It’s Earth Day so here are some pictures of my kids outside.

Last weekend Rowan and I decided to try our luck at container gardening so we picked up a few pots, some soil and a variety of seeds whose packages promised us they would grow- Even at the murderous thumbs of me, who seem to kill green things just by showing up in the same room. Yesterday Rowan ran in from our little deck where we had lined the plants up and said, “Mom! I just haved the most FABULOUS idea.” And before I could inquire what it was, or correct her grammar like the asshole I am, she grabbed this book, ran out to the deck and started reading:

An avid reader (read: memorizer) of all things Frog and Toad.

The story she read to our little plants was, of course, The Garden, wherein Frog gives Toad some seeds to start a garden and Frog plants them and impatiently awaits their arrival. I know she’s my kid so I’m incredibly biased, but it was the cutest dang thing you ever did see. So cute that I thought: I shall get my phone and record this for all the internets to see how superiorly adorable my girl-child is. And it IS a really cute video, except right in the middle of it Keaton had to use the bathroom so I told him to go ahead and go. Only I didn’t realize the bathroom door was closed and (THANK GOD FOR SMALL FAVORS) he still can’t open our doors. So out comes Keaton to let me know he can’t get in, but he’d already undressed so he was butt nekkid from the waist down, wiener hanging in the wind, for all the world to see right in the middle of the adorably cute scene.

Now the video went from cute to hilarious but not exactly for internet consumption. My son will, I’m sure, have to forgive me for a lot of things but I’m not sure if posting his wienerhausen on the internet would be one of them. So we’re just keeping it to our friends and relatives to be safe. And probably future prom dates. We’ll wait and see how much he pisses me off as a teenager before I make that decision.

"NOW SEEDS, START GROWING!"

Our half a tree is full of pink buds, ready to unfurl into white blossoms any day now. This is very exciting, as the week or two it flowers is the only time this Stepford neighborhood looks appealing to me.

The biggest hit of this spring has been taking the shopping cart out to buy dandelions.

I am FILTHY RICH in dandelions. Try not to be envious.

Rowan, pickiest of picky eaters, surprised me by not only trying cantaloupe but using it as her main form of sustenance the last week.

We've already hit up almost all of the local parks, and the kids have played really great together- a huge change from last fall when they would dart in different directions leaving me to tend to one while praying that the other wasn't being kidnapped or dangling precariously off playground equipment.

So we're rocking spring and loving that it came a few weeks early this year. As Rowan says, "We're pretty lucky to have a earfh".

Keaton thinks so, too.

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It's Earth Day so here are some pictures of my kids outside.

Last weekend Rowan and I decided to try our luck at container gardening so we picked up a few pots, some soil and a variety of seeds whose packages promised us they would grow- Even at the murderous thumbs of me, who seem to kill green things just by showing up in the same room. Yesterday Rowan ran in from our little deck where we had lined the plants up and said, “Mom! I just haved the most FABULOUS idea.” And before I could inquire what it was, or correct her grammar like the asshole I am, she grabbed this book, ran out to the deck and started reading:

An avid reader (read: memorizer) of all things Frog and Toad.

The story she read to our little plants was, of course, The Garden, wherein Frog gives Toad some seeds to start a garden and Frog plants them and impatiently awaits their arrival. I know she’s my kid so I’m incredibly biased, but it was the cutest dang thing you ever did see. So cute that I thought: I shall get my phone and record this for all the internets to see how superiorly adorable my girl-child is. And it IS a really cute video, except right in the middle of it Keaton had to use the bathroom so I told him to go ahead and go. Only I didn’t realize the bathroom door was closed and (THANK GOD FOR SMALL FAVORS) he still can’t open our doors. So out comes Keaton to let me know he can’t get in, but he’d already undressed so he was butt nekkid from the waist down, wiener hanging in the wind, for all the world to see right in the middle of the adorably cute scene.

Now the video went from cute to hilarious but not exactly for internet consumption. My son will, I’m sure, have to forgive me for a lot of things but I’m not sure if posting his wienerhausen on the internet would be one of them. So we’re just keeping it to our friends and relatives to be safe. And probably future prom dates. We’ll wait and see how much he pisses me off as a teenager before I make that decision.

"NOW SEEDS, START GROWING!"

Our half a tree is full of pink buds, ready to unfurl into white blossoms any day now. This is very exciting, as the week or two it flowers is the only time this Stepford neighborhood looks appealing to me.

The biggest hit of this spring has been taking the shopping cart out to buy dandelions.

I am FILTHY RICH in dandelions. Try not to be envious.

Rowan, pickiest of picky eaters, surprised me by not only trying cantaloupe but using it as her main form of sustenance the last week.

We've already hit up almost all of the local parks, and the kids have played really great together- a huge change from last fall when they would dart in different directions leaving me to tend to one while praying that the other wasn't being kidnapped or dangling precariously off playground equipment.

So we're rocking spring and loving that it came a few weeks early this year. As Rowan says, "We're pretty lucky to have a earfh".

Keaton thinks so, too.

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I know I could just throw it all away, but let’s not be hasty here…

Let me introduce you to the new bane of my existence:

Internet, Treat Jar. Treat Jar, Internet.

 

I know it looks small and innocent enough but Treat Jar holds a deceptively large amount of goodies, all acquired by a little turtle and fairy a few nights ago. Awhile back, when I was a new, naive mother, I purchased this Jar (which is really not a jar at all, more like a canister but we shall call it a Jar because I am queen of this blog and I say so) in the hopes of doling out special treats once in a while for potty training purposes, special occasions, and rewards for good behavior. Treats that my children would be ever so surprised and so sweetly grateful to receive. What I didn’t envision was this:

Keaton: Treat?

Me: Silly! It’s morning time! Maybe we’ll have a treat after lunch.

Keaton: Treat?

Me: Keaton. It’s 7:07 AM. Let’s eat some yummy oatmeal.

Keaton: Treat.

Me: Treats can hurt your tummy if you don’t eat a healthy breakfast first, Bubba. Oatmeal’s almost done!

Keaton: Have a Treat?

Me: (Getting irritated and fresh out of responses that don’t include ‘No’.) No. No treat.

Keaton: (Crosses arms indignantly and furrows Brow of Fury.) TREAT! HAVE IT!

Me: (Shoots one-year-old stern Angry Mama Face, places hands on hips. Turns head away slowly, but only after I am certain Angry Mama Face has had some effect, then cheerfully,) Oatmeal time!

Keaton: No! I Don’t! TREEEEEEEEEEEEEAT! HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAVE IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!

Me: (silently chastises self. Must have turned away too hastily before Angry Mama Face had ample time to take effect.) Okay, Mister. TIME. OUT.

Keaton: No! I sorry! I sorry! I sorry, Mama!

Me: (To tired to follow through with time outs before 8 am) OK, pal. Let’s get your bib on and have some breakfast.

Keaton: Treat?

Aaaaaand Scene.

I vaguely remember going through something like this after I purchased Treat Jar when Rowan started potty training at 2-ish. I’m having trouble recollecting, as I seem to have blocked out most bad behavior from Rowan’s toddlerhood, but I am pretty sure that it was scenes similar to the one above that left Treat Jar purposefully empty since LAST Halloween. Only last Halloween Rowan was a freeze baby so we only had about 10 houses worth of candy, which Bill and I Rowan consumed within a weekend few weeks time. No big deal. This year both kids made it pretty far, leaving us with a ton and I don’t think I can handle having this conversation with a demanding, teething, monster toddler 14 times a day.

I could throw the candy away but that seems like such a waste and then what would I use to bribe Rowan to finish her dinner? She understands how the reward system works so she doesn’t even try (well, very hard at least) to wheedle candy out of us when she knows what the answer will be. Keaton just doesn’t get it yet. He sees it, he wants it in his mouth.

I suppose the smart thing for me to do would be to put TJ in a cupboard because toddlers are very much Out of Sight, Out of Mind creatures, but unfortunately for me I live in a townhome that has a very measly amount of convenient cupboard and storage space, all of which is already at or beyond full capacity. I suppose I will just have to cover it with a sheet.

Or!

Maybe a towel with a cornucopia pattern so I can pass it off as a Thanksgiving decoration. Yes! Problem solved. I will do that.

I am so smart.

PS: Stay tuned to NaBloPopMuthaFucka as I will try and post pictures of how much frickin’ candy we can make it through this month. I predict us switching into our fat pants by the 20th and an empty jar by Nov. 29th-ish.

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I know I could just throw it all away, but let's not be hasty here…

Let me introduce you to the new bane of my existence:

Internet, Treat Jar. Treat Jar, Internet.

 

I know it looks small and innocent enough but Treat Jar holds a deceptively large amount of goodies, all acquired by a little turtle and fairy a few nights ago. Awhile back, when I was a new, naive mother, I purchased this Jar (which is really not a jar at all, more like a canister but we shall call it a Jar because I am queen of this blog and I say so) in the hopes of doling out special treats once in a while for potty training purposes, special occasions, and rewards for good behavior. Treats that my children would be ever so surprised and so sweetly grateful to receive. What I didn’t envision was this:

Keaton: Treat?

Me: Silly! It’s morning time! Maybe we’ll have a treat after lunch.

Keaton: Treat?

Me: Keaton. It’s 7:07 AM. Let’s eat some yummy oatmeal.

Keaton: Treat.

Me: Treats can hurt your tummy if you don’t eat a healthy breakfast first, Bubba. Oatmeal’s almost done!

Keaton: Have a Treat?

Me: (Getting irritated and fresh out of responses that don’t include ‘No’.) No. No treat.

Keaton: (Crosses arms indignantly and furrows Brow of Fury.) TREAT! HAVE IT!

Me: (Shoots one-year-old stern Angry Mama Face, places hands on hips. Turns head away slowly, but only after I am certain Angry Mama Face has had some effect, then cheerfully,) Oatmeal time!

Keaton: No! I Don’t! TREEEEEEEEEEEEEAT! HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAVE IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!

Me: (silently chastises self. Must have turned away too hastily before Angry Mama Face had ample time to take effect.) Okay, Mister. TIME. OUT.

Keaton: No! I sorry! I sorry! I sorry, Mama!

Me: (To tired to follow through with time outs before 8 am) OK, pal. Let’s get your bib on and have some breakfast.

Keaton: Treat?

Aaaaaand Scene.

I vaguely remember going through something like this after I purchased Treat Jar when Rowan started potty training at 2-ish. I’m having trouble recollecting, as I seem to have blocked out most bad behavior from Rowan’s toddlerhood, but I am pretty sure that it was scenes similar to the one above that left Treat Jar purposefully empty since LAST Halloween. Only last Halloween Rowan was a freeze baby so we only had about 10 houses worth of candy, which Bill and I Rowan consumed within a weekend few weeks time. No big deal. This year both kids made it pretty far, leaving us with a ton and I don’t think I can handle having this conversation with a demanding, teething, monster toddler 14 times a day.

I could throw the candy away but that seems like such a waste and then what would I use to bribe Rowan to finish her dinner? She understands how the reward system works so she doesn’t even try (well, very hard at least) to wheedle candy out of us when she knows what the answer will be. Keaton just doesn’t get it yet. He sees it, he wants it in his mouth.

I suppose the smart thing for me to do would be to put TJ in a cupboard because toddlers are very much Out of Sight, Out of Mind creatures, but unfortunately for me I live in a townhome that has a very measly amount of convenient cupboard and storage space, all of which is already at or beyond full capacity. I suppose I will just have to cover it with a sheet.

Or!

Maybe a towel with a cornucopia pattern so I can pass it off as a Thanksgiving decoration. Yes! Problem solved. I will do that.

I am so smart.

PS: Stay tuned to NaBloPopMuthaFucka as I will try and post pictures of how much frickin’ candy we can make it through this month. I predict us switching into our fat pants by the 20th and an empty jar by Nov. 29th-ish.

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The Orchard Patch

I really don’t know what I was thinking on Sunday night but instead of curling up on the couch with a book I scrubbed nearly every floor in my house. And not with a long-handled mop thingy-OH NO. THAT would be cheating. Down on my knees as my mother intended for such chores to be done. You know! So you can torture yourself by noticing every ding and grimy stain on the linoleum. Seriously if you haven’t done this in a while I would prepare yourself by drinking heavily beforehand. I was so sore afterward and also probably a little high from all that floor cleanser. Mmm, lemon scented tracers.

Luckily the beginning of Sunday didn’t suck nearly so much as the end and I have the photographic evidence to prove it. We heathened out of church on account of MEA break, which gave us a chance to beat out all the God-fearing folks on the best pumpkins and caramel apples. SUCKAHS! (Just kidding Jebus! See you next week!)

You may have noticed a lack of my usual long-winded captions in which I make fun of my children, use swear words and/or make my children use swear words. I’m sorry to report that this outing was so spectacularly unremarkable that I have nothing for you. We had a genuinely fabulous time just being together and soaking in the Fall Experience. No one ran in front of a tractor or took a nose dive off a hay ride. No one knocked a precariously stacked pyramid of pumpkins over or ran screaming, scared to death of the petting zoo animals. Quite the contrary actually as Keaton seemed to establish some sort of bond with a goat, so much that we had to make three separate visits to the pen so they could stare blankly at one another.

I’m not used to peaceful, tranquil family time so even though this was most likely a highly uninteresting entry, it deserves its place in this blog as I’m sure the next time we decide to schedule a family outing someone will accidentally fall off an ostrich or light a bean bag emporium on fire, because that is normally how this family rolls. Then, amid the screaming, we will get that wistful look in our eyes, as feathers fly and our nose hair gets singed and say “Remember that ONE time when everything went smoothly? That was nice, huh?”

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Monster Closet of Death

Today, Internet. Today I did something I have been putting off for….well, let’s see…we moved in here May of 2005…so…somewhere round-abouts….June 1999. This is The Closet:

Innocent enough looking, isn't it?

But you know the one, right? The closet you shove all your I-don’t-need-this-right-now-per-say-but-there-is-a-ever-so-slight-chance-I-may-need-it-sometime-in-the-future-ish items. Yeah well, we live in a super awesome townhome that has this one little teeny tiny space for storage so it houses the afore-mentioned items plus all the other crap that goes in a storage closet like winter gear in the summer time, board games, keepsakes, and holiday decorations. And by holiday, I mean Christmas because we have 3 giant boxes, plus 7-8 smaller ones for that particular holiday while Halloween gets a paper bag and a half and Easter gets 2 baskets and some stray plastic grass and the rest are SOL because, well, ONE CLOSET PEOPLE! I can’t even properly observe all the other very important Christian and secular holidays because I HAVEN’T THE CLOSET SPACE!

Anyway. This is your out. I am telling you right now to click the X on your window or for the love of God go watch the Emmy’s because even THAT is better than what lies behind these doors.

Enter at your own risk. No seriously. Get thee a fucking hard hat.

Oh God. "BILLLLLLLL!" Nothing? I'm on my own.

Hey, look! There's a little space left to throw shit up top. Perhaps I won't clean it after all.

Don't do it, Monkey! Don't go in! We may never find you! (Later on after I found she had PEED ALL OVER MY PRETTY BASSINETTE, I sort of wished she would have crawled in, never to be heard from again. However she did not go in and was later seen running like an idiot with her head stuck in the handle of a plastic Target bag.)

This is my entryway. Correction! This WAS my entryway before the closet done up and vomited all over it.

This is where I confess that I have never, in the four years of her life, EVER thrown away any item of clothing that has touched Rowan’s wee little body. Like never ever. There was box after box and bag after bag of dresses, shirts, skirts, pants, sweatshirts, burp cloths, towels, bath robes, mittens, hats, diaper covers, and coats of every season and variety that I had carefully folded and been unwilling or unable to part with at the time. You know! Like a hoarder.

In my defense I was so very certain Bill and I were going to have another girl and I didn’t even really consider the possibility of a boy until the doctor said, “Oh Hey! There’s the PENIS.” Or something like that. One boy later and I now know that most of Rowan’s things probably won’t get used again. After the screams of Keaton I knew that I was done having babies for a good few years and that paired with the knowledge of how much I like new things led me to binge and purge as he outgrew his infant clothes, so his pile was significantly smaller to sort through.

Going through all her things was really pretty emotionally exhausting. To pull out, unfold, look, smell, remember, fold again and place in a plastic bag to give away. It was like reliving her babyhood. Such a happy beautiful babyhood. But to rummage through her short little past when the end result was essentially giving that babyhood away? Well, it was a bigger job than I thought it would be, anyway.

Rowan, however, was non-plussed. "I'm a bigger girl now, mom! Look at my bigger girl smile!"

80 bajillion hours later I had bagged up all the clothes to be given to charity. 10 bags for Rowan. 2 for Keaton. 4 of toys and misc. baby gear/crap. The bins of clothes I couldn't part with (don't ask me how many times I exclaimed "This is TIMELESS!") and bassinette are going into storage at Bill's parents for use in the far distant future.

And here it is! FLOOR! We have a FLOOR, people! I know. I'm as shocked as you are.

You may now commence betting as to how long it will take for monster death closet to return.  I’m guessing mid-January. Ish.

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Mostly Wordless Wednesday: Garbage Truck Edition

Wednesday is Keaton’s favorite day of the week. The day where he paces in front of our patio door, checking his imaginary baby watch, impatiently waiting for the arrival of the much anticipated “Giant Terrrucky” or “Guybij Terrruck”. Every fricken Wednesday he gets edgy if we have to leave because OMFG! What if he misses the truck?! And what if it’s recycling week?! Then he would miss TWO giant trucks! That would be, I’m pretty sure, more than his little toddler mind could bear.

He has uncanny hearing on Wednesdays. He can detect the low, bursting growl of the garbage trucks when they shift up, the pressure releasing hiss they emit when the breaks are applied and, of course, the signature beep that announces they are reversing. All these sounds signal to him that he drop whatever he is doing, run to the patio door and press his face and hands up against the glass in hopes of getting a glimpse. The problem is that we live in a townhouse development that has somewhere around 160 units so we hear these sounds pretty much all day long.

He rushes over to the window, craning his neck and smooshing his face into the glass in that comical, no respect for the nose, sort of way.

“GIANT TERRRUCK!”

“Is it coming, Sir?”

“Yeah!”

“Can you see it on the road?”

“Yeah! It comin’!”

And then 10 seconds later it pulls into one of the 40 other inlet driveways and he lets out a sigh, pulls his smooshed face away from the window and says, “Bye-bye, Terrucky”, in such a forlorn way that you feel inclined to give him a comforting squeeze. The first few times. The other 37 you’re less sympathetic.

Today, we pushed naptime back, with hopes the garbage and/or recycling truck would make an appearance sometime before 1:30. At 1:17pm we took our seats:

I made the mistake of sitting in this chair first. He gave me the evil eye, put one hand on his hip, pointed to the chair and said, "Keaton chair. Mine." and glared at me until I slunked into the one beside it.

Here is where he noticed the recycling truck was waiting at the end of our street to do it's business right after the garbage truck was done. "TWO TERRRUCKYS!!!!!!!" Good timing, Waste Management.

Unable to contain his garbage truck glee he gets up. Ready to flee from the constraints of HIS chair. (But don't think about stealing it while he's up. You will be assaulted with the same look.)

The driver smiled and waved and operated the truck's arm extra slow when he saw how rapt Keaton was.

Maybe life IS about the little things. The stinky, loud, little things. (I'm speaking here about Keaton's love for the truck, not Keaton himself.) (Well. I guess it could work either way.)

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In case you are wondering…

I did not say THE HELL WITH THIS LIFE  and up and join an Amish community on our sojourn to Middle-of-Nowhere-North-Central-Minnesota (although it would be fun to drive around one of those little carriages). Close! But, no. No. That would have been much more pleasant than coming home to a craptastic townhome operating on 25% power. (25%= The 5 most useless, inconveniently located outlets work and that’s about it.) In other statistical news, there has been an 87.9% increase of the usage of the Eff word, due mostly to the fact that it just flies out of our mouths when we try to flip a light switch which we can’t seem to stop doing even though we know there is NO HOPE OF ELECTRICITY BEING PRODUCED BY THIS FUTILE ACT. There is also a 150 % increase in potentially life threatening baby-proofing dangers since we have to run all our lights off extension cords. There has been a 78% increase of Time-outs due to said lamps that little chubby fingers just can’t seem to leave alone because, Look! A lamp on the floor! I must dump water from the sink on top of it so I can enjoy the sizzle and POP it makes or at the very least lick my fingers and play with the extension cords! I am a toddler! Try to stop me! Aw, crap. Back in the naughty spot.

Last night we received word that the break in our line lies firmly planted below our driveway or garage apron so it will be fixed approximately WE DON’T KNOW WHEN BECAUSE WE DON’T COMMIT TO TIME FRAMES THAT WE MAY BE HELD ACCOUNTABLE FOR SO GO AHEAD AND EFF YOURSELF, SUCKERS, (and also, Maybe Friday but you didn’t hear that from me, you may leave the agreed upon bribe money at the corner of 3rd and Main.). So we woke up this morning to downpouring rain and an indoor temperature that was most definitely in the high eighties but probably closer to the low 90’s. Oh the beauty of no freakin’ cross-breeze. So I’ve packed up the kids and headed to the salvation of Grammy’s house where they can eat Cheetos and watch every Disney movie that was released on VHS during the 1990’s.

Our AWESOME association could have had this on the road to FIXED TOWN but they wouldn’t pay the weekend charges which they are obliged to do if it is an inhabited residence so they got yelled at a lot, by Bill of course because I have a little problem controlling the FUCKENHEIMERS and the THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT WAHHHHHHH’s in these sorts of situations. They did agree to give us a $300 allowance for a hotel stay while the work is being completed which I may take them up on just because I want them to pay out.

In the mean time I have limited access to the Interwebs so I will update as often as I can but probably won’t be able to share the awesome shenanigans of Cabin Vacation Oh Niner until I have my sweet sweet wireless back. I will have my pictures imported to my moms iphoto but I don’t know how to shrink them without photoshop (which she doesn’t have) because I am a little bit technologically-delayed in that department. But! I promise not to disappoint! I have peanuts-on-spoon races, bear vs.wolf t-shirts, mini-tractor shots, three year olds attacked by chiggers, punching Twister!, and our favorite and best Deputy Chief Fire Idiot winning the midnight kayak/obstacle course and also making a lot of strange faces. In the mean time think electricitous thoughts for us!

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I Have No Energy For Coherent Segues So I’m Using Numbers Instead

1. You know how Facebook has that nifty application where you can select “Pirate” as the language setting? Is there a PMS one? You know, so every 3rd or 4th word either Fuck or Wahhhh or Fuck is automatically inserted to save you the trouble and your friends would be separated by sex; The females listed under Sisters in Suck and the males under I Hate You. And only status updates revolving around salt, gourmet chocolate and Steel Magnolias would be permitted.

2. I forgot to mention this milestone of utmost importance in Keaton’s Monthly Blah Blah but he uttered his first swear word last month. Well, I thought it was the first, anyway. I was frantically trying to get us out the door, as we were late in picking Rowan up from Spanish and I had Keaton balanced on one hip, two sippy cups held to my side by my elbow, two baggies of snacks and the car keys in one hand and my purse in the other. I was lopsidedly hurrying down the stairs 10 minutes after I should have been out the door when I took a breath and OH GOD, SON. YOU POOPED, NOW!? NOW!? “Dammit” I exclaimed as I flipped around, dropped everything in my hands and elbows to change him and when I laid him on the bed he smiled up at me and chirped “dammit, dammit” several times, happily, over the course of the change.

That evening over dinner I regaled Bill with my tale of This Very Special Day in Our Son’s Life, but was unsure if it should really count because, well, dammit is hardly a swear word at all. At least not so much in our house. It’s somewhere in between crap and shit and that’s a pretty grey area if you ask me. Bill was pretty quiet through my story and subsequent blathering on about the whole thing, and when I questioned his interest he informed me that Keaton had said “shit” sometime last week and had he known it was so important to me or that it needed to be documented for posterity he would have told me sooner. Oh, and also if he had known I wouldn’t get pissed at him. Which I can’t now, so, well played Mr. Gunter. And Mazel Tov to you, son. You’re a man now. Or something.

3. Luna’s Training update: Picture, if you will, a tumbleweed blowing through the desert while being serenaded by a quiet, low whistle and then fade, very softly, to black. Now in my defense (OK, this is not a defense, I’m just changing the subject) she does get to spend a week with Grandma and Grandpa who have 13 acres of grass for her to chew on and more deer poop to roll in than she ever dreamed possible.

4. Purple Sand update: Breaking news! The Purple Sand not only destroys carpet but it also took out our vacuum cleaner. Poor unsuspecting giant, 400 lb, $7.00 mothersucker never saw it coming. Thankfully he went peacefully. He just quit sucking, thereby achieving the highest level of suckage possible. How’s that for a conundrum of philosophical proportions?

Also a victim of The Great Onslaught of The Purple Sand of Aught Nine? The towel rack.

As I was photographing this Rowan came in and said pityingly, " You know walls don't smile, right?"

How can you blame The Purple Sand for this one (you may, of course, be asking). Well. I thought that by not filling up the water side of the table I would cut down on the mess because the sand wouldn’t turn into that lovely, fine, adhesive, nearly impossible to wipe off paste. And it did work to some extent, and because Keaton wasn’t covered in it, I declared myself Genius Extraordinaire and forgot to check his feet before he traipsed all over the living room. His very sweaty toddler feet, with their many fine, chunky folds which of course housed innumerable grains of the shit. So I whisked him to the bathroom and rinsed his feet off in the sink, but I did not have the foresight to get a towel in advance so instead of risk a few TERRIBLE drops of WATER on the bathroom floor I tried to hold Keaton over the sink with one hand and pull a towel off the rack with the other. As you can see from the picture I was successful in getting the towel off the rack but I unfortunately got water on the floor anyways because I was too busy cussing out the broken rack to actually wipe the boys feet off. FAIL. You can see how this is all the sand’s fault and not mine, right? RIGHT? Good. Now go tell my husband.

5. For those of you wondering how to neatly and easily feed a toddler a bowl of spaghetti, I am providing this visual aid to show you that it CANNOT BE DONE.

"I'll hate you forever for assaulting me with your poison spaghetti that incidentally was my favorite food before today!!!!!!!"

Juice box. Spoon. Carpet. The victims of spaghetti-armed toddlers everywhere.

6. Bill asked me to give him a haircut last Sunday. I shaved his mop, mullet, head a few months ago and that paired with my experience of trimming Keaton’s bangs, I thought I could handle a little size 3 to size 4 clipper blending. WRONG. So I shaved his head again, but not before doing this to him:

I asked him if he would sport the 'Hawk for a few days...

He said no.

7. I’m pretty sure that’s all the numbered paragraphs of idiocy I have time for today. I have a very busy schedule of trying to keep my children in one piece, which is harder than you’d think some days…

I really wasn't kidding about that whole jumping thing. What can we say...

He learned from the best.

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I Have No Energy For Coherent Segues So I'm Using Numbers Instead

1. You know how Facebook has that nifty application where you can select “Pirate” as the language setting? Is there a PMS one? You know, so every 3rd or 4th word either Fuck or Wahhhh or Fuck is automatically inserted to save you the trouble and your friends would be separated by sex; The females listed under Sisters in Suck and the males under I Hate You. And only status updates revolving around salt, gourmet chocolate and Steel Magnolias would be permitted.

2. I forgot to mention this milestone of utmost importance in Keaton’s Monthly Blah Blah but he uttered his first swear word last month. Well, I thought it was the first, anyway. I was frantically trying to get us out the door, as we were late in picking Rowan up from Spanish and I had Keaton balanced on one hip, two sippy cups held to my side by my elbow, two baggies of snacks and the car keys in one hand and my purse in the other. I was lopsidedly hurrying down the stairs 10 minutes after I should have been out the door when I took a breath and OH GOD, SON. YOU POOPED, NOW!? NOW!? “Dammit” I exclaimed as I flipped around, dropped everything in my hands and elbows to change him and when I laid him on the bed he smiled up at me and chirped “dammit, dammit” several times, happily, over the course of the change.

That evening over dinner I regaled Bill with my tale of This Very Special Day in Our Son’s Life, but was unsure if it should really count because, well, dammit is hardly a swear word at all. At least not so much in our house. It’s somewhere in between crap and shit and that’s a pretty grey area if you ask me. Bill was pretty quiet through my story and subsequent blathering on about the whole thing, and when I questioned his interest he informed me that Keaton had said “shit” sometime last week and had he known it was so important to me or that it needed to be documented for posterity he would have told me sooner. Oh, and also if he had known I wouldn’t get pissed at him. Which I can’t now, so, well played Mr. Gunter. And Mazel Tov to you, son. You’re a man now. Or something.

3. Luna’s Training update: Picture, if you will, a tumbleweed blowing through the desert while being serenaded by a quiet, low whistle and then fade, very softly, to black. Now in my defense (OK, this is not a defense, I’m just changing the subject) she does get to spend a week with Grandma and Grandpa who have 13 acres of grass for her to chew on and more deer poop to roll in than she ever dreamed possible.

4. Purple Sand update: Breaking news! The Purple Sand not only destroys carpet but it also took out our vacuum cleaner. Poor unsuspecting giant, 400 lb, $7.00 mothersucker never saw it coming. Thankfully he went peacefully. He just quit sucking, thereby achieving the highest level of suckage possible. How’s that for a conundrum of philosophical proportions?

Also a victim of The Great Onslaught of The Purple Sand of Aught Nine? The towel rack.

As I was photographing this Rowan came in and said pityingly, " You know walls don't smile, right?"

How can you blame The Purple Sand for this one (you may, of course, be asking). Well. I thought that by not filling up the water side of the table I would cut down on the mess because the sand wouldn’t turn into that lovely, fine, adhesive, nearly impossible to wipe off paste. And it did work to some extent, and because Keaton wasn’t covered in it, I declared myself Genius Extraordinaire and forgot to check his feet before he traipsed all over the living room. His very sweaty toddler feet, with their many fine, chunky folds which of course housed innumerable grains of the shit. So I whisked him to the bathroom and rinsed his feet off in the sink, but I did not have the foresight to get a towel in advance so instead of risk a few TERRIBLE drops of WATER on the bathroom floor I tried to hold Keaton over the sink with one hand and pull a towel off the rack with the other. As you can see from the picture I was successful in getting the towel off the rack but I unfortunately got water on the floor anyways because I was too busy cussing out the broken rack to actually wipe the boys feet off. FAIL. You can see how this is all the sand’s fault and not mine, right? RIGHT? Good. Now go tell my husband.

5. For those of you wondering how to neatly and easily feed a toddler a bowl of spaghetti, I am providing this visual aid to show you that it CANNOT BE DONE.

"I'll hate you forever for assaulting me with your poison spaghetti that incidentally was my favorite food before today!!!!!!!"

Juice box. Spoon. Carpet. The victims of spaghetti-armed toddlers everywhere.

6. Bill asked me to give him a haircut last Sunday. I shaved his mop, mullet, head a few months ago and that paired with my experience of trimming Keaton’s bangs, I thought I could handle a little size 3 to size 4 clipper blending. WRONG. So I shaved his head again, but not before doing this to him:

I asked him if he would sport the 'Hawk for a few days...

He said no.

7. I’m pretty sure that’s all the numbered paragraphs of idiocy I have time for today. I have a very busy schedule of trying to keep my children in one piece, which is harder than you’d think some days…

I really wasn't kidding about that whole jumping thing. What can we say...

He learned from the best.

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