I'm not gonna smell it.....You smell it!

Well, that was a nice shower. Washed my hair, shaved my legs, etc...very soothing. Got out and grabbed my soft, fluffy, white towel. Dried my hair, my face, my body, got down to my ankles and found this:


Don't worry. It's just chocolate. I'm, like, 85% sure it's chocolate. Yep. Chocolate.

It's opposite day here in Crazytown

The boys are completely geeked because they don't have to go to school today. We got the call at 5:09 a.m. that school would be canceled for a snow day.

I think the boys are going to put their boots on and run right out to build a snowman.

Which should be fun in a yard that looks like this:




My theory is that the school faculty had a massive holiday party last night and everyone got all baked and thought it would be really funny to cancel school when there's NO FUCKING SNOW!

D. thinks I misinterpreted the cancellation phone call and we're actually having a 'now day:

Syphillis, Mom.....Genital Warts, Mom

After reading this post, D. suggested that I consider changing my blog name from "Laugh, Mom" to "Clap, Mom."

There are so many things wrong with that, I don't even know where to start.

Our yard is way too small for a goat

Peanut's best friend is this girl in his class, Stacie*. I love her. She is chubby and wears glasses, and looks just like that girl from Little Miss Sunshine. Peanut loves her because she is funny and spunky and has a pool table in her basement and doesn't play with Barbies. Stacie is awesome. Stacie is so awesome that I had a talk with her mom about the potential for a betrothal.
Her mother was amenable to the idea, and we agreed that if I bought her family a goat, Peanut could have her daughter when she reaches a marriageable age. This way, I don't have to worry about Peanut giving me a crappy daughter-in-law. What a relief.
Yesterday, when I was eavesdropping outside the boys' room casually walking past the boys' room, I overheard Peanut and Moon having a conversation about Stacie:

Peanut: Stacie has a crush on Grace.
Moon: Girls don't have crushes on girls.
Peanut: Uh huh! Stacie says she has a crush on Grace and she wants to kiss her!

Unless Stacie is bi, I'm afraid I'm going to get my goat back.



*Names changed to protect my potentially bisexual potential future daughter-in-law

O! Pinata, you are all full of delicious candy

Since D. couldn't make it to Peanut's holiday music program this morning, I thought I'd type up a nice little synopsis for him:

9:14 a.m. - The Baby and I sit down in the back row next to a very friendly dad (not pervie friendly, just regular friendly). He tries to strike up a conversation, but the only thing I can think of to say is, "You smell like pickles." Because he does. Not even good dill pickles. Nasty bread and butter pickles.

9:15 a.m. - Kindergarten classes start to enter the room. Parents stand and wave like crazy idiots to their children. I think, "That is so not cool. I am not doing that."

9:16 a.m. - Peanut walks up on stage and looks all around the room, trying to figure out where I'm sitting. I wait patiently for him to make eye contact. He doesn't see me in the back of the room.

9:16:10 a.m. - I jump out of my chair and furiously flail my free arm in Peanut's direction while whisper-shouting, "Peanut! Peanut! Over here!" Coolness be damned. I need to get credit for attending this thing and it doesn't count if Peanut doesn't see me.

9:20 a.m. - The kids sing, "Up on the Housetop." It's cute.

9:23 a.m. - The music teacher announces the next song will be "O, Chanukah." Peanut cups his hands around his mouth and yells, "Mom, you know this one." I do, because he's been singing it for the last two weeks.

9:26 a.m. - Four students from Peanut's class come forward and give a recitation. They finish and walk back toward the stage. Peanut points to me in the back of the room, narrows his eyes, and in a demonic voice commands, "Clap, Mom!"

9:26:10 a.m. - I clap. Vigorously.

9:27 a.m. - The kids start singing a song about Kwanzaa. It has a good rhythm. One of the girls from Peanuts class digs it. I mean, really, really digs it. She starts dancing. Like an egyptian. It's freakin' hilarious and parents are trying to keep their giggles quiet. Myself included.

9:27:30 a.m. - The first titters from the audience reach the kindergarteners on stage. They realize that someone is doing something funny. Suddenly, they are transformed into a congress of Tourette's sufferers. All manner of tics and twitches erupt. One boy waves his hands over his head, another spins in circles. Peanut slaps himself on top of the head in time to the music. The parents laugh harder. The kids become more outlandish. And so on.

9:29 a.m. - The kids sing a song about pinatas. I'm confused.

9:31 a.m. - I am still confused, but the program is over and I'm glad I went. The whole thing was very entertaining. Plus, Peanut's demon voice scared me and I don't want to cross him.

I'm not invited

There's a penis party at my house, and I'm not invited.

D. and the boys are doing karaoke to Green Day, playing games on the iPhone and watching TV, which has just been changed from football to Space Balls.

The Baby was sitting with me, but once he got his fill of tit he lifted his arms for Daddy to pick him up. He wanted to go to the penis party. Traitor.

All four of the males in my family are crowded around the tiny love seat, doing dude things, while I am alone on the full sized couch.

There's a penis party at my house, and I'm not invited. But I don't mind, because the penis party kind of smells like fart.

It's one of three songs I know all the words to

Moon, rapping to entertain The Baby: I like big butts and I cannot lie / You always can't deny....
Me, shouting from the basement: You other brothers!
Moon: I like big butts and I cannot lie / You always can't deny...
Me, shouting again: Other brothers!
Moon: I like big butts and I cannot lie / You always can't deny...
Me, making sure I'm heard: OTHER BROTHERS!
Moon: What?!
Me: You other brothers! I like big butts and I cannot lie / You other brothers can't deny...
Moon: What?!
Me, still in the basement: I like big butts and I cannot lie/ You other brothers can't deny / When a girl walks in with an itty bitty waist / And a round thing in your face / You get sprung / Wanna pull up tough / 'Cause you noticed that butt was stuffed / Deep in the jeans she's wearin' / I'm hooked and I can't stop starin' / Oh baby, I wanna get witcha / And take yo' picture/ My homeboys tried to warn me / But that butt you've got makes me so......You know what, Moon? Your version was just fine.

Yes! I made the list

Peanut's teacher just sent home a big batch of completed worksheets from Thanksgiving. As you can see below, I made the list of things he is thankful for:


In case you can't read the writing, Mom is on the fourth line. I'm in fourth place. Behind:
1. Hair
2. Indians
3. Stix.

I'm making a list of things I'm thankful for, too. So far, Peanut is in fourth place. He comes after:
1. TV
2. Vasectomy
3. Vodka.

Dear Peanut and Moon,

I know you didn't believe me when I said I was going to clean your room with a garbage bag. I heard you whispering together at the top of the stairs. Peanut, I heard you tell your brother that I was going to throw away your toys. And Moon, it was so nice of you to calm him with your assurances that I would never do it. In fact, I believe your exact words were, "We don't have to clean our room. Mom's not really going to clean it with a garbage bag. If she did that, it would be like just throwing away thousands of dollars of her own money. Mom's not that stupid."

Well, Moon, you were right. Sort of. I did not clean your room with a garbage bag. We're almost out of garbage bags and I didn't want to waste them. So I cleaned your room with shopping bags.




Also, I was not willing to throw away all those great toys. So I gave them away to some kids who don't call their Mom stupid.

And don't worry about cleaning anymore. I'll be happy to continue snooping around in cleaning your room when you're teenagers.
Merry Christmas!

Love,

Mom

P.S. That half eaten Baby Ruth in the back of your closet was a nice touch.

Check

Moon and I are playing chess tonight and I keep making stupid moves:
I move my bishop to a position that is vulnerable to his knight, and he says, "I don't get it."
"What don't you get?" I ask
"Well, you can't get me with your pawn, and you can't get me with your bishop. I don't get it."
"Hm," I say, clasping my hands together in front of my lips and raising my eyebrows. I'm hoping that he'll believe there's some secret trick up my sleeve, some unseen move that will cost him his knight if he takes the bait. The reality is, I'm bullshitting and I suck at chess, but I really want to win.


D. tells the boys that when the wishbone from the turkey dries out they can break it and whoever gets the longer side will get their wish:
"Do you really get your wish?" Peanut presses D. "Does whatever you want really come true."
Unsure of the right thing to say, D. says nothing at all.
"Mom, do you really get your wish if you get the big side?"
"No. There's no such thing as wishes coming true. If you really want something you have to work hard for it, and even then you don't always get it."
"I guess we're not harboring any illusions in the boys." D. is surprised by how blunt I am. So am I.

A few moves later, I take Moon's bishop. He takes my knight. I take his rook.
"Darn it! My sacrifice didn't work out." Moon slaps the table in disgust.
"It rarely does," I say, shocked by how easily cynicism flies out of my mouth.

D. calls from Chicago:
"So, I got a free upgrade to first class on the flight here. And then when I checked in to the hotel, they asked me if I'd like another free upgrade. They have this Penthouse Suite that is usually reserved for famous people, but it wasn't being used, so I'm staying in a $3500 a night room for the cost of my regular room."
"Awesome," I tell him. And I want to mean it, but I smell like sour milk from the spit-up on my shirt, and the boys are yelling in the background, and I just want to get off the phone before I say something nasty because I'm pissed that he's there and I'm here.

"Mom, will I get in trouble if I say d-a-m?" Peanut is standing on a chair in the dining room, doing everything he can think of to divert my attention away from the chess game.
"No. It's not a bad word."
"Dam, dam, dam, dam, DAM! Dam, dam, dam, dam, DAM! Dam, dam, dam, dam, DAM!" He is dancing from chair to chair, stomping for emphasis when he yells the last DAM, and I can't focus.
"God damn it! Will you stop? I can't take it."
Moon gets a pawn to the other side and turns it into a queen.

We're looking at East Coast houses, a realtor showing us around Westchester County. Our price range is at the bottom of the market:
"They're going to have to make a better offer," I say, referring to the company that is recruiting D. "We're going to have to get more money."
"What's this we business?" Dave asks. "I'm the one taking the job."
"Fair enough," I say, "but do you really think you'd be at this point in your career if you didn't have me?"
"I do, actually."
I'm tearing up, embarrassed that this exchange has occurred in front of the realtor. He's right. He's smart and driven and he would have done well with or without me. But if he's the one with the job and the success then what do I have to claim for my own?

Moon has me down to just my king and five pawns, and he still has his queen.
"I can't win. It's not possible."
"Why not?" Moon is excited.
"Because you have a queen and all I have left are pawns. You win."
"Yes!" Moon's fist pumps the air. "I guess my sacrifices did pay off."

There is no glory in staying at home to raise children. Nobody gives free upgrades to moms. There are no pay increases or important titles. There is a lot of shit and puke and piss and tears. It's ugly, and it's hard, and a lot of the time it totally sucks. But, fuck, I need to believe that the sacrifice will pay off.

Four little words a mother never wants to hear

Peanut: Mom, I like balls.
Me: laughing
Peanut: Not the "weenis" kind.
Me: laughing harder because he said "weenis"
Peanut: Stop it, Mom! It's not funny!
Me: still laughing
Peanut: Not these kind! points to testicles
D: points to Christmas lights Bulbs, son. Those are bulbs.

In case he wasn't clear the first time

Peanut: Mom, my homework for tonight is to write down what my parents' jobs are. What is your job?
Me: I'm a vintage clothing dealer.
Peanut: Yeah, I'm not writing that. What is Dad's job?
Me: He's a Senior Vice President at a Public Relations Agency.
Peanut: I'm not writing that either.

Five minutes later....
Peanut: Okay, I'm done.
Me: Can I see your homework?
Peanut: Yeah. I put that Dad does work and you do nothing.

After he goes to sleep tonight, I'm going to change his homework to say, "My mom wipes butts and otherwise deals with assholes all day."

And then I'm going to start packing a bag for our trip to Nebraska.

A grower, not a show-er

Peanut found a ruler today and decided he would like to learn how to measure things. You know where this story is going, don't you?

Peanut: How long is a pretzel?
Me: A pretzel is three inches. See how it lines up with the number three?
Peanut: How about this bouncy ball?
Me: One inch.
Peanut: A lego?
Me: One half inch.

Hours later, while cleaning up dinner dishes, I heard Peanut shout from the living room: I'm going to measure my wiener!

Hoping that he was joking, I turned just in time to see him pull down the front of his pants and line his penis up with the ruler.

Peanut: My wiener is one inch!

I bet he's the only male who's ever shouted that with glee.

They really are pre-made

When Schotts accepted a job offer in New York City right after college, I doubt he ever imagined he'd end up living in an attic in suburban New Jersey. Likewise, when D. told me he'd hired his intern from the previous summer to a full time position, it never occurred to me that I would have yet another boy living in my house.

Straight from Ohio and 22 years old, Schotts struggled with finding an affordable apartment in the city. NYC real estate is a different animal than most other places and can be difficult to navigate even for experienced New Yorkers. After two unsuccessful apartment hunting weekends, and with his work start date rapidly approaching, Schotts found himself without a place to hang his hat.

"He could just stay with us until he finds a place," D. suggested.
"Sure, we have room." I was being magnanimous without actually believing anyone would be moving in with us.

A few days and several phone calls later, D. informed me that Schotts was moving into our attic, just until he could find a place in the city.

"Uh, okay. Sure. Sooo, how long do you think that will take? Like, two, three days? A week?"

"Probably," D. was optimistic, "a couple of weeks, tops."

Schotts arrived in our living room from Ohio, having never met the family he was about to move in with. Initially, everyone was on best behavior, trying to be polite and not scare the new guy. But it didn't take long before Peanut was jumping on Schotts, demanding to be tickled and nearly kneeing him in the nuts. He was a good sport, tolerating far more than D. or I would have put up with and the boys warmed up to him quickly. He made a real effort to help out around the house and not be a burden. He cleaned up dishes after every meal, and helped out with yard work and painting. Having him around became like having another son in the house for me (a son who I had when I was eight years old), and the boys enjoyed having a "big brother" in the house who they could pummel with impunity.

Not everything was peachy keen. D. and I ended up with frequent stomach aches from holding our farts in. Schotts started using the creepy basement bathroom for fear that someone would barge in on him if he pooped upstairs ( a legitimate concern). Peanut did actually walk into the bathroom one morning while Schotts was showering. He went pee and then wandered out, leaving the bathroom door wide open. But he was considerate enough to not flush the toilet. And then there was the incident where D. and I thought we could sneak away for a few minutes on a quiet Sunday afternoon. We were in our bedroom with the door shut, when Peanut marched in unannounced.

"Get out!" D. and I shouted in unison.
From the top of the stairs, Peanut yelled down to Moon and Schotts:
"Ah, do NOT go in there! Mom and Dad are naked!"

Schotts also became a drinking buddy for D. I was still pregnant while he lived here, so there was no boozing for me. Schotts saved D. from having to drink alone. I would crash around ten on a Saturday night (or a Tuesday night....or Thursday....or Wednesday), and when I got up in the morning, D. and Schotts would be bleary eyed, the kitchen counter littered with empty beer bottles. Bottle King made a lot of money while Schotts lived here, and I think the man who picks up the recycling was starting to get pissed at the amount of glass we were putting out every other week. It was like a frat house for two, but without the chicks or hazing.

On the few occasions when I was able to stay up after the kids went to sleep, Schotts and I found common ground in literature (I read it, he wanted to some day) and snacks. Any time I had a crazy pregnant craving, there was a pretty good chance that Schotts could be convinced of the need for a trip to the store. One Saturday night, after downing several beers, Schotts agreed that we needed to take a drive to McDonald's. After ordering burgers and fries...and a hot fudge sundae...and a dozen chocolate chip cookies, we sat in the car waiting for what seemed like ages for our food to be ready.
"What is taking so long for your sundae?" Schotts wondered. "They're pre-made, they should have just handed it to you."
"They're pre-made?" I questioned, incredulous.
"Yeah. They're pre-made."
"They pre-make the HOT FUDGE sundaes?" I was starting to laugh.
"Yes. They do," he insisted.
At this point, I was laughing so hard I had to cross my legs to keep from peeing.
"You are really drunk. Do you even understand the stupidity of what you're saying right now?"
"What? They pre-make the sundaes."
I was crying and wheezing with laughter.
"Schotts. It's ice cream. Cold ice cream. With HOT fudge. They pre-make the hot fudge sundaes? Really?"
The cashier opened the window and handed me my sundae.
"Touch the fudge." Schotts was dead serious.
I opened my sundae and touched the fudge. It was cold and rock hard.
"Huh. That's not hot at all. I guess the sundaes are pre-made."
"Don't ever question my knowledge of McDonald's products." He had earned my respect, at least as it pertained to fast food.

All told, I think Schotts ended up living in our attic for three weeks before moving to his new place in the city. He's been back to visit a couple of times, getting a dose of family life and some free beer. He is a nice, thoroughly MidWestern guy. Polite and kind-hearted, loyal to his high school sweetheart, even though she's in grad school in Ohio, it is clear that his parents raised him well. Having him live here was an interesting experience for me, giving me a glimpse of what it might be like to have a grown son. I can only hope that my boys turn out to be good guys like Schotts.

But less drunk.

Is there a number I can call to report abuse? Because I'd like to be placed in a foster home.

It's Friday afternoon. The boys have been home for two hours. They have been fighting for one hour and 59 minutes. D. is working late again and won't be home for dinner. I am trying to hold it together but starting to cry and feeling a little desperate.

Me: Boys! You have to stop. I'm not joking. This is not funny.
Moon: Why does he always have to follow me? I hate it.
Peanut: Blahblahblahblahblah (his actual words).
Me, officially crying: Look, I am close to the edge. If you continue to push me I am going to go over.
Peanut: Oh yeah? Where?
Me: silence
Peanut: That's what I thought. You're not going anywhere.

Who do I call to get this health teacher fired?

Peanut: Hey mom! Today, in health class, we learned about drugs. Did you know that cigarettes are a drug? Mrs. Reilly showed us real tar and a real cigarette and she put it in a stuffed animal's mouth. I wish she wouldn't have told us about tar because it's making me want to throw up.
Me: Oh, good. I'm glad you're learning about smoking. It's nasty. Cigarettes are disgusting.
Peanut: Drugs are bad. You shouldn't use them.
Me: That's right.
Peanut: Mom, did you know that caffeine is a drug?
Me: I guess, technically, it is.
Peanut: So, when you drink caffeine soda you're doing drugs.
Me: Not quite the same thing. Caffeine isn't going to kill you. Cigarettes give you cancer, caffeine doesn't.
Peanut: I know. Also, you shouldn't drink beer or wine because alcohol is a drug.
Me: Woah, woah, woah. Not all drugs are bad. Some are just bad for kids.
Peanut: No, all drugs are bad.
Me: What about your medicine for asthma? Did you know that medicines are drugs?
Peanut: Yes.
Me: So, should you stop taking your asthma medicine because it's a drug, or should you keep taking it because it helps you?
Peanut: Keep taking it. But beer and wine are bad drugs.
Me: Only for kids. Alcohol is like medicine for moms and dads.

Straight from the horse's mouth

Watching "Ace of Cakes" with Peanut, who loves to cook:
Me: What do you think about those fancy cakes? Do you want to make cakes like that when you grow up?
Peanut: No.
Me: No? What do you want to be when you grow up?
Peanut: I don't know.
Me: Do you want to be a chef?
Peanut: No. Stop asking. I don't know what I want to be.
D: You don't need to know yet.
Me: You know what, I don't know what I want to be when I grow up.
Peanut: You already grew up.
Me: Well, that's a bummer, because I still don't know what I want to be.
Peanut: You're nothing. Dad has to go to work and you don't have a babysitter, so you're nothing.

Maybe they should lower the voting age

Moon: We are having a mock election at school tomorrow.
Me: Oh yeah? Do you know who you're voting for?
Moon: I'm definitely voting for Obama.
Me: What made you choose Obama? Is it because Mom and Dad support him?
Moon: No. He's going to lower taxes for the middle class and he has a better plan for health care.

It could have been worse

Peanut: Hey, Mom, we read this White House book at school today, and then we used these cards to choose who we wanted.
Me: You had a mock election.
Peanut: Yeah.
Me: Who did you vote for.
Peanut: I'm not telling.
Me: Why? Did you vote for McCain?
Peanut: No.
Me: Did you vote for Obama?
Peanut: Yes.
Me: Do you know who won?
Peanut: No, not yet, but Obama's going to win because everybody wants him.
Me: That's good.
Peanut: Do you know what Stephen did?
Me: Do I want to know?
Peanut: He voted for McCain.

I cannot even tell you how relieved I am that Stephen did not put John McCain in his anus.

Oh, Snap!

D: Peanut, what are these guys over here? Did you draw these?
Moon: That looks stupid.
Me: Moon, shut it.
Moon: What? He does. It just looks stupid.
Me: If you can't say anything nice, shut your hole.
Moon: I mean it in a good way. He looks stupid.
Me: There's no good way to mean that.
Moon: I'm just saying, he looks stupid.
D: Your drawings weren't all that great when you were five, either.
Moon: I'm not saying it's a bad drawing. Just that he looks stupid.
Peanut: Oh, are you saying that this guy looks like he's stupid?
Moon: Yeah.
Peanut: It's you.

Taa Daa!

In today's mail, Peanut received a birthday party invitation from Stephen. I'm hesitant to let him go, as that Stephen kid seems like kind of a sicko. But, if he does go, I'm thinking this would be an appropriate gift:

.

Or perhaps this:
.

D. thinks the parents should hire Tommy Knuckles (everyone's favorite local magician) to pull a rabbit out of Stephen's ass.

What are they teaching these kids?

Moon: Hey Mom, you wanna know the four STAR steps to prevent bullying?

S-Stick together.
T-Tell the bully to stop.
A-Alert an adult.
R-Revenge.

Don't let her lick your face

In the midst of assembling hamburger patties for last night's dinner, I heard an ominous sound erupt from the business end of The Baby. It only took a quick glance to see that he was swimming in dookie. After a brief panic, I figured that the best way to handle the situation would be to wrap The Baby in paper towels and rush him to the bathtub, dealing with the mess in the bouncy seat later. After a head-to-toe de-pooping in the upstairs bathroom, I was ready to tackle the poop puddle in the chair.

When I came downstairs, the bouncy seat looked like this:



Gross, right? You know what's really gross? When I left, there was a pool of poop. When I got back, only a poop stain. What happened in the interim?

The dog.


I also left this on the kitchen counter:



Two and a half pounds of juicy, delicious, raw hamburger patties. A canine's dream. My dog could have had a huge pile of seasoned raw meat. She chose poop.

Farting the alphabet

Peanut: It's "F" week at school. For "F" week, I'm going to fart in a bag and bring it in.
Me: Nobody can see a fart.
Peanut: For "B" week, I pulled down my pants and showed everyone my butt.
Me: You're such a liar.
D: If you did that you would have gone straight to the principal's office.
Peanut: I didn't, but Stephen did. For "A" week, he showed everyone his anus. And his wiener.
Me: Clearly, Stephen doesn't know the alphabet.
Peanut: He did. For "B" week he showed his butt and he had to go to the office.
Moon: What did he do for "C" week?
Peanut: Oh, for "C" week he just put some candy in his anus.
Moon, laughing: Candy in his anus.
Peanut, laughing: And for "E" week, Stephen put an elephant in his anus.
Me, not wanting my son to mess up the alphabet: Wait, wait, wait. What happened to "D" week? Was Stephen absent for "D" week?
D: He was at the Dr. having things removed from his anus.

I told him not to buy it

Peanut, three weeks ago: Mom, will you put some batteries in my Furby?

Peanut, two weeks ago: Mo-om, did you buy batteries for my Furby yet?

Peanut, one week ago: MOM! Will you puhlease get some batteries for my Furby?

Peanut, today: Mom, Dad bought batteries yesterday. Will you put them in my Furby?

Peanut, today, five minutes later and terrified: Mom, I can't find the off switch on my Furby.

Furby: Doo doo doo dee doo doo doo. Hey, party!

Me: He doesn't have an off switch.

Furby: Whee!

Peanut: Take his batteries out.

Furby: Hello. Whee! Again, Again!

Me: I just put them in. He's cool. Play with your Furby.

Furby: Bee bee bee boo boo boo.

Peanut: MOM! Take his batteries out.

Me: Stop. Your baby brother thinks he's cool. Leave the batteries in.

Furby: Whee! Me name Cocoa. Whee!

Peanut, starting to tear up: Mom, now that I know what he does, I just want to take his batteries out.

Me: But you've been bugging me for weeks to put his batteries in.

Peanut, tears running down his face, sniffing up boogers: But he just won't leave me alone.

Furby: Cocoa Whee! Party! Again!

Joke of the day

Courtesy of Peanut:

Why did the rich parents put their kid in the freezer?

Because they didn't want him to get spoiled.

Ba dum bum.

Mr. President

Peanut: Dad is old enough to be President.
Moon: Yeah, but he can't because you have to have lots of money to run for President.
Me: You don't technically have to have lots of money, you just have to convince people to give you lots of money.
Moon: Oh, so the people who want you to win just give you money?
Me: Yes, but they usually give you money because they want you to do something for them.
Peanut: So, Dad could be President.
Me: Yes, he could. But what about Mom? Couldn't I be President?
Peanut: No. You're not old.

The artist strikes again....and again....and again

What happens when you leave a creative child who likes to stab things completely free from qualified parental supervision?

Apple Sculpture:



I'll have to think of something other than shish kebobs for dinner tomorrow.

Shazaam!

KaSnap! is never a good noise, especially as it pertains to children. KaSnap! is the sound of someone breaking something important, like fine china, or their femur. Apparently, it's also the sound of an Epi-Pen.

Me: Moon, come on, get your guitar, I have to get you to class.
Moon, never looking up from Gameboy: K.
Me: Seriously. Moon, Peanut, come on, let's go.

KASNAP!

Peanut: OWWWWWWW! OWWWWWWW! OWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!
Me, running into kitchen: What happened? Are you okay?
Peanut: OWWWWWW! OWWHOWHOWHOWWWW!
Me, taking in the scene: Son of a Bitch! Everyone, shoes, we're going to the ER!
Peanut: NO! NO! NO! It doesn't hurt. OWHOWHOWHOW! I don't need to go.

After everyone is rushed into the car, shoeless, I consider sitting in the ER by myself with three children and decide to call the pediatrician to make sure we need to go. While waiting on hold for an answer from the nurse:

Me: Did it go all the way into your hand?
Peanut: No. It didn't get me at all.
Me: Then why are you screaming?
Peanut: It just scared me. OWWW! ow. I'm fine.
Me: Why is there blood on your hand?
Peanut: owie. It's just from a mosquito that bit me last night.
Me: Peanut, I can see the hole in your hand where the needle went in.
Peanut: Mosquito bite.

At this point, the dr. tells us that an ER trip is probably not necessary, but I should watch him closely for any unusual symptoms. So now, I'm sitting on the couch across from him, wondering if falling into an immediate and deep sleep qualifies as an "unusual" symptom. And I'm wondering if it is "unusual" how I'm going to get a sleeping baby and a sleeping toddler to the ER by myself. And finally, I'm thinking of writing to the makers of Epi-Pen and asking if they would consider manufacturing a version that, when injected, makes a less frightening noise like, "ah-choo," or "shazaam."

4th Grade Dud

Moon lost.

Guess he should have let Mom help out with that speech writing.

BFFs

School nurse on the phone for the third time in three weeks: Hello? Mrs. Peanut's mom?
Me: Yes?
Nurse: Hi, this is the nurse from Peanut's school. You don't need to come get him this time, but I just wanted to let you know I have Peanut in my office. He says he threw up.
Me: Does he have the flu?
Nurse: Well, he seems to be fine, and nobody actually saw him do it, but I just wanted to let you know, he says he went in the bathroom and threw up.
Me: But he doesn't seem sick?
Nurse: No. Like I said, nobody really saw him throw up.
Me, lightbulb clicking on: Was he eating lunch?
Nurse: Yes, it was at lunch time.
Me: I'm pretty sure he probably did throw up then. But he's not sick.
Nurse: Oh?
Me: He makes himself vomit.
Nurse: Pardon me?
Me: It's just this thing he does.
Nurse: What do you mean?
Me: When he eats a meal and he decides he doesn't like it anymore he makes himself throw up. He'll eat everything except the last bite and then decide it's disgusting. Then he gags until he throws up.
Nurse: He makes himself throw up?
Me: Yes. If he doesn't want to eat something, he will gag himself until he vomits. It's not uncommon for him to throw up on the dinner table.
Nurse: Are you doing something about this?
Me: We're ignoring it in hopes that it will go away.
Nurse: Oh. Hm. Well, I guess this is a good thing for me to know about him.
Me: Add it to the list. You two are going to be spending a lot of time together.

You'd think I would learn

Peanut, playing with Play-Doh at the dining room table: Mom, look, it's a person. Here's the head, and here's the arms, and here's the legs.

Me: Oh, cool. I can see the person. That's very good. Who is it?

Peanut: You.

Me: You made me out of Play-Doh?

Peanut: Yep. You're not very nice looking.

D: Peanut, you don't say things like that to your Mother.

Me: It's okay, I haven't had anything to blog about in awhile.

Peanut: Oh, no, you're not blogging this. I won't let you. I just ripped your head off.

He hasn't seen Superbad...

...but now he's drawing dicks.





"Aw, come on, that's just a guy with one leg," you say.

Nope. It's a penis. A big red one.

How do I know?

Because Peanut told me.

He's very proud of his dick drawing.

2048

Moon is running for Student Council. His campaign slogan:

Vote 4 "Moon;" 4TH GRADE STUDent Council.

I see the Presidency in his future.

Dear Mr. Ice Cream Man

Do you accept childrens' tears as a payment method? If so, I have a whole bottle of them and would like to purchase a frozen novelty.

If not, please quit parking in front of my kid's school at dismissal time every day, you evil, heartless, bastard.

Thank you.

Ingrate

Me: Just let me know what you need help with for your Student Council campaign. Dad is really good at drawing and I'm sure he'd be happy to help you make your poster. And if you want, I'll help you write your speech.

Moon: Or, I could have Dad help me with my speech since he does that sort of thing every day.

Me: Well, Daddy doesn't really do speech writing.

Moon: No, but he does a lot of talking to people every day.

Me: Yeah, but that's different. He's just talking to clients about what he knows and how he can help them. He's not really "writing" speeches. Mom is more the writer type.

Moon: But Dad could help me with my speech. He's good at that sort of thing.

Me: Yeah, but I always did well in school when it came to speech writing and public speaking. I could help you.

Moon: Mmm, yeah, I think I'll just get Dad to help me.

OMG

Rainy day, picking the boys up from school:
Peanut: Mom, why did you park so far away?
Me: Because it's the closest spot that was available when I got here.
Peanut: It was not. There's a spot right there.
Me: There was a car parked in that spot earlier.
Peanut: Well, what about that spot next to the tree? You could have parked there.
Me: There was a car in that spot, too.
Peanut, with a totally awesome valley girl accent: O...M...G...
Me: Seriously? We're doing "OMG" now?
Peanut: What? Mason says it.
Me: OMG.

The first week of kindergarten

In the car before school this morning:
Peanut, putting his head down: Mom, I'm really going to miss you today.
Me: You are not.
Peanut putting his head down further and "crying": Yes I am.
Me: You don't even like me when you're at home with me.
Peanut, picking his head up, laughing and jumping out of the car: I know.

Annie, are you ok?

Today, I saw the dumbest thing I've ever seen anyone do in public. I saw an overweight chick wearing ill fitting pants, carrying a baby around in a sling, absentmindedly dancing to Michael Jackson while walking around the thrift store. I didn't know just how dumb it looked until I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

So predictable

Me: So, did you make any new friends at school today?
Peanut: Yeah, just one.
Me: Are you friends with Andrew?
Peanut: No.
Me: He's our neighbor, you know. He lives just a few houses away.
Peanut: Hey Mom, guess what? Andrew had this shirt on that had all the planets on the back and guess what it said?
Me, already knowing the answer: What?
Peanut: It said Uranus. Ur-Anus. Ur-slash-anus. Get it? It did. Really. It said Uranus.

I'm skeered

In five hours, Peanut has changed his pants four times. The bathroom reeks of honey scented air freshener. The shower curtain is slightly askew.

As a mother, I should investigate.

As a person with a strong gag reflex, I'm going to pretend I didn't notice anything wrong and wait for D. to get home from his business trip.

I'm sure that whatever's waiting for me in that bathroom will keep until tomorrow.

You know you're not getting enough sleep

When you yell at your son, for the hundredth time, to please, please, PLEASE put some pants on, and then for some reason you look down, and you realize that you, in fact, are not actually wearing any pants either, and you're not quite sure when or why you took them off, or where you put them, you know you're not getting enough sleep.

I didn't shake it

I was in the middle of cleaning out the boys' closet, so I didn't ask questions. Moon told me there was red water on the stairway landing. Without looking, I had Peanut get a paper towel and wipe it up. I didn't question how the water got there, or how it got red.

When I saw the stains all over Peanut's white shirt I did ask how they got there. He shrugged his shoulders and told me he didn't know, so I left it at that.

In the bathroom garbage, there was a pile of spit-covered, chewed up fruit snacks. I rolled my eyes and assumed that Peanut had made himself barf again.

It wasn't until I saw the scene on the stairway that everything came together.

Me, empty water bottle in hand: I can't keep up.
D: What?
Me: The messes. It's like having a tornado in the house.
D: What happened?
Me: Peanut chewed up fruit snacks, spit them into this bottle full of water, shook it up, and then dumped it all over the landing.
Peanut. I DID NOT. I didn't shake it.

Developing an expansive vocabulary

Peanut: Mom, when is dinner going to be ready?
Me: In a few minutes.
Peanut: You're a dunderhead.


At least he didn't call me an anus.

Seriously?

Just inside Barnes & Noble.

Moon, giggling: Mom, look.
Me: What?
Moon, still giggling and nodding toward a stack of books: Look.
Me, looking in same direction: What?

Moon nods his head toward a book.
Me: What?

Moon covers his mouth and his shoulders start to shake with laughter.
Me: What?

I take a harder look at the stack of books, trying to figure out what's so damn funny.
Me: Oh, seriously?

Moon is laughing even harder.
Me: Seriously? It's that funny? "Dick" Francis?

Walmart nation

Peanut: Mom, when's my Jenga Fett costume coming?
Me: I don't know. In a couple of days.
Peanut: It should be here today.
Me: It just shipped out yesterday.
Moon: From where?
Me: I'm not sure.
Peanut: From China.
Moon: It's not coming from China.
Peanut: Don't you know? Everything comes from China. Duh!

I'm old

When I was in college, I used to get really drunk and send out nonsensical e-mails at 4 a.m. Now I'm more mature. I get drunk and write nonsensical blog posts at 8 p.m.

Moon: Is Dad really going to take me to Cold Stone Creamery?
Me: Not until you eat all your ice cream.
Moon: Not until I eat all my ice cream?
Me: That's right.
Moon, with a smirk: Not until I eat all my ice cream?
Me: Mommy had Sangria. Back off.

Will party for cash

Peanut, opening card that arrived in the mail: Ugh, Sophie's having another birthday party.
Me: That's a Thank You card, not an invitation.
Peanut looks inside card, throws it down on table and walks away: Ah, d-word. No money.

Other peoples' children...Part II

Sometimes I really enjoy hanging out with other peoples' children. It makes me feel like mine might be "normal." Today, I invited my neighbor to bring her three children to the park with us. Her two oldest kids decided to ride in our car. During this five minute drive, I learned that the neighbor boy is amusingly gross, and Peanut is not yet old enough to grasp the concept of irony.

Oldest Neighbor Boy: I like to pick my nose and eat it. Boogers taste good. They're perfect and salty. Eating your boogers is easier than getting up to put them in the trash. One time I ate a red one. Red means it's bloody. See (at this point he offers a demonstration of just exactly how he picks his boogers and eats them).

Peanut: Neighbor Boy, that is disgusting!

It is disgusting, but I don't think you have room to judge when you have a booger wall.

My budding Pic-ass-o

Peanut: Look, Mom. I made this for you.
Me: Oh, that's beautiful. Great job. Who is it a picture of?
Peanut: You. I drew you.
Me: Awesome. That's so cool. Look, you even gave me a rainbow head. I love it.
Peanut: Yep. You also have a fart coming out of your anus. See those three lines. That's a fart.

At least someone finds it funny

I am clearly an idiot. My children needed school supplies (we got the list with $50 worth of stuff that they each MUST have to succeed during this school year. With the absurd amount of taxes we pay, you'd think the school could provide pencils and paper, but, I digress) so I decided that today would be a good day to head to the store. With all three boys, and no other adults. I know. I could probably stop the story right here, because anyone with sense in their head knows you just don't take three boys shopping. Ever.

The trip went exactly the way you think it did. The baby fussed, cried, shit on my hand while having his diaper changed, and refused to ride in the stroller. Peanut yelled, pestered, begged for candy, exploded a bottle of soda, and acted like an anus. Moon pouted, did sneaky things to injure his brother, and tried to act like he was responsible and mature while covering his face and laughing at Peanut's fart noises.

We went into the dressing room at Target so I could try on some postpartum fat clothes and nurse The Baby. I was grateful for the emptiness of the fitting rooms, as Peanut could not stop shouting. After yelling and giggling for a few minutes, Peanut suddenly looked at me in earnest and asked: "Mom, are you not happy?"
Me: No, I'm not happy.
Peanut: Why not?
Me: Because I'm very tired and embarrassed.
Peanut: Why?
Me: Because I can't take my children out in public.
Peanut: Why not?
Me: Because they insist on running, shouting, tripping, laying on the floor, exploding soda, hitting each other, crying, pulling clothing off the racks, spitting, farting and belching.

Peanut gave me a very loving look, moved closer to my face, and made the loudest fart noise he's capable of producing. Moon laughed so hard that he had to hold himself to keep from peeing his pants. Peanut laughed so hard that his face turned red. After informing them that I didn't find it funny, I heard a woman's voice from somewhere else in the dressing room say, "Well, they sure are making me laugh," followed by the sound of her cracking up. Though she claimed to be laughing at the kids, I suspect that she was actually laughing because she was so filled with joy that the boys were in my dressing room and not hers. Or else she was laughing because she couldn't believe somebody was dumb enough to take three boys out shopping.

We got all the school supplies except backpacks and erasers, which I will be ordering online. Even if I have to pay $7 shipping for $0.99 worth of erasers, I'm ordering online.

In your face

Me: What would you guys like for dinner?
Peanut: Mac & Cheese.
Me: We don't have any left.
Peanut: Yes we do.
Me: No, we don't. You guys ate all four boxes.
Peanut stomps into the kitchen, digs through the cupboard, and returns wielding a box of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese: See! Yes we do! Oh! In your face! You got served! You're such a doofus you don't even know anything!

I am happy to report that Peanut is still alive and relatively uninjured. But, you know that story about the woman who sat on the toilet for two years and her butt grew around the seat? That's likely what will happen to Peanut with the "Time Out" chair, as he's not getting out of it until he's eighteen.

It's probably for the best

Since moving to a different state, we don't get to see our niece as much as we would like. She's a beautiful, smart, sweet little girl, and we all miss watching her grow. Her low-key personality is a big change of pace from our boisterous boys. And my brother-in-law's wife is understandably horrified when my sons teach their cousin potty words like penis, butt & fart, because she just doesn't talk that way (though I might argue that they're just body parts and bodily functions, big whoop).

Driving in the car today, I turned on my booty music cd, being careful to stick to the songs that I think are innocuous, like "Ice, Ice, Baby." The boys find the song hilarious, because it almost sounds like he's saying "Ass, Ass, Baby." When we got to the line, "so fast other DJ's say damn," Peanut was pleased.

Peanut: Oh, d-a-m. He said d-a-m. D-a-m. Mom, he said the D word.
Me: So what?
Peanut: It's a bad word.
Me: Damn, shit, piss, damn, damn, shit, hell(deep belly laughs now roll out of my back seat occupants). They're just words. What is the big stinkin' deal about words?
Peanut: Mom, remember the time when Sam said d-a-m twenty times?
Me: It's d-a-m-n.
Peanut (suddenly serious): Damn, Mom. I know.

We really miss our niece. But it's probably for the best that she doesn't spend too much time with us.

Quote of the day

Me: I did not say that you can't get that. All I said was that I think it's absolutely disgusting to buy stuffed animals from a thrift store and I don't even want to think about how many nasty, filthy germs are on that thing. If you want to get it, get it. I'm just telling you that it is disgusting. (Said to Peanut about buying a second-hand Furby at the exact moment that I was searching for the tag on a 1950's black lace garter belt. I still contend that vintage lingerie is likely far cleaner than some boogery stuffed animal).

Trattoria Rustica

It's the weekend, which means I don't cook. Time for another "restaurant review in one word or less."

Trattoria Rustica on Bloomfield Ave. in Montclair, NJ - "Inflation."

great

When we moved to Jersey last year, there were several major changes we had to adjust to. Gas is full service, and the attendant will even wash your windshield if you ask. Making a left turn is nearly impossible. Road signs are all hidden behind trees. And good Chinese food is hard to find. After trying two or three different carry-out places with horrible results, we decided to turn to the restaurant reviews on baristanet. After clicking through to reviews of several different Chinese places, we decided to go with China Royal in Montclair. Our decision was based on the stellar review written by John D. The full content of his review is as follows:

great.

And you know what? China Royal is great. It's tasty, it's fast, it's affordable, and they bring you free sodas with your order. How great is that?

In the spirit of John D., I will now offer restaurant reviews in one word or less. For my first review:

Red Robin on Route 3 in Clifton, NJ (and every other location) - blech.

Scarred

Can I just throw this out there? I don't get the Jonas Brothers. They're these dorky, floppy haired, unattractive teenagers who pretend to sing and play guitar. Their songs (at least from what I've gathered during the 8 minutes I've been able to stand to watch them on TV) suck. The appeal eludes me.

I recognize that 30 year old women are not their target audience. But even if I try to put myself in the shoes of a pre-pubescent girl, I still just don't get it. I mean, sure, when I was in Jr. High we had our teen idols, too. But Donny Wahlberg was totally hot and had all the dance moves. These Jonas Brothers don't even dance.

In my quest to try to understand what the draw is, I watched part of their free concert on the morning show today. As I stared in confusion, I noticed that Moon, sitting next to me, was also watching. So I asked, "What do you think of this band?"

"I don't know," he replied, looking as if waiting for me to tell him what he should think.

The good parent in me wanted to tell him, "They suck. You hate them," but I really was interested to hear if their music was appealing to a nine year old.

"Do you like these songs?" I probed.

"Uh, I don't know."

"Well, do you think they're good?"

"I don't know. They're ok, I guess."

"Do you think they're cute?"

Moon stared at me as if I were the stupidest human he'd ever encountered. He didn't even need to dignify my question with a verbal response. His face said it all. He did not think they were cute, he's not even into girls yet, let alone dorky boy bands, and he would like me to go die.

Peanut and The Baby are breathing a little easier because I try to only scar one child per day.

A stretch and a yawn

Peanut, nude as usual, and suddenly standing next to me: Mom, why is my penis stretching out?
Me, glancing right, gasping in terror, then rolling my eyes: Because you have a boner, son.
Peanut: What's a boner?
Me: When your penis get hard.
Peanut: Gets hard?
Me: You know. When it stretches out.
Peanut: Oh. I thought it was stretching because it's tired.

Hip Hop, why don't you love me back?

The boys have had friends over for the last two hours, and the friends happen to be the LOUDEST CHILDREN ON THE PLANET. Not only are they loud, they're repetitive. I could maybe deal with the loud, if it weren't two hours of "Skunk in the barnyard, PU" without so much as taking a breath. Lots of shouting without actually saying anything, and I'm about to weep.

I asked for them to tone it down. I told them to shut up. I threatened to take them home immediately. All to no avail. In desperation, I finally gave up and tried to out-noise them by playing booty music on my laptop.

Unfortunately, I made the mistake recently of actually reading the lyrics to some of MP3s I have.

Which brings me to my question. Hip Hop, I love you so very much. Why don't you love me back? You are clearly the best (only) music to dance to. Your beats can make me feel better even when I'm in the worst of moods. You are glorious when mixed with liquor. You are pretty much perfect, except for your dumb-ass lyrics.

Just from my current iTunes playlist:


Eminem, Shake That (I take no offense to the "shake that ass" portion, because really, that's what I want to do when I listen to hip hop):

I'm a menace, a dentist, an oral hygentist
Open your mouth for about four or five minutes
Take a little bit of this flouride rinse
Swish but don't spit it, swallow and I'll finish
Yeah me and Nate d-o double g
Looking for a couple bitches with some double d's
Pop a little champagne and a couple E's
Slip it in her bubbuly, we finna finna have a party

[Verse 5 - Nate Dogg]

Have a party (turn the music up)
Let's get it started (Go head shake your butt)
I'm lookin for a girl I can fuck in my hummer truck
Apple Bottom jeans and a big ol' suck
Some girls they act retarded
Some girls are bout it bout it
I want a bitch that sit at the crib with no panties on
Knows that she can but she won't say no
Now look at this lady all in front of me, sexy as can be
Tonight I want a slut, will you be mine?
I heard you was freaky from a friend of mine

[Bridge - Eminem]

Now I hope you don't get mad at me
But I told Nate you was a freak
He said he wants a slut, hope you don't mind
I told him how you like it from behind


Ying Yang Twins - The Whisper Song

You heard what i said, we need to make our way to the bed
And you can start usin' yo head
You like to fuck, have yo legs open all in da butt
Do it up slappin ass cuz the sex gets rough
Switch the positions and ready to get down to business
So you can see what you've been missin'
You might had some but you never had none like this
Just wait til you see my dick

Ay bitch! wait til you see my dick
Wait til you see my dick
Ay bitch! wait til you see my dick
Imma beat dat pussy up
Ay bitch! wait til you see my dick


> Wait you see my dick
Ay bitch! wait til you see my dick
Imma beat dat pussy up

Like B-AM, B-AM, B-AM, B-AM, B-AM,
B-AM, B-AM, B-AM, B-AM, B-AM, B-AM,
B-AM, B-AM, B-AM, B-AM, B-AM

Beat da pussy up, Beat da pussy up,
Beat da pussy up, Beat da pussy up,
Beat da pussy up, Beat da pussy up,
Beat da pussy
Up, Beat da pussy up

50 Cent - Just a Lil Bit:

You really got me feelin' right.. (ya heard me)
My mama gone you can spend the night (ya heard me)
I ain't playin' I'm tryin' to fuck tonight (ya heard me)
Clothes off, face down, ass up, c'mon (haha)

Hip Hop, I've been defending you for years. As a favor, could you lay off the misogyny please? Otherwise, as a mother of three sons, and a human being with a vagina, I'm going to have to stop listening to you. And I actually pay for the music I download.

I'll take "Scrubbing the Booger Wall," for three M & M's, please

The boys' bedroom has been an increasingly disgusting pigsty for the last few weeks. Initially, I ignored it in hopes that the mess would be sucked into a hole in the time space continuum, never to be seen again. By Saturday, it was apparent that this was not going to happen, and some manual labor was going to be required. I promised myself I would do it Sunday. Then Monday. Today is Tuesday. The room had to be cleaned. I still didn't want to do it. Fortunately, I remembered my friend Jennifer, who is a much more creative parent than I.

Jennifer invented this game for her kids called, "Hidden Temple." Her kids are now savvy enough to realize that it's a tricky way to get them to clean, but mine are not. Woohoo! I had to modify the game a bit so that it's not a direct competition in order to keep Peanut from screaming, stomping, and yelling, "I quit!" after every challenge, but our slightly modified version is still pretty effective.

The kids started at the bottom of the stairs and had to answer a series of age appropriate trivia questions to earn steps forward (toward their bedroom....ooh, so tricky already). Questions were things like: "What is your phone number," or "Spell your name...backwards." Once they reached the top of the stairs, I had a bag of M & M's and a pile of inside out clothes. This was the beginning of the physical challenges. They each had to turn the clothes the right way, strip out of their pajamas, get dressed, and tag my hand. For completing this task, they each received two M & M's.

The next 15 physical challenges got their room picked up in no time, and with no yelling or whining. And I didn't have to lift a finger other than to dole out M & M's at the completion of each challenge. It was a beautiful thing.

Once the room was clean, I still had M & M's in the bag and needed to think of another physical challenge. So, to see just how far we could take Hidden Temple, I had the boys both get wet rags. Once this was accomplished, I put them to work cleaning the Booger Wall.

You know what I'm talking about, right?

It's the wall where your kid wipes all his boogers when he picks his nose while laying in bed at night. Your kid does this, right? Don't tell me your kid puts his boogers on a tissue. Or better yet, yours doesn't even pick his nose. Seriously, don't tell me that because I don't want to hear it. Just nod, and say, "Oh yes, of course, the booger wall. Every child has one of those."

There were a few super crusty boogers that the boys couldn't get off (going to have to get out the paint scraper or some sand paper, I think), but thanks to Hidden Temple, the booger wall is now mostly clean.

As a final prize, both kids got an ice cream sandwich (after washing their hands). So now, I don't have to clean their bedroom, or make them lunch.

And speaking of things that suck

Leaving Post Office after standing in line that didn't move for ten minutes:

Moon: We're leaving?
Me: Yes. The line isn't moving at all.
Peanut: We're not going to go here?
Me: No. The baby is heavy and I don't want to wait any more. There's a really long line and only one person working.
Peanut: Yeah. Their service sucks.

Our medical system really does suck

D. had a minor medical procedure today to prevent any chance of future pregnancies. For this, I am eternally grateful. The entire thing lasted less than two hours, and he has a 2 cm. incision on his balls.

The doctor sent him home with instructions to rest for at least the next 24 hours and a prescription for Vicodin.


Less than three weeks ago, I expelled a living, breathing, eight pound human being from my womb. Labor lasted about six hours and ultimately resulted in my being torn open from my urethra to my anus. I basically had a massive, hemhorraging vaganus.

My discharge instructions were to resume normal activity as tolerated, and take 400 mg of Motrin every four hours for pain.

2 cm. nut cut = Vicodin
4 in. vaganus = Motrin

Our medical system sucks.

What I hate about breastfeeding

I don't mind that each of my breasts is larger than my baby's head.

I don't mind that I will spend roughly three solid months of the next year with a baby attached to my boob.

I don't mind that my nipples hurt.

I don't mind that every time my baby latches on it is still so painful that it makes my toes curl.

I don't mind that every time my baby comes close to emptying a breast it just fills right back up again.

I don't mind that I'm producing enough milk to solve the world hunger crisis.

I don't mind that I have to wear ugly bras with flaps.

I don't mind that no matter how hard I try to be discreet, everyone ends up seeing my nipples.

I don't mind that on a daily basis milk leaks through my bra and shirt, then drips onto my pants.

What I hate about breastfeeding is that the fucking dog won't stop sniffing my tits.

Playing along with Kim

From my writer-friend, Kim:
Below is the list of Entertainment Weekly’s 100 “new classics.” Bold the ones you have read. Place an asterisk next to the ones you have loved. Italicize the ones you want to read. Strike the ones you hated with a fiery passion. And always, if you are so inclined, post this meme on your own blog and leave a link to your answers in the comments.

1. The Road , Cormac McCarthy (2006)
2. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, J.K. Rowling (2000)
3. Beloved, Toni Morrison (1987)
4. The Liars’ Club, Mary Karr (1995)
5. American Pastoral, Philip Roth (1997)
6. Mystic River, Dennis Lehane (2001)
7. Maus, Art Spiegelman (1986/1991)*
8. Selected Stories, Alice Munro (1996)
9. Cold Mountain, Charles Frazier (1997)
10. The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, Haruki Murakami (1997)
11. Into Thin Air, Jon Krakauer (1997)
12. Blindness, José Saramago
13. Watchmen, Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons (1986-87)
14. Black Water, Joyce Carol Oates (1992)
15. A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, Dave Eggers (2000)
16. The Handmaid’s Tale, Margaret Atwood (1986)
17. Love in the Time of Cholera, Gabriel García Márquez*
18. Rabbit at Rest, John Updike (1990) - hated all Rabbit books
19. On Beauty, Zadie Smith (2005)
20. Bridget Jones’s Diary, Helen Fielding
21. On Writing, Stephen King (2000)
22. The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, Junot Díaz (2007)
23. The Ghost Road, Pat Barker (1996)
24. Lonesome Dove, Larry McMurtry (1985)
25. The Joy Luck Club, Amy Tan (1989)
26. Neuromancer, William Gibson (1984)
27. Possession, A.S. Byatt (1990)
28. Naked, David Sedaris (1997)
29. Bel Canto, Anne Patchett (2001)
30. Case Histories, Kate Atkinson (2004)
31. The Things They Carried, Tim O’Brien (1990)*
32. Parting the Waters, Taylor Branch
33. The Year of Magical Thinking, Joan Didion (2005)
34. The Lovely Bones, Alice Sebold (2002) - most fucking hated novel of all time. Did I mention I fucking hate this novel? The only other novel I hate as much as this is "The Crimson Petal and The White"
35. The Line of Beauty, Alan Hollinghurst (2004)
36. Angela’s Ashes, Frank McCourt (1996)
37. Persepolis, Marjane Satrapi (2003)
38. Birds of America, Lorrie Moore
39. Interpreter of Maladies, Jhumpa Lahiri (2000)
40. His Dark Materials, Philip Pullman (1995-2000)
41. The House on Mango Street, Sandra Cisneros (1984)
42. LaBrava, Elmore Leonard (1983)
43. Borrowed Time, Paul Monette
44. Praying for Sheetrock, Melissa Fay Greene (1991)
45. Eva Luna, Isabel Allende
46. Sandman, Neil Gaiman (1988-1996)
47. World’s Fair, E.L. Doctorow (1985)
48. The Poisonwood Bible, Barbara Kingsolver
49. Clockers, Richard Price (1992)
50. The Corrections, Jonathan Franzen (2001)
51. The Journalist and the Murderer, Janet Malcom (1990)
52. Waiting to Exhale, Terry McMillan (1992)
53. The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, Michael Chabon (2000)
54. Jimmy Corrigan, Chris Ware (2000)
55. The Glass Castle, Jeannette Walls (2006) - own it
56. The Night Manager, John le Carré (1993)
57. The Bonfire of the Vanities, Tom Wolfe (1987)
58. Drop City, TC Boyle (2003)
59. Krik? Krak! Edwidge Danticat (1995)
60. Nickel & Dimed, Barbara Ehrenreich (2001)
61. Money, Martin Amis (1985)
62. Last Train To Memphis, Peter Guralnick (1994)
63. Pastoralia, George Saunders (2000)
64. Underworld, Don DeLillo (1997)
65. The Giver, Lois Lowry (1993)
66. A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again, David Foster Wallace (1997)
67. The Kite Runner, Khaled Hosseini (2003)
68. Fun Home, Alison Bechdel (2006)
69. Secret History, Donna Tartt (1992)
70. Cloud Atlas, David Mitchell (2004)
71. The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down, Ann Fadiman (1997)
72. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, Mark Haddon (2003)
73. A Prayer for Owen Meany, John Irving (1989)* - Irving is always a fun read, even though he makes everything way too tidy
74. Friday Night Lights, H.G. Bissinger (1990)
75. Cathedral, Raymond Carver (1983)
76. A Sight for Sore Eyes, Ruth Rendell
77. The Remains of the Day, Kazuo Ishiguro (1989)
78. Eat, Pray, Love, Elizabeth Gilbert (2006)
79. The Tipping Point, Malcolm Gladwell (2000)
80. Bright Lights, Big City, Jay McInerney (1984)
81. Backlash, Susan Faludi (1991)
82. Atonement, Ian McEwan (2002)
83. The Stone Diaries, Carol Shields (1994) - own it
84. Holes, Louis Sachar
85. Gilead, Marilynne Robinson (2004)
86. And the Band Played On, Randy Shilts (1987)
87. The Ruins, Scott Smith (2006)
88. High Fidelity, Nick Hornby (1995)
89. Close Range, Annie Proulx (1999)
90. Comfort Me With Apples, Ruth Reichl (2001)
91. Random Family, Adrian Nicole LeBlanc (2003)
92. Presumed Innocent, Scott Turow (1987)
93. A Thousand Acres, Jane Smiley (1991)
94. Fast Food Nation, Eric Schlosser (2001)
95. Kaaterskill Falls, Allegra Goodman
96. The Da Vinci Code, Dan Brown (2003)
97. Jesus’ Son, Denis Johnson (1992)
98. The Predators’ Ball, Connie Bruck
99. Practical Magic, Alice Hoffman (1995)
100. America (the Book), Jon Stewart/Daily Show (2004)

Some peoples' children

Moon got to have a friend sleep over to celebrate his birthday. He chose M., the annoying one (okay, all of his friends annoy me, but this one is extra annoying). The evening went like this:
6:00 - M.'s mom returns my children, who have spent the last four hours at her house, and drops off M. with his sleeping bag and essentials for the evening.

6:05 - Moon shows off the huge quantity of snacks that were purchased for consumption at his sleepover. He has: Oreos, M & M cookies, Cheetos Puffs, Cheez-its, Tostitos, and lots of soda.

6:06 - M. declares he won't be having any snacks because we didn't buy anything that he likes.

6:10 - I ask M. if he likes Pizza, since the snacks were a total strike-out. He declares his love for pizza. So long as its cheese or pepperoni, and tastes just like the kind that he likes. When prodded for specifics, he says that he only likes Costco pizza.

6:11 - All three boys sit on love seat and play gameboy. Individual gameboys. Without looking at each other, talking, or interacting in any way. It appears to be big fun.

6:40 - Non Costco pizza arrives. When offered a soda, M. declares his hatred for every kind that we have. When offered milk or water, M. informs us of his "problem" with dairy, and requests orange juice (which we don't have). M. ends up with a glass of water.

6:45 - M. picks all pepperoni off pizza and stacks in a pile. Then makes a pile of cheese. M. likes to eat his pizza ingredients in seperate portions.

6:55 - Dessert is offered. M. wants ice cream, despite his dairy "problem." Informs us that dairy just makes it hard to poop. Opts for vanilla ice cream, because he doesn't like the kinds that we have.

7:00 - The video gaming begins. M. decides that he must kneel on the ottoman in order to play. When I suggest that the boys remove some of their stuff from the ottoman to make room, M. informs me that it's okay, his house is every bit as messy as ours, so he's used to it.

10:00 - D. suggests that Peanut be allowed a turn at the video game, as he has waited patiently for THREE HOURS. M. assures us that Peanut doesn't need a turn, as he can play the game any time he wants.

10:30 - I retire to my room to nurse The Baby, so as not to traumatize M. with the appearance of my freakishly massive jugs.

10:35 - M. barges into the room where I'm nursing and says, "Excuse me, I understand you have the trays to make popscicles. Could you make me some. My mom makes them all the time and I really like them. If you make them now they would be ready in time for me to eat them tomorrow before I go home. They're good with orange juice, but since you don't have any, you could at least try to make them with rootbeer." I reply, "No."

11:00 - The boys are told to turn off the games, brush their teeth, and go to bed.

11:55 - The boys finally spread out their sleeping bags and lay down.

12:00 - Peanut complains that M. has his comforter from his bed and won't give it back. M. yells that we should explain to Peanut that he needs the comforter for padding under his sleeping bag and Peanut should just go without.

12:01 a.m. - We make M. give Peanut his comforter back.

5:45 - M. is wide awake.

6:00 - M. wakes Moon up so they can play gameboy.

6:01 - I tell the boys there's no way in Hell they're getting up this early or playing video games and force them to go back to sleep.

8:00 - The boys are all up for the day with nowhere near enough sleep. Video gaming commences.

8:30 - M. barges in on me while nursing (again), and says, "Um, excuse me, my mom is going to be here in a little while, and I'm pretty hungry. Can you get up and make me some breakfast?" I say, "You're nine. Make your own breakfast."

9:00 - D. gets up and cooks homemade waffles for the boys. M. says, "Um, excuse me, can you please heat up my syrup?" D. says, "We don't do that here."

10:00 - M.'s mother arrives to pick him up. We tell her that M. is a joy, and we're glad to have him any time. They leave, then we breathe a sigh of relief, compare notes on the audacity of other peoples' children, and vow to never do this again.

10:01 - I realize that my children were at M.'s house for four hours the day before, and Peanut uses the word "Anus" in every sentence as noun, verb & adjective. And he throws in the occasional "penis, fart, butt, poop," as needed. I remember that M.'s mom gave my children snacks. And realize that Peanut announces he is finished with a food by gagging on it until he nearly vomits (or actually vomits), and spits the food in the garbage can. I remember that if he's not allowed to regurgitate his last bite in a garbage can, he will throw-up on the table.

10:02 - I remember something about glass houses and stones.

10:03 - I congratulate myself on the fact that Moon is a really nice kid.

Breaking up is hard to do (even with caller ID)

Now that school is out, I'm not ambushed daily by the Pushy European (P-Eu). However, she still has my phone number. And my cell phone number. After avoiding her for two weeks, I made the mistake of answering the phone three days after The Baby was born. It was P-Eu, of course, inviting Peanut over to her house for a play date. Knowing that Peanut had his nose out of joint about The Baby, I figured some time away would do him good. P-Eu even kindly offered to pick him up and bring him home so I wouldn't have to leave the house.

She showed up an hour late as usual. P-Eu Jr. climbed up her skirt and showed everyone her thong-clad Euro-ass. And then she tried to leave with my kid. In her tiny red convertible Euro-car. The one that has no seatbelts.

When I looked out the window and saw them climbing into the car of death, I waddled my postpartum self outside to stop them from leaving.

Me: Uh, wait, does that car have seatbelts?
P-Eu: Oh, no, it doesn't. Are you not okay with that?
Me: Um, no, not really.
P-Eu: Oh, well how about I have him ride in the front seat, it has a seatbelt.
Me: Hm. Well, he's not really supposed to ride in the front seat, either. No, I'm sorry, he just can't do that.

Seeing Peanut's face fall, I volunteered, three days postpartum, to follow P-Eu in my car and drop Peanut off at her house, even though driving was very uncomfortable for my crotch (yeah, I said crotch, deal with it).

I dropped him off, came home, and was pissed. I bitched to anyone who would listen about how that crazy P-Eu wanted to drive my child around in her death car. I badmouthed her mothering skills and her inability to follow the laws of this, our beautiful nation, as if I have room to criticize anyone. And I vowed to break up with P-Eu.

But, I didn't plan to actually tell her I'm dumping her. No, I prefer to take the passive aggressive route and just avoid her calls. She must have been embarrassed by the car incident, because she didn't call for an entire week. And when her name started showing up on the caller ID again, I didn't answer the phone. Problem solved.

Then the bitch got wily.

She called from her cell phone. And D. was home from work and didn't know any better, since her name doesn't show up when she calls from her cell. D. answered the phone and BAM!, my break-up plan was ruined.

I was even feeling a little weak, and considering letting Peanut have a play date with P-Eu Jr. After all, he's a nice kid. He can't be blamed for his mother's hyper-aggressiveness and complete lack of consideration for other people. Sure, a play date would probably be fine.

Except, P-Eu wanted a play date that day. When I told her no-go, we had plans to go to the library, she asked if I could take P-Eu Jr. with us. See, she wanted to attend a class, and if she couldn't find someone to take P-Eu Jr. she would have to hire a babysitter.

11 days postpartum, with three kids and a sore crotch (yeah, I said it again), P-Eu asked me to babysit. That takes some serious Euro-balls.

I am so totally breaking up with her.

So, what do you think of your new baby brother?

Moon: He's pretty cute.
Peanut: Pathetic.

And yet another example of our fine parenting skills

Me: I swear to God, if the two of you do not stop this behavior I am signing you up for Vacation Bible School!
D: You can go learn about Jebus. How's that sound?


Five minutes later:

D, to Peanut: Why are you afraid to go up on the third floor? You have the dog with you. The Boogey Man will eat her first.

Oh no he din't

D., laughing, while watching me get dressed: Wow, those underwear are HUGE! I mean, really, they're just huge.

Ohh...bada bing!

Moon had a pizza party with his baseball team this afternoon at The Town Pub. Since the team was in the party room, I took peanut out into the main part of the restaurant to have some dinner. Halfway through the meal, a couple of guys sitting at the bar got into a heated debate about the fucking Yankees. I'd give you some dialogue snippets, but I know jack about the Yankees, and all I could really understand was a lot of "fuck" and "bullshit," (which both sound far more vulgar and impressive when shouted in an authentic drunken Jersey accent) Some bizarre motherly instinct took over, and I had to stop myself from telling them to watch their language. What kept me from speaking up was that:

A: I realized we were at a bar. A sports bar. In New Jersey. The clientele consisted mainly of plumbers, bikers, and a dude wearing a Roger Waters "Dark Side of the Moon" T-shirt.

B: My kids hear me say "fuck" every time I get really angry. Which has been three times already in the 2.5 hours they've been on summer vacation.

C: On the way to the bar, while pondering what the mascot might be for his new school, Peanut suggested they were likely called the "Forest Elementary F-Words."

So, I guess I'll leave the chastising of beligerent drunks to a mother who doesn't have a toilet mouth.

For the record, as the two guys became more heated (i.e., louder, more vulgar, and even less coherent), it was obvious that the plumbers and the biker were deeply offended. And the guy in the Roger Waters shirt got up and left in disgust. But the kids from Moon's baseball team thought it was awesome and kept trying to sneak out of the party room to listen. And I was pretty hungry, so I sat there and finished my pizza.

When in Jersey....bada bing!

Someone's been shitting in my bed....and it's still there!

Here's a funny story. It's just like Goldilocks, if Goldilocks were a five year old boy who refused to wear pants.

I'm feeling a little tired today. 38 weeks pregnant, enormous, mean, etc. It's the last day of schoool, both boys were home by 12:30, I figured they could entertain each other if I laid down for a few minutes.

Crawled into bed on my husband's side, turned on the tv (which still doesn't work....screw you Comcast), and carefully arranged all of the pillows to support the massive mounds of flesh that now comprise my body. After making a few adjustments, more pillows under my stomach, one less under my ass, I was feeling reasonably comfortable. Ready for a quick nap. And then I looked to my left.

And there was...something, funky. Something, not right. Something, crusty. There on our fresh, white cotton sheet, was a skidmark. A crusty, nasty, dirty brown skidmark.

My bladder control may suck, but I know for sure that I did not shit in my bed. And I know D. didn't do it, either. In fact, I can say with absolute certainty that the culprit has to be the only member of our family who insists on running around with no pants.

Peanut, why did you wipe your ass on my bed?

Oh, and here's the part I forgot to mention. Peanut has had pants on all day. He was sitting naked on my bed last night. Right up by the headboard. In between our pillows.

D., we slept with shit last night.

Feel free to go wash your face right now. I know I'm washing mine.

Rayman, Raving Rabbids

According to my children, Rayman, Raving Rabbids, is a very funny game.

Moon: You should dress your rabbit in that.
Peanut: No.
Moon: What about that?
Peanut: No.
Moon: You should at least put some pants on him.
Peanut: NO! My rabbit wants to be naked in public.


Fifteen minutes later.....

Peanut: Mom, you have to watch this.
Moon: Watch, Mom.
Peanut: Mom, watch this.
Me: Mmhmm.
Peanut: No, Mom, you have to watch this.
Me: Okay, I'm watching (I'm not really watching).
Peanut: Mom, watch! You have to watch this.
Me: Okay, I'm watching (only so they'll leave me alone).
Peanut: It's really funny.
Moon, laughing: It's really funny.
Peanut: It's really funny. You have to hit the rabbit right in the anus.


I'm so glad I watched this.

Love is....

It's Father's Day. I didn't buy D. a card. I didn't make a special meal. I didn't give him an extravagant gift.

I did go outside at 37+ weeks pregnant, in muggy, 82 degree heat, and clean up all the dog shit.

That's love.

E.T.

D. and I, laying quietly together in bed, listening to the boys' conversation in the next room:

Moono: Don't punch my nuts.
Peanut: I didn't punch your balls.
Moono: They're not balls, they're nuts.
Peanut: Ha. I punched your balls.
D, hollering: No punching in the testicles, boys!
Moono: Nuts.
Peanut: Balls.
Me, hollering: Testicles! They're called testicles!
Peanut, laughing: Testicles.
Moon, laughing: Testicles.
Peanut, laughing: Testicles.
Moon, laughing: E.T., the Extra Testicle.
Peanut, laughing harder: E.T., the Extra Testicle.
Moon, now hysterical: E.T., the Extra Testicle.
Peanut, also hysterical: E.T., the Extra Ball.

Taco night

Sometime around age eight, boys get funky. They sprout little leg hairs, and they act all squirrelly, and their hygiene becomes highly questionable. Of course, this gets worse by age nine. Moon argues with us about the need for daily showers, and often emerges from the bathroom with a clean body but completely dry hair, necessitating a return trip to wash his head. Despite his resistance, we make the kid wash himself.

His friend, K., is another story. Even more physically mature than a lot of the other boys, K. has reached the point where it seems that he could start considering the use of deodorant. Of course, it's not our place to point this out to him or his parents. So, we just remark on his stinkiness after he leaves. You know, because we're so tactful.

Peanut is not yet versed in the etiquette of only discussing someone's body odor behind their back.

Riding in the car today, on the way home from the movies:

Peanut: What is that smell?
K: What smell?
Peanut: That taco smell. Something smells like tacos.
K: I don't smell it.
Peanut: Is that you, K.? I think you smell like tacos. Ew.

Coincidentally, it's "taco night." I can hardly wait for the smell of seasoned beef to start wafting through the house. Oh, wait, it already is.

Nice rack

I'm not a hugger. Or a kisser. Not actually affectionate, at all. The only exceptions being with my husband and children. I enjoy giving the boys hugs, kisses, tickles and squeezes, and am fortunate to have a husband who is very physically affectionate. Really, no complaints in that arena.

I just don't want anyone else touching me. Not because they're smelly or gross or anything like that. I just have a fairly large area of personal space, and I don't like to have it invaded. Especially by other peoples' arms and lips. Surely, it's a genetic thing.

My people don't hug. We greet with a "hello" and occasionally a handshake. We certainly don't put our lips on each other. We kiss our children for as many years as they'll allow it, but there seems to come a point at which that genetic squeamishness kicks in and our children no longer want to kiss their parents.

I think I last kissed a parent at around age 8. My mother had the nerve to complain about it when I was 12, and actually told me I couldn't leave the house with my friend until I gave her a kiss goodbye. After many tears, I did (under protest), but at that point I would have rather punched her.

Moono is almost 9, and he will still kiss me if I request it, but I can tell he finds it unpleasant, so I try not to push the issue. His hugs have become fake-y, too. He'll tolerate being hugged, but rarely will he squeeze in return. It's ok. I get it. He doesn't like people in his space, and he doesn't walk around smiling for no reason. It's genetics. You can't fight it.

So, I was surprised this weekend when we had a barbecue with my husband's co-worker. She and her fiance are lovely people, fun to hang out with, very friendly, warm and open. This is the second time we've barbecued with them, and the boys seem to feel very comfortable around them. But still, you can't fight genetics.

Imagine my surprise when the co-worker picked up Peanut and gave him a big squeeze, and he hugged her right back. To me, two barbecues is not nearly enough time to be at the "genuine" hugging stage. Apparently, my youngest feels that it is. But he's only five, and hasn't really reached the "hands-off" stage yet. But Moono, he's totally pre-pubescent, awkward, uncomfortable, etc. I figured there was no way she'd manage to pull off a "second-barbecue" hug with him. So it blew my mind when she wrapped her arms around his waist and scooped him up off the floor in a giant squeeze. And, long, gangly legs dangling barely a foot off the floor, Moono put his arms around her neck and squeezed her right back. WTF?

There's part of me that thinks it's really nice that maybe my sons will be warm, openly affectionate people like their father. Maybe they'll be able to kiss their in-laws without needing to wipe their mouths. Maybe they'll be able to give big, hearty greetings to people they just met. Maybe they haven't inherited my need for a wide circle of personal space.

And then there's part of me that thinks they only hugged her because she had a nice rack.

Quote of the day

Actually, it's quotes of the last 2-3 days:

"Wow, another month? You look like you about to explode!" - woman at CVS looking at my stomach in terror

"Woo-hoo! No homework this weekend!" - Moono, 15 minutes before his Spanish teacher called to let me know that he failed to do the project that he's known about for six weeks

"Co-worker X is great. She'll be really successful as long as she doesn't decide to stay at home and make babies." - My husband, with whom I am celebrating our 8th anniversary and about to bear our third child

"Dad, I am NOT telling you what the present is that Mom just bought you at Target." - Peanut, after being repeatedly warned not to blab

"Hey, bro, it's like all the Dads are on drop-off duty today." - Douchebag at morning drop-off, stated while wearing a pastel sweater tied around his neck and fist-bumping another dad. I think he said something about "brewskis", too, but I could just be making that up.

"I bet Dad's buying you a present in New York City today. He's probably doing it on his lunch break." - Moono, while pondering the super-secret anniversary present for his father that we all know was purchased at Target

"Fuck! God damn it. Son of a bitch. I think those are pink." - Me, after buying new "red" crocs for Peanut, cutting the tags off so they can't be returned, and then seeing them outside in natural light

Yeah, that's not really a play date

I'm eight months pregnant today.

I look like this:



Would you ask this ^^^^ to babysit your kid?

If you were an eccentric, pushy European you might. But you'd try to disguise it as a "play date." The conversation would go something like this:

Pushy European (henceforth referred to as P-Eu): The boys should really have a playdate soon.
Me: Uh-huh. Can't do it today.
P-Eu: No. Oh, sure. But maybe tomorrow?
Me: Mmm....no. Can't do tomorrow either. Probably not until late in this week, maybe even next week sometime.
P-Eu: Oh, yes. Late this week would be good. I can't host on Thursday, but maybe P-Eu Jr. could come to your house on Thursday.
Me: Uh, yeah, I guess maybe like an hour on Thursday would be ok.
P-Eu: Ok. Great. I have a thing that I have to go to on Thursday, so maybe I could drop him off while I go to that thing.
Me: Uhh...k. What time are you going to come get him?
P-Eu: Well, my thing is at 2:30.
Me: Uhhh...I have to pick my other son up from school at 3:00 (you know, the son who is in the same class as your older daughter, who you also need to pick up from school at 3:00).
P-Eu: Oh, yes, I suppose I need to pick my daughter up at 3:00 also. I guess I will need to find someone who can pick her up from school. Ok, so I will drop P-Eu Jr. at your house around 1:00 and then he can stay there while I go to my thing, and you can just take him with you when you go to pick up your older son at 3:00, and then I will probably pick him up around, maybe, mmmm...3:30 ish. Yes, that sounds perfect. Great, so they will have a play date on Thursday.
Me: Uhhhh........

As P-Eu walks away, I'm thinking to myself:
A: What the fuck just happened?
B: That's not a play date. THAT IS NOT A PLAY DATE.
C: FUCK!
D: What the fuck just happened?

I really am Jabba the Hut. Huge and spineless.

Q & A

Question:

What does your husband get when you've spent five days with five boys under the age of nine?

Answer:

A vasectomy. Make the appointment, honey. Make....the....appointment.

The terror & the splendor

The splendor:

Dingman's Falls at Delaware Water Gap National Recreation Area


The terror:
[ter-rer] - noun
1. Frozen penis caused by dunking one's body in the Delaware River on the first of June
2. What one must shout, repeatedly, and in a preternaturally high pitch while running out of the Delaware River on the first of June (i.e. ahhh....the terror!....the terror!) holding one's penis
3. Emotion felt by mother when her sons shout in falsetto while holding their penises (penii?) and running out of the Delaware River, and then proceed to run back in and do it all over again.

I could also define "jacuzzi" for you, but instead of going into detail I will just say it involves boys, the Delaware River, and Fiber One bars. Ahh..the terror.