Mom."
"What's for dessert?"
"I's still poopy."
"That tornado took my fork, Mom."
"Are you sure you're alright? Do you need some Immodium?"
"Is someone knocking on the door?"

Please, God, let it be Dr. Phil. Maybe he'll commit me.

True Colors

I was sitting at my kitchen table last night sorting mail while dinner cooked. The girls were playing in the living room with Daddy when Molly wandered into the room and sat down next to me. "Mommy, I'd like a new color on my hair."

Pretending to take her very seriously, I put down my stack of birdcage liners and said, "What color would you like to change it to?"


"I'd like.... ummm.... some maybe darker.... ummmm.... maybe some like black.... ummmm.... what color should I put on my hair?"

I explained to her that her hair was a very pretty color, and that she should leave it just like it is. She instantly came back with, "But you put on color sometimes."

Ahh, youth. My sweet three year old believes that I "put on color" because it's fun. There was a time when it was fun to change up my hair once in a while. Now I do it to avoid looking too much like my mother. I told her what any reasonable (graying) adult would have - that I have icky hair and have no choice.


I thought she accepted that answer, because she dissapeared back toward the living room. Of course, she came back. "Mommy, I have icky hair too, now can I put color on it?"

I'm not sure where she got the yogurt from, but it had a new home in her soft blonde locks. I took a moment to curse myself for buying banana yogurt. If only it had been blueberry, or even strawberry, then her goal of changing her hair color would have been accomplished, easily repaired at bathtime. I wiped gobs of banana goo from her head and sent her back to play.


Yes, she came back, this time holding something behind her back. "Mommy, I'd like THIS color."

Clairol Nice'nEasy #111, Natural Medium Auburn. I don't know why I bought that dye. I don't like that brand, and that hasn't been my color in two years. I contemplated letting her do it, then realized what a bad idea that was. I could picture my husband's face if he came in from work one day to find his older daughter a fiery redhead. It would be ugly. That actually made me pause to reconsider, but I shook it off and took the box. "No hair color."


"Awwwwww MOM." She says this now with a dramatic sigh and an eye roll, much like a teenager. In fact, I'm pretty sure that's where she learned it. I've been jaded to the whiny ways of children, and it does not affect me. This was a battle won for me and I was pleased, even if I was more than a little disturbed to be having the hair color battle with a three year old. A battle won is a battle won.


The thing about triumphing in a conversation with a child is that they find a way to win in their own nonsensical way. Were Molly a teenager, I'm pretty sure she'd have gone ahead and dyed her hair against my wishes. It's what I would have done.


Being a kid, she found a new way to even the playfield. She gave Abigail a marker. When I went to call my family for dinner, I found Abby sitting on the couch in nothing but a diaper, decorated in blue marker.


I stood silently, glaring at my daughters and husband (who was completely oblivious to what was happening, merrily reading a 4WD magazine). Molly spoke first.


"Abby wanted a new color on her skin. I helped."

Thank you, Crayola, for washable markers.


The score is 1-1.

My Mother's Day was interesting. I slept restlessly, so when my husband left for work at 7, I stayed in bed. I got up around 8, walked into my living room and stopped dead in my tracks. Have you ever just known that there was someone in your house that wasn't supposed to be there? Yeah, I had that feeling. I stood there with my heart pounding for a minute, then I screamed. I screamed loud. There was a half-naked hairy man sitting at my desk, using my computer, and it took me three lungfuls of screams to realize it was just my husband.


I suspect I know why he decided to take the day off in honor of me. It's because he forgot about Mother's Day until very late Saturday night, when his sister called to remind him to call their mom. Helllloooo, that's what he has me for - I would have reminded him. Granted, it would have been late in the day, but I would have reminded him.


Anyway, apparently he thought it was a good idea to take the day off to make up for the fact that he forgot. Okie dokie. It warmed my heart for a minute. Then the girls were up, hollering for breakfast, drinks, cartoons, a clean diaper and chocolate. An hour later, I had all of the above taken care of, minus the chocolate. Pffft. If I had chocolate, there's no way I would be sharing it with the rugrats.


Two hours, one poopy diaper, three toddler fight-to-the-death matches and two go-rounds about homework with my teenager later, I had truly forgotten that my husband was home. He wandered into the kitchen, scratching his belly and stretching (browsing eBay takes a lot out of a guy) and asked me, "What's for lunch?"


"A three decker sauerkraut and toadstool sandwich with arsenic sauce, dear."

"Isn't a toadstool like a mushroom? You know I don't like mushrooms."


Idiot.


I made grilled cheese sandwiches for the kids (all 4 of them). After my honey's tummy was all full, he got the bright idea to make lunch for me. That was mainly because he ate the grilled cheese I made for myself. Trying to play along, I went to change another dooky diaper and waited. Imagine my surprise when 3.4 seconds later, he brought me a plate. I'm not sure which smelled worse, the diaper or what was on the plate. Here's a pic.





That, my friends, is a pickled sausage sandwich, complete with fake cheese. The bite you see taken out of it was there when he set the plate in front of me. I eyeballed the sandwich, then eyeballed my husband. "So, how is it?"

"Eh. I'm glad I ate grilled cheese."

Are you kidding me? My husband would eat deep fried dog crap, and he thinks the sandwich (if you can really even call it that) is gross, yet he expects me to eat it? RIGHT. I'll hold out for dinner.

Fast forward through two more diapers, one argument about taking out the trash with my son, two incidents with markers, one broken glass cleanup and three phone calls. My husband went outside to look at my minivan's front left wheel. It's been making this noise every time I hit a bump like there's a chain wrapped around the wheel. I have to think that's a bad thing. Turned out it was nothing but a loose pin (only a man would think that was a good thing), and he fixed it. He went to take it for a test drive.

A few minutes later, I heard the front door open. "Hey, Robin, can you bring me one of those big trash bags? You know, the big ones?"

I pulled out a trash bag, walked to the front door and handed it to him, annoyed that he couldn't just come get it himself. I guess it was my aggravation that made me not really look at him, because I was a little shocked when I looked up a minute later to see him hopping, sack race style inside the trash bag, across the house.

"What in the hell are you doing?"

"Ummm I have some oil on me."

Some oil might have been an understatement. He looked like he has taken a sponge bath in the oil pan.

"What. Did. You. Do."

"Nothing, sweetie, it's fine. Just let me shower and I'll go clean up the mess."

Apparently, he had set a big kitty litter jug full of used motor oil on top of my van. We don't even have a cat, and he wasn't changing my oil, so why he did this to begin with is beyond my comprehension. When he drove the van away to listen for the chinking noise, he left it on top of the roof. My driver's side window was down. He hit a bump. It fell over and exploded, drenching the entire driver's side of my van with old, icky oil - including my husband and driver's seat.

I couldn't bring myself to take a picture. It was ugly. Very ugly.

He cleaned it up with some brake cleaner. It will probably eat a hole right through the butt of my pants the next time I drive somewhere, but there is no visible oil on my seat. Perhaps that was his plan all along - peekaboo pants.

It took all my energy to make dinner and bathe the kids, but I had something to look forward to after I got them in bed. I had lemon bars. Ooey gooey lemony goodness, sprinkled with powdered sugar. Yum. Half the pan was gone by the time I got one, and there were a few fingerprints in the ones that were left, but at least I had something special today, even if I did have to make it myself. ;)

Happy Mother's Day

I'd like to offer a Mother's Day salute to all the overworked, underappreciated moms I know.

This is for the mom who's been puked on so many times that she can vividly describe the stomach contents of children by the month up to age 4.

This is for the mom who passes by the cute ruffled socks and buys the bulk pack of plain whites to save herself the headache of hunting all over the house for two socks that match.

This is for the mom who makes use of the drive-thru and doesn't feel guilty (much) about feeding the kids dollar menu once a week.

This is for the mom of "normal" kids, who wonders if the rest of the juvenile population of the world is really as exceptional as their parents believe.

This is for the mom who is heartbroken that her kids are growing up and don't need her quite so much anymore.

This is for the new mom and the mom-to-be who are scared that they won't know the right things to do.

This is for the mom who has a child with special needs and tries her damndest to help him be a normal kid.

This is for the mom who stays up all night worried that a fever will skyrocket again.

This is for the mom who tries to help her children see love and peace in spite of circumstances in their lives that could teach them something very different.

This is for the mom who hugs her children when they ask if Daddy's ever coming home.

This is for the mom who faces her own mortality before her kids are grown and gone.

This is for the mom who has faced the loss of a child.

This is for the mom who's not a mom, but a dad, doing the best he can to be everything to his kids.

This is for the mom-at-heart, who never had a child of her own and cries every Mother's Day.

This is for all the moms who love their children, who see the world in a different way because they have the love of a child to warm their hearts. Happy Mother's Day to all of you. You each make the world a better place in your own unique way. Keep up the good work.



I started this blog today with humor in mind, and somehow it turned into something much different, at least in my own heart. I know each of these mothers, and I admire every single one of them. You really truly are what makes the world go round, maybe not in the big scheme of things, but at least for your children. Love you guys.

WTH?

I was outside with the kids a few minutes ago and saw something odd. Some people in my neighborhood have been slowly moving in over the last week. Today, they are unloading a U-Haul trailer. I watched them carrying bed rails, lamps, boxes and bags full of clothes back and forth. Then they unloaded something that stumped me.

Yes, that is a nutcracker. A very BIG nutcracker. To give you a little perspective, here's a picture with a human in it.

Now seriously, what in the hell are they going to do with that? I thought of a few possible scenarios for the use of a giant nutcracker.

1. It's a holiday decoration. This is clearly the most likely use for a giant nutcracker. I can't help but wonder what they do with it the rest of the year, though. I can't imagine opening my closet (or attic or anything else) and seeing that thing staring at me. Creepy.

2. The woman is a ballet dancer, and likes to perform her own version of The Nutcracker Suite at home. I'm okay with this idea, unless she does it outside and/or tries to sell tickets around the neighborhood.

3. They eat a lot of really big nuts. I'm sure somewhere in the world there are nuts to match this cracker, maybe in the Amazon. Oooohhh, maybe it's a coconut cracker! Yep. I bet that's it.

4. It's more fun than a blow up doll. Hey, I've heard of stranger things.

5. They sell clothes on eBay and use it as a mannequin. If that's the case, I can't imagine they sell many clothes. I mean really, who wants to look like a nutcracker?

6. It's a big plot to confuse the neighbors. Hey neighbor - it worked.

If you happen to be my new neighbor and you happen to run across this blog, then welcome to the neighborhood. Feel free to stop by anytime and let me know what the hell you're planning on doing with Mr. McNutcracker. Next week I'll stop by with cookies. I'll put lots of nuts in them for you.

Swearing with toddlers

I took the girls shopping with me yesterday afternoon. I generally try to avoid doing that, for several reasons. Not only do they annoy me in the store, but they want everything they see. We've developed a system where they each get to choose one thing in the store that's not on the list. It works for us all - they get a treat, I get to do my shopping without 45 meltdowns.

Yesterday, they decided in the parking lot that they wanted marshmallows and gummi bears. I love it when they do that, because I don't have to wander around and let them decide what to choose when we're inside. It's in the door, get the food, get the goodies and out.

I hate grocery shopping.

So we got the food, got the goodies and headed for the register. On the way to pay, we passed the bakery. I don't stop in the bakery. I'd like to think it's because of my awesome sense of willpower that helps me resist the pastries and breads. The truth is, I don't want to have yet another conversation about why we aren't buying a birthday cake. It usually starts with, "Mommmmmyyy I want that cake!" That statement is followed by frantic pointing and squealing, which is followed by a discussion of when each and every family members' birthdays are. It's just easier to avoid going anywhere near the evil cake section.

This time, they had a display set up in the aisle with clear clamshell boxes full of cookies. These weren't your garden-variety chocolate chip cookies. They were beautifully molded butterfly cookies, sprinkled in pink and yellow sugars. Both girls stopped squabbling with each other mid-sentence to ooh and ahh over the cookies.

I was oohing and ahhing over the cookies. They sure were pretty.

Of course they asked. Of course I didn't say no. Who can pass up sugar coated butterflies?

We took our treasure with us to the register. I loaded up the belt and waited for the cashier to ring everything up. Damn, did it take her forever to ring up my stuff. I can always tell which cashiers have kids, because they do it in record time. They know that the shelf of stuff next to the register is way too tempting for a three year old. So anyway, this lady was slllloooooowwwww. Molly was standing quietly, pulling in and out the little table thing that folds into the side of the conveyor belt area.

"Mommy, what's this?"

"It's for people in wheelchairs to use when they need to write a check."

"Can I have a pen?"

Hell no, you can't have a pen. Are you kidding me? The last time I gave one of the girls a pen in the store to entertain them, I had to buy three boxes of Triscuits with pretty pictures on them because I turned my back to look at vanilla wafers. No pens allowed.

"No, Molly, that's only for handicapped people to use."

"Bryan said I'm handicapped." Oh, no. No she did not just say that. The lady behind me in line stifled a chuckle, and the cashier stopped what she was doing to study my daughter for a minute. No, please don't stop. Scan. SCAN!

Sometimes the best thing to do is ignore comments like that in public. I rolled my eyes and got out my wallet. Bryan will pay for that one. Thankfully, her attention refocused almost instantly on the cookies that were moving past her on the belt. "Ohohohmommycanwehavecookiesinthecar? Canwepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease?" Yes, anything to shut you up. Anything.

Finally free from the stares of people clearly trying to gauge the level of my daughter's non-existent disability, we loaded up the car. I opened the cookies to give them each one, and realized I had made a mistake.

The backs of the cookies were dipped in chocolate. Uh-oh.

Being a mom of my word, I made a mental note to check for stain remover when I got home, and I handed over the cookies. Abigail is one of those kids that can get sticky-icky eating a cracker, so I mentally braced myself for what would happen with a chocolate dipped cookie. Heading for home, resigned to my fate, I got about a half a mile down the road before I heard a gasp from the backseat.

"Holy crabby patties, there's chocolate everywhere!"

I'm not sure if my reaction came from the shock of hearing my tiny daughter screaming a sort-of obscenity, or if it came from the fear of what "everywhere" meant, but I instantly pulled over and turned around to look.

Holy crabby patties, indeed. If you look up "everywhere" in the toddler dictionary, you'll find the following definition:

eve·ry·where (ev-wee-wawe) :
1. on or in every possible surface, nook, cranny or orifice within a one block radius of a toddler
2. spread so thoroughly that you'll be finding bits of it for the next decade
3. seriously, everywhere

All I could do was drive home. It was only another mile. I called my husband. "Honey, I'm on my way home. I'll be there in approximately two minutes. I need help, so please be waiting outside." He must have thought I was going to drive a flaming minivan up to the house, because he was outside and had my door open before I put the car in park.

"What's wrong? What can I do? What do you need help with?" I just pointed behind me. I think he'd rather deal with a flaming engine than two chocolate coated toddlers. I looked at him, expecting to see laughter in his eyes, because he always finds things like this a lot more humorous than I do. Instead, I saw terror.

"Is that.... omigod I'm scared to ask, but is that... POOP?"

I couldn't pass it up. I just couldn't. I nodded.

He groaned. He moaned. He unbuckled Abby's carseat. He gagged and nearly threw up when she tried to give him a bite of her now soggy and chocolate soaked cookie, which greatly resembled a turd at this point. I thought he was going to faint from relief when he realized it wasn't poop.

The good thing about this experience is that I learned a new swear word from my kid (holy crabby patties, Patrick!). The bad news is that they won't be getting any more of those cookies. Wait, maybe that's good news - at least for me.

Ewwww.

My husband said something disgusting to me last night. I know, shocking. This man has no shame about anything. Bodily functions are fair game in his world, no matter who is present. He's icky. I'm so lucky.

So he was sitting on the couch, picking at his armpit. I was in the middle of cooking a gourmet meal of spaghetti and frozen garlic bread when he wandered into the kitchen, one arm over his head. He hept alternating between scratching the exposed pit with the opposite hand and trying to look at it. Caveman, I'm telling you - and I'm talking early caveman, when they were one step from monkeys. I asked him what he was doing. Oh, how I wish I hadn't.

"If I get you a razor blade, would you lance something off for me?"

Huh? "I'm sorry, honey. My medical license expired yesterday. If you had only asked me last week. What the hell do you need lanced out of your armit?"

It's called a lance, helllloooooo.

"I don't know, it's like a bump or something."

A bump that requires lancing with a razor blade. Riiiiigggght. That's going to happen.

My husband is constantly cutting at himself with razor blades, not in a tickle me emo way, just in a stupid man way. He used my callous shaver a couple of months ago to shave some dry skin off his elbow. Word of advice: don't ever try that. It bled for an hour and took weeks to heal. Even after losing a bucket of blood and not being able to rest his elbows on the table for a month, it still seemed like a good idea to him to try it again.

"But look at all the new, fresh skin on my elbow! It's so nice. I need to do the other one now that it's healed." Fresh new skin is not the same as scar tissue, hon.

I've caught him trimming his toenails with an exacto knife more times than I can count. We have approximately 147 pairs of nail clippers in my house. Granted, 146 of them are hiding out with all the missing socks in house purgatory somewhere, but still - we have clippers. The thing about his toenails is that he likes to cut them really short. Shorter than he can get them with clippers. He's obsessive about it. If you're wondering, "Doesn't he ever cut himself with the exacto knife?" the answer is yes. Yes, he does.

He's a smart guy most of the time, but good grief - put him in the same room with a razor blade of any kind and someone's coming out bleeding. I keep getting rid of them, and he keeps bringing more home. I purged the house of all blades one day, and he found my scissors and used those. That was a bad cut.

I assume it must be a genetic mutation attached to his y chromosome that causes him to do things like shave his elbows and pick his nose in public. Aside from becoming a genetic scientist, targeting the abnormality and blasting it into gene heaven, I suppose there's not much I can do. I'll just keep a box of bandaids in the house and pretend like I don't know him in public. It's a good thing I love him.

If he had as much common sense as he did love for the razor blade, well.... maybe he wouldn't love a razor blade so much.

$4 corn dogs and a moonwalk - oh, the joy

We went to a festival in my hometown yesterday. It was a combination of a BBQ contest, a biker rally and some local blues bands, all set up at the lakefront park. We have several local bike clubs, as do most towns, so there were quite a few motorcycles to be seen. The air smelled of smoked meat, there was beer flowing freely, and there was music blasting. It was nice.

When we got there, we took a quick walk-through to see what was going on. Molly sniffed the air and immediately said, "My tummy is rumbling." Yeah, sweetie, so's mine. We decided to check out some bikes first, and on the walk between the food and the bike parking, I saw the coolest thing ever. It was a refrigerated beer truck with taps coming right out the side of it. How I didn't get a picture, I have no idea. Anyway, I watched in awe as some chick in a Bud t-shirt poured ice cold draft right from the side of the truck.

I asked my husband, "Hey, do you think we can have one of those installed right on the front of the fridge?"

"They make refrigerators for that. They're called kegorators."

"Yeah, yeah, I know about kegorators. I want that truck. We could just park it right in front of the house and have a constant supply of beer."

He looked at me like I had lost my mind. "The neighbors would steal our beer if we did that."

Really, that's the best reason you can think of not to buy the Budweiser truck? I really need to learn to see things from a male point of view. Life would be so much easier.

We moved on to the bike parking area. Rows and rows of shiny machines sat before us. My husband, who has recently joined the ranks of the two-wheeled terrors, was in heaven. He was pointing out things that I can't even tell you about, because I have no idea what in the hell he was talking about. I wasn't seeing makes, models and spark plugs (do bikes even have spark plugs?), I was only seeing this:

Oh, look. It's Joe Dirt's motorcycle. Bryan asked me what the wig was doing on the bike.

"Shhhhh it might be sensitive about it's bald spot. Don't point it out."

That made sense to him. Man-logic is a lovely thing.

The coolest bike we saw looked an awful lot like a tricycle, made obvious by the tricycle parked right next to it. Want to see?

Cool. A Radio Flyer with spark plugs (I think).

We wandered back toward the BBQ area to get some lunch. Have you ever wondered what a $4 corn dog looks like? I'd show you a picture, but it was gone before I could get the camera turned on. Seriously, it was like a 3 bite corn dog. Four buckeroonies. Wow. I asked how it was. Apparently it was exactly like "those ones, you know the really good ones, the ones you buy in Wal-Mart in the frozen food section." Yeah, the ones that are $4 for a box of 12? Interesting.

We got BBQ. Of course we got BBQ. I think because I've typed the word BBQ so many times (and the fact that I actually took a picture of a sandwich) that I'll show you a picture. Presenting, my beef brisket sandwich.

It was good. Real good. I bet it was even better than the corn dog.

The advertising for the festival promoted a "Kid Zone," which the girls were excited about that. I'm sure they expected rides. I expected rides, games, something to entertain the little monsters for a few minutes. What we got was a moonwalk. Ok, no biggie. For $5 each, the girls got a bracelet that they could use the whole time we were there to bounce themselves silly. Sounded like a good deal to me, even given the fact that the guy in charge of it was trying hard core to rent me one for a party I hadn't planned yet. I told him I'd consider it after I bought the Budweiser keg truck.

My kids love to bounce. They jump on the couch, the bed, the little trampoline, the seats in the car while I'm trying to buckle them in, each other - they are bouncers. It never even crossed my mind that either of them wouldn't love the moonwalk. Abby didn't. She sat close to the side, clinging to the net like she was imprisoned until I finally coaxed her close enough to the opening so I could get her out without having to crawl inside. Hey, at least the moonwalk episode lasted longer than the corn dog.

We were hot. We wanted to go home. Molly wanted to bounce. We let her bounce for an hour, then we bribed her with a milkshake to get her out of the moonwalk. She asked if she could bring her friend, a very cute little boy (oh, I'm in for trouble with that one). As if I would have said yes and hauled him off to my car, his mother came rushing over, yelling "No, no, no, Cody, you can't go with them." Ok, crazy lady. Believe me, I don't need another toddler in my house.

We left and hit up the McDonald's drive thru for frozen dairy sustenance. We took a drive while we ate our ice cream, trying to find the shortest route to the high school. Yeah, I could have mapquested it, but it's fun to take a family drive sometimes, especially when there's ice cream involved.

Even the ice cream was happy.

The following blog will be a record of interruptions.

Today is Saturday, and my husband is home. I've been trying to get some things done on the computer, and it's not going well. I started another blog, but I can't get further than a few lines into it because my family is running wild around me. About every third sentence, somebody is screaming the dreaded "M" word. MOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMM!!!

There it is now.


Interruption #1

"Mommy, I pushed a toothpick inside the couch. We're gonna have to take it apart to find out where it is."

Super. This means the next time I try to take 5 minutes to relax on the couch, my butt will be impaled by a wooden toothpick.

Wow. That's all I got typed before the next round.


Interruption #2

"Bryan's being mean to me."

Wah. Let me get out my violin. In my daughters' eyes, Bryan walking into a room without squealing and jumping up and down constitutes his "being mean" to them. On the rare occasion that he actually is mean, they don't come to me - they run crying to their room.


Interruption #3

"Honey, I'm going for a bike ride."

Seriously? He complains on a daily basis about riding his motorcycle to work, but on the one day when he's supposed to be spending some quality time with the kids (translate: keeping them out of my hair) he wants to go for a joyride. I chose to not acknowledge that comment. He's standing over me, probably wondering what I'm thinking. Most likely he's thinking about hot dogs or Pac Man or something equally irrelevant to the topic at hand.

"Ummmm I'll wait until later."

Hmmm. Maybe he was reading over my shoulder.


Interruption #4

"I love you, Mom."

Some people would wonder how I can see that as an interruption. When a 13 year old approaches you with a stack of papers in his hand and throws out the "L" word, he wants something. I'm no fool. I know that was not a "You're a super mom" love you. It was a "I need $500 for football equipment" love you.

Ahhh, it was a request to go to 15 different stores and spend God knows how much money for the perfect pair of cleats. That sounds like a fun Saturday, right?


Interruption #5


"Mommmmmyyy I don't like Emily Yeung, I want Daniel Cook!"



Molly has a crush on this kid that does little 5 minute shows on the Disney Channel. He goes and does exciting things like visiting a karate studio and doing some Jackie Chan moves, playing with bugs at a science museum and so on. When Molly was about 2 1/2, she told me she wanted to marry him. Cute, right?


So Daniel Cook is getting older, and has moved on to soup commercials or something equally exciting, and has been replaced by Emily Yeung. Apparently, Molly has no desire to marry a cute Asian/American girl. She's devastated at the loss of Daniel.



Interruption #6

"Honey, do we have bread?"

Do you see bread in the kitchen? The bread is always in the same place. Our kitchen is Lilliputan sized, and there aren't that many places to look. There is no bread.

"Well, you went to the store."

Oh, no he didn't.


He better be glad for Interruption #7

"Mommy, Molly has mine makeup."

Abby, you don't have makeup. This one's for Daddy. I can hear the yelling from here.


Interruptions#8 & 9, simultaneously

"Honey, do we have any nail polish remover?"

"Owwwww there's a toothpick stuck in my BUTT!"




This is going to be a long day.

Agent J for Prez

I was joking the other day with a friend about writing his name in on my ballot in November, and it made me think about who would be a good write-in for the presidential vote. I know that not all states even allow write-in votes, but let's pretend for a minute that we have the freedom to elect whoever we please.

I'm not a politcally savvy person. I don't keep up with who supports what and platforms and... well, I don't even know the correct terminology, so I won't pretend that I do. My method for voting comes down to frantic research within the last few days before an election. It might not be the best way, but it's my way. Don't tell my husband or kids, though - they think I know everything. My lack of expertise in this area led me to some interesting conclusions about who would make good candidates.

I'd like to take this opportunity to present to you my choice for write in candidate for the 2008 presidential election.

Agent J. We've never had a president this cool. My reasons for choosing J are many.

1. He runs fast. That might not seem like a good reason to some, but the way I see it, if he ever travels to the Middle East and catches a glimpse of Osama Bin Laden, he could damn sure catch him.

2. He has fantastic weapons. The country could save zillions of dollars a year on Secret Service, because he can just whip out his big guns and take care of any potential threat all by himself.

3. Any guy who can make a plain black suit and sunglasses look so darn good deserves some kind of special recognition. Clearly, our standards for the role of president are not all that high right now, so this reason alone might just be enough to secure millions of votes.

4. He has a kick-ass running mate. I mean, really, who doesn't love a talking dog?

5.He has a neuralyzer. That's the flashy thing with the red light that erases memory. If I had a flashy thing, I'd be the best at everything, because anytime I screwed up I could erase memories and call do-over. It's the ultimate power.

6. He's got the whooooole world, in his hands......

7. Agent J clearly has a handle on problems with illegal immigration.

You may not agree with my choice for the leader of our people. It wouldn't be the first time that someone disagreed with me, and it surely won't be the last. For those who aren't quite yet ready to write in Agent J, let me make one more point that will surely convince you. This one is a demonstration. I need you to look right here at this red light......

The age of (the loss of) innocence

My son will be in high school in the upcoming school year. He made a decision a couple of months ago that he definitely wanted to play football for the school. Given the fact that he could probably easily land a job manning the door at any nightclub, football is a good choice for him. He's been psyching himself up for it for a while now, and he's been so excited he practically buzzes all the time.

Tonight the school offered sports physicals in the gym. We went, filled out all the paperwork, and waited in a line that rivaled Space Mountain at noon on a Saturday in August. They had the basic stuff broken up into stations, all of which were manned by the cheerleading squad. Peppy, cute girls took his weight, then sent him to another group of peppy cute girls who measured his height, which was six feet even. How the hell did my teeny baby get that tall in 13 years?

Anyway, the height squad sent him over to the vision check. It was obvious that my son fell in instant smittenness with the vision girl. She giggled and cocked her head and touched his arm. The whole time I wanted to yank her arm behind her back and yell in my pissed-off-mom voice, "Do you UNDERSTAND that he is THIRTEEN?" I refrained from inflicting any injury on the eye chick and went to sit on the bleachers and wait.

He went through a few more checkpoints, then took a seat to wait and see the doctor. While we were waiting, he was scanning over the physical form. "Uh, mom?" I glanced over at him to see his eyes wide, focused on the paper. My eyes followed his pointing finger to the checklist.

#13) Male genitalia

"Ummm, what does that mean?"

Not only have I never had a sports physical (I'm smart, not athletic), but I also possess no male genitalia of my own.

"I have no idea. I'm sure it's nothing."

Wrong-O.

He eventually was called back to see the doctor. I waited patiently, reliving a little of my own high school years as I absorbed the sights and sounds of the gym that I hadn't set foot inside of in over 15 years. I heard the door crash open and looked up.

My son stood in the doorway, shaken and pale except for the crimson spots on both cheeks. His left eye was twitching, and his eyebrows were raised so high it looked like Botox gone wrong. He walked awkwardly toward me, grabbing all the paperwork off the bleacher seat and heading for the exit.

"How did it go?"

"Fine."

"What did they say?"

"Nothing."

"So tell me about it."

"No."

Oooookay. I let it go and we walked back across campus to the parking lot. I snuck a glance at my son, and he was walking with his head down, making his bulldog frowny face. Uh-oh. I let it go, assuming that he would tell me what happened when he was ready.

We got in the car and shut the door. He sat quietly, with his chin on his chest until we pulled into the drive-thru at the Taco Bell.

"You ok?"

"Mom, I just lost my virginity to an old man with a stethoscope."

I couldn't really speak, because my lower jaw was resting comfortably somewhere near the brake pedal.

"Mom, he... well, he.... *shudder* he squeezed my balls."

I started laughing. I couldn't help it. The sound just burst out of me.

"No, it gets worse. While he was.... doing that... he made me COUGH. Oh my God, Mom. I never thought the first person to touch that stuff besides me would be some old guy wearing a souvenir shop t-shirt and a lab coat."

I couldn't even order his crunchwrap supreme because I was laughing so hard.

He just shook his head, staring at his lap in shame. "You just don't understand. I feel so violated."

Sweetheart, I've had three children. Let me give you a little lesson on violation of the genitalia.

On second thought, I'll leave that discussion for his wife to deal with in the future. Maybe he'll hook up with the eye chick and they can have a few children who will, someday, be violated in the same gruesome ways.

Go Bulldogs!