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So Totally Not Even Funny
I hope everyone had a nice Turkey day. I spent mine watching my husband pull the neck of our turkey out of a carcass. Do you know what a carcass is? The butt. I think I’m going to become a vegetarian.
You know how else I spent my Turkey day? Vegging. I had vacation days from my real job and I all but forgot myself. You may have also thought I’d forgotten about this blog, too. And I didn’t, but when I veg, I veg hard wherein vegging hard means sleeping. A lot. Bags under my eyes I thought would need medical assistance to be removed all of a sudden disappeared with the modern medicine of slumber. So nice, those Z’s are, sometimes.
In the midst of my vegging, I cleaned some files from my Photography folder (which is getting obscene, let me tell you) when I happened on some gems I don’t know how I’d forgotten.
This deserves a back story. (Don’t most things?)
OK, see. It was Summer. And I’d just run a bath for the kids because it was hot, and they’d been outside, and when they returned they smelled like little puppies. It was an ugly scene.
I turn off the water, leave the room. ONE. MINUTE. I leave the room. I’m talking not even that one minute I just put in all CAPS. I mean half of that. OK? A blink. I tell my midgets to hit the showers because they smell worse than death and I’m only moments from selling them on e-Bay, that’s how bad they smell. And they skip off to the bathroom to do whatever little germy children do to disrobe. And I tell them to be quick about it because I’m dying of asphyxiation. Mooter is the first to come running from the water she should be in. I’m all ready to yell at her since this is my child who has the attention span of a gnat, and oh, look, here’s yet another example of her not listening to what I said even though she acts like she heard everything but I could have been one of the adult characters from Charlie Brown because that’s how she listens to people when they give her instructions. I see pigtails and big eyes barreling the corner toward me. “WHAT,” I’m yelling because I’m mad at my child with undiagnosed ADD. She’s all big-eyed and teeth and hair and out of breath, and I’m all SPIT IT OUT WOMAN, because, you know. Mad.
BO. IS IN. THE TUB.
I don’t know how many of you have dogs, but this is what happens to a dog when they don’t get water. Maybe I should rephrase. THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS TO A DOG WHEN YOUR HUSBAND FORGETS TO GIVE THEM WATER. They die small deaths of pain and suffering because THEY ARE THIRSTY. BFam. I’m lookin’ at you.
And now that he’s in here, do you see what I gotta do?
Now you made me give him a bath. And now he’s all surly and bitter.
And now he looks like a Chia Pet.
Great.
I Am Myoozgick [VIDEO]
November 24, 2009 by NaysWay · Leave a Comment
I Am Myoozgick
November 24, 2009 by NaysWay · 4 Comments
IDK, sometimes.
She’s three. I don’t expect much out of her. I guess that’s why she surprises me with some of the things she says. Things I wouldn’t expect to come out of the mouth of a three-year-old. During Mooter’s birthday bowling bash, the lunch was delivered and BFam was busy plating food for the littler kids. Booger’s going through this phase of independence where everything you try to do for her is met with, “I DO IT!” For some reason, she was having no parts of trying to plate her own food. We thought it a momentary relapse. Sometimes she likes to get lazy. Untied shoes make her fall over with exhaustion. Unwiped mouths bore her. Those are the things she expects you to take care of because *sigh*… Mommy, I too tyyyyyeyerrrrrrd. So BFam plated and passed the entree to Booger, not really ready to get into a pissing match with a toddler over the timing of her independence usage. “I no eet diss, Daddy,” she said, “iz deezgazting.”
Wait a minute. Did she just say something was disgusting? This kid, man. She tries to fool us all, but I know she’s working on her college dissertation in her room and covering it with demands for cake and chocolate.
It’s safe to say her knowledge of words and how to use them is more advanced than her years. Her new thing is spelling out words, then turning to you and asking you “whut duz dat say?” So she’s ready for her scholarship to Harvard, right?
Ladies and gentlemen… meet “music”:
Maybe it was a glitch. Maybe she’s tired. Maybe she’s cruisin’ for a butt whoopin’! The flips are a good indication of either a maniac or lethargy. It’s a toss-up but I’ll bet on lethargy. Let’s try it again…
Anybody know a good community college?
Do Not Try This At Home
November 23, 2009 by NaysWay · Leave a Comment
A friend of mine, and former colleague, visited our offices here in Cleveland recently. She’d left over two years ago for love, an Arts degree, and New York City. She came back with a baby. Sweet Georgia Brown, that baby. PUDGUM CITY, I wanted to squeeze every roll of that baby, she was so stinkin’ cute.
She stopped by my office and we chatted a while. She’s in the early stages of her 40′s, so she started the role of motherhood later than most (a.k.a. later than me, 24, *cough*). One of the questions that came up in our conversation was how different it was to just begin mothering at 40 compared to the 20′s or even the 30′s. Being that I have a few years experience under my belt, I honestly don’t see one kid as work and I told her as much. Now before anyone gets their panties in a bunch, let me just say I’m not belittling mothers of singular babies at all. I was a singular baby and I know raising a child, no matter how many you have, is work. But…
She continued by asking if she should ever consider having another; that having one seemed like enough especially at her age. I totally understood where she was coming from. I’m not her age yet, but I remembered looking at Mooter for a long time after she was born and thinking alright, that was nice. I can go to sleep now. I also told her that, while that feeling lingers for a while, you wake up one morning and while going through your shopping list, you all of a sudden write down “have another baby” like it belongs there because you’re not thinking and your hormones up and snatched your pen out of your hand and did the writing for you because that’s what they do. And you’re all, how did THAT get there, but then you go to the grocery store and a baby is all you can think about because that first one is getting older and losing that new baby smell, and you think, hey, that wasn’t so bad and I can probably do that again and, before you know it, you’re in the aisle for home pregnancy tests “just in case” and you don’t know how you got there.
Yes. It happens just like that.
So I think about all these things. And I weigh them in my brain, letting them marinate, swooshing them around until I let them fall out of my mouth. Because giving a friend advice about things that could ultimately change their lives forever is not something you want to play around with, and it’s not something you talk about casually. And, after a few moments, this is what I told her:
Don’t do it.
I don’t know why I told her that. That’s not what it sounded like swooshing around in the old medulla oblongata. And I went home with that answer, trying to understand why I said it. Then I thought of this:
Because that started off as this:
And this:
And this:
And they were fine. But, like I said, this:
Turned into this:
And I don’t quite remember how it happened. Did you see it? Because in the time it took you to scroll from the picture of calm before they were rolling around on the floor ready to kill each other, was how long it took.
And you can say that they’re kids, and all kids fight. And they’re siblings, and all siblings fight. And I would tell you that I totally get all these things you’re saying, but you’re leaving out one crucial element: they’re girls. Wait. I don’t think I said that right… THEY’RE. GIRLS. Do you understand now? No? OK, let me try it another way. They are girls. That will grow up. Into women. WOMEN! WITH HORMONES! AND MENSTRUAL CYCLES. AND HORMONES. And did I mention THE HORMONES.
And, wouldn’t you know it, my friend and her one kid? That one kid is a girl.
Oh. Sorry.
A GIRL!!!!!!
No, I have no idea why I told her that.
Bad News Bowlers
November 23, 2009 by NaysWay · Leave a Comment
I have very few men in my life. Of the very few are BFam and my stepdad. These two typically come together for family events – holidays, cookouts, and birthdays. And when they get together, either one of two things happen: sports talk or friendly competition.
This past weekend, a small group of family got together at the local bowling alley to celebrate Mooter’s eighth birthday. She couldn’t have been more excited because when you get three of her favorite things in one room – family, games and gifts – well, knock this kid over with a feather, why don’t you.
I’ve never taken seriously the saying that you marry your parent. Then I met BFam who is a mixture of my stepdad and my grandfather, all rolled into one personality. Even more odd, my mother and I began dating our respective future husbands around the same time. Married them around the same time. (And, no, before you ask, we did not do that on purpose.) So I was actually learning my stepdad at the same time I was learning my husband. The odds I’d end up with someone who showed similar characteristics to a man I’d have yet to know are… well, weird. Freaky, strange, OK, I’m going to lay down now-weird.
They both try to act like they’re not competitive.
That they’re the most laid back, easygoing, conflict-averting people you will ever know.
And that may be true.
But put a sport in their path…
… and have mercy.
Have you ever seen men quietly compete?
It’s the strangest thing.
They tell you they’re not competing. That this is just a friendly game.
Don’t. You. Believe it.
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