It's been a long week.
Sky King jetted off for a man-cation to bond with his brothers, leaving me with explicit instructions to NOT LET THE CHILDREN DIE.
He takes really good care of me, which is why I was scared to death when he left me for five days.
In the middle of it, I had to take Princess to a MASSIVE Girl Scout event, with 12,000 of her closest Girl Scout Sisters. I survived, without alcohol. (during the event. There was a significant medicinal dose when I got home)
We keep her in Girl Scouts so she doesn't become a stripper. Or if she does, she's the Lead Stripper, like the one to make up new routines, or create new household items to dance around. She would be an innovative stripper. A groundbreaking stripper.
Meanwhile, I signed her up for Cheer Clinic, which might just cancel out the Girl Scouts.
Things are going alright, the kids are still alive. I'm out of clean underwear though.
Right after he left, I noticed the dishes in the dishwasher were dirty. I texted him:
Me: The dishes in the dishwasher are dirty. What do I do?
Him: You're hilarious.
Me: Srsly.
Him: Ummm, run the dishwasher?
Me: Could you be more specific?
Him: Put some dish soap in it, press start. SMH.
About 2 hours later....
Me: I don't think you know how dishwashers work. There are bubbles fucking EVERYWHERE.
Me: What do I do now???
Me: Why are you ignoring me?
Me: I'm waiting.....
Him: Sorry, I got your text while I was being screened at the airport, started swearing, got "special screening", almost missed my flight. Are you completely useless?
Me: Hey, that's unfair. The dishes are REALLY clean now. SO is the floor. You're welcome. BTW, how do I get crumbs off the floor? I was hungry while the dish machine was working, and my sandwich was messy. I didn't have any clean plates.
Him: DON"T DO ANYTHING. I WILL BE HOME TUESDAY. JUST GET TAKE OUT.
So I figured blogging was fairly safe.
How was your weekend?
Monday, April 30, 2012
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Coprophiliacs of the World, Unite!
Can we finally, as a nation, come together on a controversial topic, once and for all?
Poo. It is NOT a toy. Despite what Mattel and Goliath will have you believe:
Doggie Doo is a game where you jam a dough-y like substance into the pooch's mouth. At some point, it comes out the other end. It's Hungry Hungry Hippo, for coprophiliacs*. My question is, is the scooper the winner? Does it also sneak through the house at night, eating dirty panties? I would rather buy my daughter a drum set.
Barbie, sacred maker of all that is achievable, realistic, and not misogynistic AT ALL, gave us Tanner the pooping dog a few years back. You fed it suspiciously poo-like pellets, and then it shat out poo-like pellets. Apparently, the poo-like pellets looked A LOT like chocolate Tic Tacs, because little kids across the country were eating the damned things (future coprophiliacs?) and they had magnets in them, to help them "travel through Tanner's inner workings". Magnets = lead. Lead is no bueno in the world of edible toys. After all, lead paint gave us things like Vanilla Ice, The Sonny and Cher Show, and the parents of the Jersey Shore Cast. This case? Rested.
I'm not against poo. I am pro-poo, I really am. It unclogs the pipes, helps you drop a few pounds. And if you're Sky King, it gives you a good 30-45 minutes of "Quiet Time" a few times a week. Which I don't get, but that's another post. What I am against, is the need to for companies to make pooing into a creative play experience.
I'm all for pranks. There's nothing like dropping a fake turd or vomit pile on the ground, and watching the hilarity that ensues. But that should be the end of poo play.
These games and toys do NOT embody the reality of poo. Yellow dough-like goo that smells like plastic? Not. Brown plastic pellets that magnetically stick to the pooper scooper? Not likely. The reality of poo is much worse. Much, much worse.
When your sweet little babies are first born, they expel a nasty black stickiness that attaches like tar to their babybits. It takes remarkable violence to remove it. And it just goes downhill from there. Breastfed babies expel green frothy slime that can have the force of Mentos in a diet Coke. Formula produces giant foul-smelling man-like poo. And for the next 2 and a half years, we wipe wipe wipe, several times each day. Unless you are fortunate enough to have a child that is perpetually constipated, which will only leave them writhing in pain between bowel movements. So in that case, you are actually PRAYING FOR SHIT TO HAPPEN.
Which is all run-of-the-mill.
There's babies that get into their diapers before a change, using what they find to paint the walls. There's plenty of excrement flying in the prison system, and not just from mouths. Then, there's major Poo-Tastrophies.
Princess was involved in a Major Poo-Tastrophy. I was involved, as well. And it has left vivid stains on my brain.
Back in the days when Sky King was leaving us each morning to run a business and spending weekends managing a Flight School about 3 hours away, I was able to stay home with the kiddos. Monkey Boy was working his way through a year of Kindergarten, and Princess was giving me glimpses of what I had to look forward to for years to come. She was keeping me on my toes even at 9 months.
Being a Child Development Professional, I had everything I needed to keep my children safe, including a system of gates. Princess was a busy busy girl, and Monkey Boy was not very diligent with keeping baby-proof. He had Legos and action figures, teeny bits of this and that. And babies? Love to put shit in their mouths. Little did I know how literal that phrase would become.
The first problem was, Monkey Boy was not a fan of flushing. He had issues with loud sounds-helicopters, vacuums, movie theaters, toilets. The sound was loud, and he could not simultaneously hold both ears covered while engaging the flush mechanism. So he skipped it.
Luckily, I had a gate in the bathroom doorway:
Unluckily, MB would sometimes forget to close the gate. I would sometimes find Princess playing in the toilet. Eeeew.
One day, I came around the corner to find Princess in the hallway, playing with something. She had been quiet, which is Momspeak for Up-to-no-good. She was speaking Up-to-no-good fluently. The closer I got, it looked like she had been into some candy-she was holding something, it was smeared all over the carpet and bathroom, and she had it all over her face. Because she was eating it.
The "eating it" factor made me think it was chocolate.
But it wasn't. It was poo.
Which became my third call in 3 years to Poison Control, after I cleaned her, the carpet, the walls, the bathroom. All while fighting my gag reflex.
Me: Umm, yes. My baby girl ate some poo, and I need to know what to do.
Poison Control Dude: It's fairly common for babies to get into their diapers, there shouldn't be a concern, but you'll wa....
Me: It wasn't her poo.
PCD: What??? Who's poo was it?
Me: Her brother's.
PCD: Are they blood relatives living in the same home?
Me:.....yes.....why?
PCD: This means they likely have the same bacteria in their guts, so there is less of a chance of getting e coli.
Me: :::alarmed::: E coli?????
PCD: Yes. Just watch her for fever, or any unusual behavior.
Because eating poo? Apparently not unusual behavior.
For the next 24 hours, she had the nastiest diapers I have ever experienced in my life. And I have worked with children since I was 18. She pooed a total of 11 times. Re-pooed, I should say. And the smell may have peeled the paint off the walls.
Now, I have a great story to tell on Prom Night. Maybe it will keep the boys from kissing her?
*Just in case my readership is not nearly as pervy as I think, Coprophilia is the scientific name for a poop fetish. Yes, I had to Google it.
Poo. It is NOT a toy. Despite what Mattel and Goliath will have you believe:
Doggie Doo is a game where you jam a dough-y like substance into the pooch's mouth. At some point, it comes out the other end. It's Hungry Hungry Hippo, for coprophiliacs*. My question is, is the scooper the winner? Does it also sneak through the house at night, eating dirty panties? I would rather buy my daughter a drum set.
Barbie, sacred maker of all that is achievable, realistic, and not misogynistic AT ALL, gave us Tanner the pooping dog a few years back. You fed it suspiciously poo-like pellets, and then it shat out poo-like pellets. Apparently, the poo-like pellets looked A LOT like chocolate Tic Tacs, because little kids across the country were eating the damned things (future coprophiliacs?) and they had magnets in them, to help them "travel through Tanner's inner workings". Magnets = lead. Lead is no bueno in the world of edible toys. After all, lead paint gave us things like Vanilla Ice, The Sonny and Cher Show, and the parents of the Jersey Shore Cast. This case? Rested.
I'm not against poo. I am pro-poo, I really am. It unclogs the pipes, helps you drop a few pounds. And if you're Sky King, it gives you a good 30-45 minutes of "Quiet Time" a few times a week. Which I don't get, but that's another post. What I am against, is the need to for companies to make pooing into a creative play experience.
I'm all for pranks. There's nothing like dropping a fake turd or vomit pile on the ground, and watching the hilarity that ensues. But that should be the end of poo play.
These games and toys do NOT embody the reality of poo. Yellow dough-like goo that smells like plastic? Not. Brown plastic pellets that magnetically stick to the pooper scooper? Not likely. The reality of poo is much worse. Much, much worse.
When your sweet little babies are first born, they expel a nasty black stickiness that attaches like tar to their babybits. It takes remarkable violence to remove it. And it just goes downhill from there. Breastfed babies expel green frothy slime that can have the force of Mentos in a diet Coke. Formula produces giant foul-smelling man-like poo. And for the next 2 and a half years, we wipe wipe wipe, several times each day. Unless you are fortunate enough to have a child that is perpetually constipated, which will only leave them writhing in pain between bowel movements. So in that case, you are actually PRAYING FOR SHIT TO HAPPEN.
Which is all run-of-the-mill.
There's babies that get into their diapers before a change, using what they find to paint the walls. There's plenty of excrement flying in the prison system, and not just from mouths. Then, there's major Poo-Tastrophies.
Princess was involved in a Major Poo-Tastrophy. I was involved, as well. And it has left vivid stains on my brain.
Back in the days when Sky King was leaving us each morning to run a business and spending weekends managing a Flight School about 3 hours away, I was able to stay home with the kiddos. Monkey Boy was working his way through a year of Kindergarten, and Princess was giving me glimpses of what I had to look forward to for years to come. She was keeping me on my toes even at 9 months.
Being a Child Development Professional, I had everything I needed to keep my children safe, including a system of gates. Princess was a busy busy girl, and Monkey Boy was not very diligent with keeping baby-proof. He had Legos and action figures, teeny bits of this and that. And babies? Love to put shit in their mouths. Little did I know how literal that phrase would become.
The first problem was, Monkey Boy was not a fan of flushing. He had issues with loud sounds-helicopters, vacuums, movie theaters, toilets. The sound was loud, and he could not simultaneously hold both ears covered while engaging the flush mechanism. So he skipped it.
Luckily, I had a gate in the bathroom doorway:
One day, I came around the corner to find Princess in the hallway, playing with something. She had been quiet, which is Momspeak for Up-to-no-good. She was speaking Up-to-no-good fluently. The closer I got, it looked like she had been into some candy-she was holding something, it was smeared all over the carpet and bathroom, and she had it all over her face. Because she was eating it.
The "eating it" factor made me think it was chocolate.
But it wasn't. It was poo.
Which became my third call in 3 years to Poison Control, after I cleaned her, the carpet, the walls, the bathroom. All while fighting my gag reflex.
Me: Umm, yes. My baby girl ate some poo, and I need to know what to do.
Poison Control Dude: It's fairly common for babies to get into their diapers, there shouldn't be a concern, but you'll wa....
Me: It wasn't her poo.
PCD: What??? Who's poo was it?
Me: Her brother's.
PCD: Are they blood relatives living in the same home?
Me:.....yes.....why?
PCD: This means they likely have the same bacteria in their guts, so there is less of a chance of getting e coli.
Me: :::alarmed::: E coli?????
PCD: Yes. Just watch her for fever, or any unusual behavior.
Because eating poo? Apparently not unusual behavior.
For the next 24 hours, she had the nastiest diapers I have ever experienced in my life. And I have worked with children since I was 18. She pooed a total of 11 times. Re-pooed, I should say. And the smell may have peeled the paint off the walls.
Now, I have a great story to tell on Prom Night. Maybe it will keep the boys from kissing her?
*Just in case my readership is not nearly as pervy as I think, Coprophilia is the scientific name for a poop fetish. Yes, I had to Google it.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
One of the Most Embarrassing Moments of My Life
For your viewing reading pleasure, I have decided to share an embarrassing moment. Truly, I wish I had photos. Because then you would spit your beverage all over your keyboard which would cause you to have to buy a new keyboard, which would stimulate the economy. Because I'm a motherfucking patriot. You're welcome, America.
About 12-ish years ago, I had a little cute baby. He was round and drool-y, and loved his Mama. And it was winter. I had slipped on the way to the car a few weeks prior and broken my ankle. But it was Christmas, and there was shit to buy. So I muddled along, and dragged my family with me.
Somehow, I had convinced Sky King to take me to the mall the Saturday before Christmas. I think the deciding factor was that I had a temporary handicapped parking placard. Otherwise, I would have had to offer some serious special husband treats.
Anyways-I was a nursing Mama, equipped with a massive stroller, a humongous diaper bag, a sweet little baby, a sullen husband, and two of the biggest milk-filled boobies you could imagine.
On a regular day, I have some serious cleavage. I mean, like, "this bra could double as a swimming cap" big. When the damned things are filled with milk, I could shade a small village.
Luckily, some third-world children spend their days (and nights) stitching gigantic bras to harness the beasts.
Also luckily, these children have cousins, who in turn stitch fabulous shirts designed to make nursing discreet.
So, imagine a family, much like the ones you see each day, lugging massive amounts of stuff in order to spend 45 minutes in public. Now, imagine that mom on crutches, with a giant "boot" cast. Don't forget the grimace on the sullen husband.
As a helpful person (and fairly overly aggressive), I felt that, given the sea of Christmas shoppers, I should lead the way with the crutches. People would be forced to move from my heavily-armed path. I figured I would crutch my way through the crowds, leaving a nice opening for the sullen husband and massive stroller. And requisite baby gear.
It was remarkably easy. I was thrilled, actually, how courteous my fellow holiday shoppers were. Many even glanced my way with pity, obviously wishing they could take the burden of holiday tasks from my overwhelmed shoulders. I was touched.
Once we reached the center of the mall, I stopped and turned to discuss the game plan with Sky King.
Me: So I was thinking we could start at Brookstone. Then if that doesn't pan out, we could.....what???
Sky King: :::eyes bugging out of head, staring at my chest:::
Me: :::looking down to my chest:::
..............
Let me just say, I normally look fabulous in red. And it cheers me up. Usually.
Remember the nursing top, lovingly stitched by some malnourished callous-fingered child? Well, she wasn't at the height of her game. Or his game. Whatever. The point is, the top had a malfunction. When malfunctions didn't go viral. Thank God. Typically, nursing tops have some sort of additional layer of fabric, with slits on the bottom layer. But this is a more recent bit of technology. Back when I was dislodging babies from my undercarriage, the tops merely had side slits, with a slim overlap of fabric.
Nursing tops back in the late 1990s were theoretically fabulous. But take into account a mom with humongous titties, wearing an equally massive glaring white bra. Then imagine if you can what happens when a person uses crutches. The crutches rest in the armpits, and tend to tug at clothing. The more you crutch, the more your clothing gets tugged. Until eventually your shirt is stretched so tight, the small village you once shaded with your giant breasts could conceivably use your taut shirt as a tribal drum.
Which might be inappropriate. But the vertical slits in the nursing top? Upped the ante. So to be clear, you are envisioning a mom, on crutches with a cast, hobbling through the mall. She's in a bright red nursing top. And her crutches have stretched her shirt to within an inch of its' life, exposing the 36I (yes, I as in, "I" need back surgery) white bra. Most of it, anyway. The part that counts.
All those courteous fellow shoppers? Turns out, their looks of pity at my handicapped self were actually massively alarmed looks. Alarmed at the giant white missiles coming at them, escaping from a horrific shirt that seems to be missing two sail-like swatches of fabric.
At this point, I blacked out. The next thing I remember is being at home, wrapping up a used-twice Belgian waffle iron, in a partially burnt red shirt.
About 12-ish years ago, I had a little cute baby. He was round and drool-y, and loved his Mama. And it was winter. I had slipped on the way to the car a few weeks prior and broken my ankle. But it was Christmas, and there was shit to buy. So I muddled along, and dragged my family with me.
Somehow, I had convinced Sky King to take me to the mall the Saturday before Christmas. I think the deciding factor was that I had a temporary handicapped parking placard. Otherwise, I would have had to offer some serious special husband treats.
Anyways-I was a nursing Mama, equipped with a massive stroller, a humongous diaper bag, a sweet little baby, a sullen husband, and two of the biggest milk-filled boobies you could imagine.
On a regular day, I have some serious cleavage. I mean, like, "this bra could double as a swimming cap" big. When the damned things are filled with milk, I could shade a small village.
Luckily, some third-world children spend their days (and nights) stitching gigantic bras to harness the beasts.
Also luckily, these children have cousins, who in turn stitch fabulous shirts designed to make nursing discreet.
So, imagine a family, much like the ones you see each day, lugging massive amounts of stuff in order to spend 45 minutes in public. Now, imagine that mom on crutches, with a giant "boot" cast. Don't forget the grimace on the sullen husband.
As a helpful person (and fairly overly aggressive), I felt that, given the sea of Christmas shoppers, I should lead the way with the crutches. People would be forced to move from my heavily-armed path. I figured I would crutch my way through the crowds, leaving a nice opening for the sullen husband and massive stroller. And requisite baby gear.
It was remarkably easy. I was thrilled, actually, how courteous my fellow holiday shoppers were. Many even glanced my way with pity, obviously wishing they could take the burden of holiday tasks from my overwhelmed shoulders. I was touched.
Once we reached the center of the mall, I stopped and turned to discuss the game plan with Sky King.
Me: So I was thinking we could start at Brookstone. Then if that doesn't pan out, we could.....what???
Sky King: :::eyes bugging out of head, staring at my chest:::
Me: :::looking down to my chest:::
..............
Let me just say, I normally look fabulous in red. And it cheers me up. Usually.
Remember the nursing top, lovingly stitched by some malnourished callous-fingered child? Well, she wasn't at the height of her game. Or his game. Whatever. The point is, the top had a malfunction. When malfunctions didn't go viral. Thank God. Typically, nursing tops have some sort of additional layer of fabric, with slits on the bottom layer. But this is a more recent bit of technology. Back when I was dislodging babies from my undercarriage, the tops merely had side slits, with a slim overlap of fabric.
Nursing tops back in the late 1990s were theoretically fabulous. But take into account a mom with humongous titties, wearing an equally massive glaring white bra. Then imagine if you can what happens when a person uses crutches. The crutches rest in the armpits, and tend to tug at clothing. The more you crutch, the more your clothing gets tugged. Until eventually your shirt is stretched so tight, the small village you once shaded with your giant breasts could conceivably use your taut shirt as a tribal drum.
Which might be inappropriate. But the vertical slits in the nursing top? Upped the ante. So to be clear, you are envisioning a mom, on crutches with a cast, hobbling through the mall. She's in a bright red nursing top. And her crutches have stretched her shirt to within an inch of its' life, exposing the 36I (yes, I as in, "I" need back surgery) white bra. Most of it, anyway. The part that counts.
All those courteous fellow shoppers? Turns out, their looks of pity at my handicapped self were actually massively alarmed looks. Alarmed at the giant white missiles coming at them, escaping from a horrific shirt that seems to be missing two sail-like swatches of fabric.
At this point, I blacked out. The next thing I remember is being at home, wrapping up a used-twice Belgian waffle iron, in a partially burnt red shirt.
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