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October 31, 2009

Have A Bootiful Halloween!

Superstitious - Shel Silverstein

If you are superstitious you'll never step on cracks.
When you see a ladder you will never walk beneath it.
And if you ever spill some salt you'll thrown some 'cross your back,
And carry' round a rabbit's foot just in case you need it.
You'll pick up any pin that you find lying on the ground,
And never, never, ever throw your hat upon the bed,
Or open an umbrella when you are in the house.
You'll bite your tongue each time you say
A thing you shouldn't have said.
You'll hold your breath and cross your fingers
Walkin' by a graveyard,
And number thirteen's never gonna do you any good.
Black cats will all look vicious, if you're superstitious,
But I'm not superstitious (knock on wood).

Have a spooktacular Halloween from my little monsters:

candycornwitch

caiden2

batman

October 30, 2009

Crowded Tub

CROWDED TUB

There's too many kids in this tub
There's too many elbows to scrub
I just washed a behind that I'm sure wasn't mine
There's too many kids in this tub.

(By Shel Silverstein from A LIGHT IN THE ATTIC, 1981, HarperCollins, page 86)

While I was at home suffering through the aftermaths of the flu vaccine combined with a head cold, my older two kiddos went with friends to the Coast Guard's Haunted Barn. I've heard about their haunted festivities every year and finally decided to let my two monsters go creep amongst their own.

Through my Dayquil induced haze, I waved goodbye as they drove off, only after they both emptied their bladders, "just in case." Taters even swore she was packing extra undies should her body decide to find extra urine that needed to be released during a good scare.

I had previously tried to take the kids up the CCHB last week, however, so did about 1,000 other Humboldt County residents. We stood in line for about an hour and between the cold and the jackass smoking a bowl of weed and then blowing it down wind (in our direction), we decided to leave. It was hard to vacate the the sights (strobe lights, purple and orange blinking lights, fog, etc.) and sounds (chainsaws and screaming primarily) but the decision was made and I ended up dragging two angry and crying children away with the promise of ice cream at McDonalds.

When they got home last night, Taters was all riled up. She proudly told me how she had confronted the "chainsaw dude" and had told "Freddy" with his knife fingernails to "get lost." Nothing scared her, she proclaimed, NOTHING. C-dub, on the other hand, looked a little pale when he walked through the front door. I watched him walk out to his bedroom and breathe a heavy sigh of relief as he checked under his bed for any apparent monsters. He then came in my sick chamber and gave me a hug that lasted for several seconds. He was not nearly as thrilled as his sister was with their haunted visit.

When bedtime rolled around, I had three extra mouth breathers curled up next to me and my box of Kleenexes. Poor Hubby had to sleep on the couch but I gladly would have exchanged a comfy leather couch for the six inches of pillow top I had to balance on throughout the night. What I'd give to be a kid again and to get the kid goggles where I don't see the zippers, make-up, and electrical cords - where monsters are monsters and ghosts are ghosts. I love Halloween - I hope yours' is frightful :-).

August 09, 2009

Saga Of The Hookah Nails

Every year when hunting season hits, the women of my immediate family go a little bit crazy. I'm not sure if it's because of the abundance of estrogen running through our normally testosterone based household - but for whatever reason - girlfriend time abounds and thrives.

Hubby ever so kindly took both our boys with him to the cabin this weekend. As a result, Taters and I quickly surmised that a weekend of retail therapy, manicures, and beach time would be just what the doctor ordered for two lonely ladies.

We started off our weekend with a trip to the mall where I paid approximately $11 an ounce for sultry naughtiness and satin at Victoria's secret. Ok, maybe so much sultry - afterall I've had three children - but they're undies and if you took away half the material you could produce another thong..or two. But I digress.

I was perfectly content looking at all the goodies until Tater's started grabbing lacy things off the shelf and began asking the lovely clerks to try them on. Totally weirded out and not ready to deal with the questions associated with sexy lingerie, I decided it was time to leave. After our shopping trip, we went to the mall nail place where I we obtained some pretty manicures. Not content with her short nails, Tater's begged me for a set of acrylics and I was quick to point out the disadvantages of long nails. She wasn't fully accepting of my excuses but finally settled on bright purple polish for her little fingernails after I threatened an brownish orange color to perk up her fingertips.

As we left the mall, we happened to pass by the cheap jewelry, goopy makeup and tawdry hair clip store for young ladies, Taters looked in and saw something that immediately caught her eye - press on hookah nails. I'm sorry if you don't like the name, "hookah." but anything that extends one inch past your fingertip and contains rhinestones and glitter, deserves the "hookah" title. She begged, she pleaded - she promised me endless foot rubs and litter box changing for a year - until I finally succumbed. I carefully inspected the little bits of womanliness and decided to let her buy a set. For $5, how good would these things actually stick on? I gave it an evening at the most...

Later that night, after spending all of our money and filling our bellies with Thai food, we returned to the confines of our female only mansion, and spread out the fingernails, comparing the sizes to her tiny nail beds, and admired their overall girlishness.

Mommazilla: You know Taters, things are a bit challenging with long nails. And these are really long.
Taters: Oh Mother! I know! As she rolls her eyes at me. But they look so awesome - I can totally deal with it.
Mommazilla: Ok, I just don't want to hear any griping later. I'm not entirely sure how well these things are gonna stick and they may just pop off. Alright?
Taters: Whatever Maaaaoooommmm... Just put'em on already!

Rather nonchalantly, I slathered the glue on each nail, and slapped them onto her nail tips. I honestly didn't think for $5 we were getting any sort of adhesive product that would actually keep things stuck together. I did notice that my thumb and pointer finger stuck together rather well but I hoped the nail to nail bed connection was not as fantastic.

Here's the final product taken courtesy of my new crackberry:

Hookah nails

For the rest of the night, all I heard was the tapping of nails - on countertops, walls, dishes, teeth - you name it, she tapped it. She investigated how to pick up things off the counter, how to keep her nails clean while eating, how to pose and throw up her hands in the mirror so that her 10 little daggers gleamed in the light of the bathroom. She was totally enjoying the sense of being what she considered to be a true woman.

The first little bit of nail awkwardness arrived at bedtime when she realized she could not longer suck her fingers. I was perfectly happy with this as it's a nasty habit the dentist and I are trying to break her of. She looked rather forlorn laying on the pillow and staring at me with big eyes.

"Mom, if I suck my fingers I might lose a nail, huh? That would really suck." She sounded a little upset at this and I smiled as she finally convinced herself to drift off to sleep.

The next morning, the next bit of reality sunk in when she realized how her life had been affected.

"Maaaooommm! How do I scratch the inside of my nose? How do I wipe my butt if I have to? I've poked myself in the eye three times and it hurts when I scratch my head. I've lost all personal hygiene!"

She honestly looked completely freaked out; eyes dilated, dry mouth, and lip quivering.

"I need these things off, NOW! I can't handle it anymore!"

And for the next hour, we soaked her hookah nails in polish remover until she was eventually able to pry her personal weapons from her fingertips and she was once again placed into the shoes of a little girl.

We've chatted a bit since this little round of drama, and she's decided that long nails are no longer her forte and she is happy to just live with her chewed on nail beds and cracked nails. It was a fun watching her with the nails because it reminded me of the old days, hanging out with my girlfriends and applying bright red Lee Press-On nails. I doubt I could get Taters to even go that route again - which is gonna save me a fortune :-).

June 18, 2009

The Censorship Of Picasso

While I was in cleaning mode today, I happened about several drawings lying on C-dub's floor. He had evidently channeled Picasso last night as there were several partially drawn on, crumpled papers, strewn about his room. As I collected the pages and tried to pile them into the resemblance of neatness, I glanced at each one admiring his art work.

It's amazing to see how he is really putting things together on paper and how his drawings are starting to form into stories. I love how he is actually starting to also write real words and sentences other than just some made up chicken scratch and goofy pictures of Taterbug. He's quite the little artist when he wants to be and I try to encourage him as I do with Taterbug.

While sniffling over C-dub's maturity and hugging his semi-stinky camouflage blankie close to my heart, I noticed that one picture really seemed to have been shining star for the night. Carefully drawn and complete with bubble narration, I picked up Picasso's piece to have a closer look. What was my prodigy writing? What was he trying to tell the world?

molycrap

I read the top portion and realized it was some sort of brilliant comic strip piece:

Little man big mowth.

Charming and so descriptive!

The next sentence that caught my eye was on the bottom. He so loves the exclamation point - just like his mother! Oops, I did it again!!!

ha!!!!!! Brger!!

I'm not sure where he was going with the above comment but I'm sure it was on a path to brilliance. Before framing this little gem, I took a closer glance as the text in the bubble. It was scrawled hastily and evidently a very important part of his story as he had circled it:

molycrap2

How...molle crap

Molle crap? I whispered in awe at what message he was trying to say.

Molle crap?
Moley crap?
Holy crap?

When "holy crap" eventually came out of my lips, I knew we had a problem. I packed the page out into the living room and quietly asked my little trucker if he had authored this piece of work. He turned bright red and asked me, "Did ya read it Mom?" Upon being informed that I had in fact read it, he giggled nervously and then begged me not to show it to his dad. We then had a chat about writing naughty words in our artwork, and how his new first grade teacher would be none to thrilled to see this sorta thing written on his paperwork. He seemed to understand my concern, judging by the wide eyed look and apologies I received.

I eventually placed the picture into his memory box as a reminder of his first bout of censorship. I guess I should be happy that at least it wasn't a true cuss word...or that I didn't find him writing it in wet cement, directly adjacent to his name that he had also scrawled in. Let's just say that when you live in a small town, it's probably not the best idea to do that sorta thing and then lie about it to the coppers. Especially, when you have a unique name and the coppers happen to know your family very well. I think Hubby might have a comment or two about that...

May 13, 2009

Grocery Shopping 101 - Gunny Style

I'm not a huge fan of the grocery shopping trip. I loathe having to deal with crowds and other bargain shoppers who feel the need to be chatty or get all up in my grill when I'm checking out the rump roast. When I'm there, I just want to get the job done - as fast and efficiently as possible.

Coming from a small town and being related to half of the people I see, a simple shopping trip can take twice as long as I'd normally like. Because of this, I decided to change things up and go at a time I might not normally go which equated 10AM on a Wednesday morning. I figured my only shopping competition would be some silver-haired foxes and the occasional momma just like me - frazzled and wishing she were single.

After I dropped the big kids off at school and returned home to launder both myself and Gunny, we then set out to tackle Safeway. I must admit that I like Safeway. I know people have issues with their personal information and the whole Club Card thing but I have no problem with it. I'm a lazy shopper and prefer not to have to cut coupons. If my little red card will save me money, I could care less if they keep track of how many 12 packs of Budweiser beer I buy, or how I have an infatuation with the $2.99 Safeway cookies. Don't judge me!

Anyhoo - back to the trip at hand. Gunny and I arrived at Safeway that morning and unfortunately for me, those dang carts with the fake car attached to the cart, were sitting right at the front door. These things are full of germs, hard to steer, and they make you look STUPID while you're pushing them. And of course, Gunny loves them. After giving the door and steering wheel a quick spray of my anti-swine flu antibacterial spray, I allowed Gunny to get in and start driving. I knew I was guaranteed at least five minutes of shopping time as this was about how long it took him to get tired of riding.

The shopping trip was going great ten minutes into it. We had sang the "Bob the Builder" theme song about 45 times and had gotten our free cookie from the bakery. On a side note, did you know that Bob's cat's name is Pilchard? What the heck kinda name is that? Gunny now calls Piper and Gracie, "Pilchawd!" and it just sounds wrong.

We had managed to get half way through the store when Gunny began to rear his ugly toddler head. It first began with some excited shrieks and screams in the cereal aisle. I was able to deal with this using my motherly death ray stare. Our next drama was by the paper towel rolls where he heard a particularly catchy song via the store speakers. I saw him jump out of the car and then begin raising his elbows side to side. Thinking he was in pain, I rushed to his side only to be informed that he was "dancwin." After he got his groove in, I managed to get him back in and finish up the shopping.

Things went fairly smooth until check-out. It's amazing how a child can miraculously sprout the arms of an octopus when you are trying to load your groceries, find your debit card, and answer "No!" 17 times when your child repeatedly asks for Skittles or Hubba-Bubba. Picking chewy, icky things out of my car's carpet was no fun and I learned my lesson.

As I frantically rushed to unload my cart and keep Gunny contained in the car portion, I saw out of the corner of my eye that he had located a magazine and was reading it. He was pacified and quiet, so I let it be while I finished up.

In front of our cart, was a sweet little lady completing her purchase. She smiled sweetly at Gunny and commented on what a precious little boy he was. I smiled back with my teeth - sans eyes - because I know the inner toddler demon who puts on a good show for sweet little old ladies. As she shakily wrote out her check, I could hear Gunny call to me.

"Momma. Mommmmaaaa. Momma! Wook at her buttcwack. Its got poop in it! It stinkkksss!" he proclaimed with a shriek to emphasize the stinky portion of his observation.

I looked down, appalled, as to what my sweet little boy was referring to. Opened up in his lap with his chubby, little grimy finger pointed to a firm bikini clad hiney, was the current Sports Illustrated swim-suit edition. He was ever so carefully slipping through the pages to see how many "buttcwacks" he could locate.

The little old lady in front of us smiled, "What did he say?" and I answered back that Gunny didn't yet talk but was very loud with his sounds. Whatever she thought she heard, she surely didn't. Afterall, he was such a precious little boy. Right.

After I pried the magazine ou of his sweaty little grips, refusing to buy it much to his lispy protests, I took him out to the car and had the "buttcwack talk" with him. Again.

"Gunny, everyone has a butt and everyone poops." I looked back at him and saw him listening intently.

"Dat's wight, Momma. Evywon has buttcwacks. And poop stiiiinnnkkss!"

Well, he has the right idea, it's just a matter of getting him over this current butt affliction and onto a less embarrassing infatuation. I doubt that will ever happen - especially with little boys.

May 03, 2009

Hell Kitty?

I. Have. Had. It. Seriously. What do jelly beans, pretzels and Capri-Sun have in common? They make a great squishy mess on a pair of otherwise clean twin-size Nemo sheets.

After having seen Gunny's latest mess, Taterbug's reply was:

"Mom, we should put Gunny in a 'Hello Kitty' suit. By day, he's a cute little kitty. At night, well, you could just drop the 'O' and figure it out yourself."

Gosh I love that girl.

Ugalee

It's amazing the language skills Gunny is acquiring each day. He is really seeming to grasp the concept of many different words and he impresses me with his strong sense of knowing just what to say and when to say it. He has especially taken a strong liking to discovering new words when discussing my hair. I recently committed a major Gunny faux pas in that I did a massive change in my hair color without his prior permission. I went from a light brown with blonde highlights to a dark brown with red highlights. I needed a change in my life and this seemed to be the cheapest and most drastic form I could deal with.

From the original day at the salon to my bed hair today, his favorite word to describe my new do has been:

Ugalee

When he originally saw me at the salon on the big day, he refused to acknowledge me as his mother, to this morning when I woke up causing him to frown in disgust; his word choice has not wavered. Gunny hates my hair and lets me know on a daily basis.

Momma, yowr hair wooks UGALEE. I don't yike it oneeeee bit.

While I'm so proud of his use of words and sentence structure, I wish he'd just get over it. Sure, my feelings are hurt just a tad bad but then again, I realize I should not be taking my fashion advice from a short little dude who normally has his lunch smeared across his face and clothes. The little dude who wears a cat perch for a hat and his brother's dirty underwear for a mask. Yeah, he doesn't have a pot to piddle in when it comes to high fashion.

Does he not remember this:

gunnycatperch

Or how 'bout this:

gunnybeingweird

And a Momma never forgets this fashion disaster:

nicehat

So no, I don't feel too self-conscious when my little monstah chooses to call my hair "ugalee". Because I still remember this day. When he thought he thought he looked BOOTIFUL:

gunnymud

I love ya buddy, but get over it. I may just do purple next time to really freak you out. You ain't seen ugalee yet.

April 26, 2009

Cat Food Haulin'

As I walked down the hallway this morning, I felt the familiar crunchiness of spilled cat food, under my naked toes. Thinking that Piper and Gracie had been goofing off in their Cheerios this morning, I took a closer look and found a little trail - reminiscent to ET and his Reece's Pieces - extending out the kitchen and into the hallway. I followed the tender vittles which were ever so carefully placed down the hallway and out to the boys' room. This is what I found at the trail head:

catfoodhauling

catfoodhauling2

Evidently, cat food is a precious cargo in our internal trucking circuit. Gunny is learning how to vacuum it all up, as we speak.

April 14, 2009

Alice The Great

I think my thirty-three years are finally catching up to me - and in not such a good way. This morning while I was dressing Gunny, he grabbed my face in his dirty little hands and professed:

Momma, I wuv you. You yook yike Alice dah Gweat!

In case you aren't familiar with "Little Bill" and his GRANDMOTHER, Alice the Great, here's a pictorial reference:

Little_Bill

That's right, besides the obvious differences, she's the little old lady with white hair and wrinkles. My son has declared I'm an old "yady" is his own special sorta way.

Nick Jr. will be turned off at our house for the next few days.

April 08, 2009

The Other Use For Raisins

As I walked through my kitchen today, I noticed a red lid lying on the floor. I picked it up to investigate it's source and realized it was from the raisin box I had bought last week for Gunny. He loves raisins and I relish the fact that he considers these little wingless flies to be as good as candy. It's a win-win for both mommy and son.

As I continued my adventure through the kitchen, I called out to Gunny asking him where the raisin container was at. His reply was a shoulder shrug and a, "I dunno, Momma."

wherearemyraisins_filtered

As I walked into the livingroom, I found the raisins.

wherearemyraisins2_filtered

Besides the little bits of wood he had collected, raisins evidently make the best life-size boulders for monster trucks and heavy equipment. I'm going to let him play for awhile, but then back into the container they go; cat hair, dirt, and wood debris included. It's extra protein, right?

March 24, 2009

The Baseball Fish

I spent a good part of the afternoon fishing in our creek and I don't even have a fishing license. Heck, I don't even think it's the right time or year or season to be doing such nonsense. However, I think I'm alright, because as far as I can tell the elusive "baseball fish" is not on the list of things you necessarily have to get permission to "catch'. Plus, I was using a rake and stick - not a fishing pole and net.

Dangling over the precarious bank of blackberry and stinging nettle bushes, was slightly painful and frightening. While I played Indiana Jones, hanging from vines and watching out for King Cobras (the beer - not the snake), I also had to dodge an aerial assault from Gunny, since he decided to help me out by throwing rocks above my head. The little boulders would land in the water, spraying my sweaty face with a cool, murky film. It was slightly refreshing but utterly disgusting.

My little adventure caused me to sustain four painful slivers in my (ironically enough) middle finger, a few abrasions, and some slight bruising to my pride and legs. I narrowly escaped death and pneumonia in order to retrieve baseballs for my little slugger.

I'm the official title holder of "Mommy of the Year." Take that Nadya Suleman.

You might be wondering why the heck I was fishing baseballs out of a stream and I'll explain because it's quite the story. Well, not really but I'll fudge it up a bit to at least entertain you.

The story begins with a little six year old boy with a serious case of "Iwannaplaybaseballweallybad" and a convincing "puppy dog face." C-dub had it set in his mind that he wanted to play t-ball this year. He begged and pleaded for us to sign-up him up. Hubby happily obliged him since I would be doing the transports to practices, games, etc., and he looked like the hero for saying yes. I fought it based on a logistics defense (I hate playing Taxi). My whining was ignored and I finally gave in after I saw how much he wanted to play and I knew he'd look cute in a baseball hat.

I signed C-dub up and he had his first practice yesterday. When I arrived at the parking lot, I started looking for the cute crowd of five and six year olds, making daisy chains and running the opposite directions around the bases. Instead, what greeted us was a bunch of half-grown men, some sportin' peach fuzz, obvious jock itch, and a wad of chew. As we walked towards the field, I swallowed my fear with a huge gulp while the half-grown neanderthals spit their chaw into empty cans of Budweiser, all the while sizing us up. Little C-dub held his head high and made his way up to the coach, introducing himself and eventually finding his place on the field.

I glanced around, looking for the "tee" set-up, as I'm kind of a pro having taught one season of T-ball. When I couldn't find the "tee" I thought to myself it was a little strange. And besides the presence of huge man child players, I noticed they were all wearing baseball pants and cleats. My little man was in jeans and his "skater" shoes. Crap, what the heck was going on? His name was on the roster so I knew we were at the right place but my baby needed to progress through T-ball before I felt comfortable with him acting manly on the field and hanging out with these thugs (whom I later found out ranged in age from six to eight).

I questioned a few of the parents and eventually the coach as to what the heck was going on. I learned that C-dub's team was coach-pitch and that t-ball was for babies. This one hour practice made my little boy a man with talks of jock straps and cups (which, I had to explain to him did not involve drinking juice from), proper hitting and catching technique, and massive amounts of base running. I was so proud. And scared. Was he really ready for coach pitch having zero experience other than the Wii?

I knew we had homework. I told Hubby that I'd dress the little fella and make him look the part, but other than that, technique and equipment purchasing would need to be done by some father-son shopping. I fulfilled my part of the bargain by dropping off $80 off at Sport-n-Cycle in order to get him looking like a handsome little baseball stud. The shoes, pants, socks, bat, balls - everything he needed to begin his transformation. *sniff*

And this is how we get to the beginning of my story. When we got home from outfitting him, it was decided that we'd give him some hitting practice. C-dub has decided he really doesn't care for the catching part so much, and just prefers to nail them out of the park. With my awesome pitching, C-dub hit the little baseball so hard that it went right into our creek after taking a beeline off of my thigh. So much for it being a "safety ball" 'cuz that little sucker hurt like hell when it ricocheted off my femur.

It would have been only one baseball, but Gunny decided to try and play catch with the second ball, while I was busy rake fishing. I'm not coordinated enough to catch with one hand while dangling from the other, so it promptly made it's home next to the one bobbing in the creek. He's got a great arm for a little guy - but he'll definitely start with t-ball.

Wish me luck - I mean him luck. Practice is tomorrow and much to C-dub's dismay, I'm breaking out the camera. You can't take the mommy out of the baseball fan.

March 20, 2009

Dancing Queen

Jazz 6

You are the dancing queen, young and sweet, only seventeen
Dancing queen, feel the beat from the tambourine
You can dance, you can jive, having the time of your life
See that girl, watch that scene, dig in the dancing queen

~ ABBA - Dancing Queen

After a recent session of dance class, I quickly came to realize that my daughter had inherited sassy smooth moves and awe inspiring natural rhythm from someone other than her parents. Hubby and I only think we've got the moves after some liquid courage; thank goodness she doesn't take after us. I'm very proud of her accomplishments in dance although she could care less for the stretches.

March 11, 2009

Fuzzy, Cuddly Iguanas

hernewpet_filtered

After having watched Taterbug complete her first real school project, I feel as though I'm an expert on the subject of iguanas and school project parenting. Since I'm tired and my fingers hurt (you'll see why below), I can only form my thoughts in the shape of a carefully constructed list. Please forgive me as my brain is in meltdown mode:

1. School projects are expensive, even when you take a trip to the Dollar Tree. At least they had fake bugs and lizards and I was able to buy some Peeps to keep us going.

2. Let's face it; school projects equate parental homework. I think I was more stressed about this damn thing than she was. I even dreamed about iguanas and how we could accurately portray their life on construction paper. So sad.

3. Iguanas are bad parents. But, I think they may be onto something as they're forethought is amazing. Escaping the teenage years by leaving your eggs before the little leapin' lizards even hatch? Brilliant.

4. Iguanas are really soft and cuddly. At least that's what Taterbug says. She has been working on her dad to allow her to buy Juliette, the three foot iguana at the Fortuna Pet Shoppe.

5. Hot glue will melt your skin to the bone. There is a reason Martha Stewart keeps a bowl of ice water under her craft table. I used a cold Budweiser and it did the trick.

6. Iguana eggs taste like cheese. I don't know from personal experience but Taterbug swears it's true.

7. Hot glue melts Easter grass even in places you don't necessarily want it to (counter tops, fingertips, hair, etc.).

8. One glass of Dr. Pepper will keep a nine year old on task and bouncing around the table proclaiming, "THIS IS THE BEST PROJECT - EVER!!!!"

9. Did I mention that the Dollar Tree has four colors of Peeps? And yes, I ate them. ALL.

10. The Dollar Store does not have anything in stock that resembles cactus fruit. Thank goodness for an old box of Thanksgiving decorations and a lecture about imagination.

11. It is very hard to turn off your OCD when watching your child put together an assignment - especially if they are doing something crooked or just a tad bit off. I had to bite my lip and shut my mouth which I don't find to be the easiest thing to do. It is her project; not Mommy's project.

12. I now understand the feeling of relief. The project is complete and Taterbug is thrilled with the outcome. I'm excited to get my kitchen table and counter back.

I'm happy to say that we lived through her first project. I'm already having anxiety for the dreaded science experiment but I found a site that gave me some good ideas. I think I'm ready. Any suggestions?

February 23, 2009

The Battle Wages On...

gold toilet Pictures, Images and Photos

Since my whiny lamenting last week, Gunny has made me the proud owner of two potty chair presents. I won't go into the gory details but he was sufficiently rewarded with a new monster truck for all his troubles.

At his first "production," he actually quietly sequestered himself in the bathroom and did his duty solo. He then ran out screaming, "HALP! HALP! I dunno watta do wit it!" The second time was less traumatic in that he made us wait outside the door until he proclaimed he was "dun wit it."

I thought we were on a roll with our super duper pooper, but I think he was just throwing us a bone. With all of last night's trauma (the sausage incident), Gunny still mustered through by using his potty to "do the deed." We chanted, cheered, and let Hubby do some backwards flips since he was high on Vicodin. It was a nice (albeit stinky) moment in our house.

About an hour later, I heard Gunny in the playroom yelling about something on the floor. I was in the bedroom, pretending I was a young, single gal, when he came running in. I knew there was an issue as he was naked from the waist down and grabbing his little butt cheeks. "I poofed!" he screamed, as he ran out, still grabbing his butt and waddling down the hallway. Hubby and I looked at each other. "He poofed? Didn't he just do that? Surely he's talking about the litter box!" It was nice living in oblivion for just a few short moments.

I followed Gunny into the playroom only to discover that his little bowels were quite the container of wealth. If I wasn't so disgusted, I might have been impressed by his digestive capacity. As I cleaned my carpets, all the while Gunny proclaiming "how discustin'" it was, the big kids ran around, covering their noses and making gagging sounds. I kept the heaves in and the vomit down, but it wasn't easy.

After butts were wiped and the carpet cleaned, I put on my bathrobe in an attempt to salvage the rest of my evening. A trip to the ER, carpet cleaning, and a fever made me want to call it a night and hide within the confines of my flannel kitty cat sheets.

As I walked barefoot into my room through the darkened hallway (did I mention I also had a whopper of a headache?), I felt something cold under my foot. Something that squished ever so quickly through the small gaps of my toes. I prayed for squished raisins. I prayed for a little mound of errant peanut butter. Then I prayed for a glob of lavendar scented carpet cleaner. Reality set in as I flipped the light on and let out a scream.

It was a present from Gunny that I had evidently missed.

I begged Hubby to put me out of my misery but he refused through his laughter. I contemplated hacking my toes off myself, since I knew the feeling of icky squishiness would forever be imprinted on my brain as a phantom sensation. I decided against this because I figured (1), it might hurt a lot and (2) I might walk funny. Since Hubby was gimped out on the bed, I once again resigned myself to carpet cleaning but only after a healthy dose of boiling water and antiseptic to my "discustin'" foot.

Again, the joys of potty training. I have yet to find any.

February 18, 2009

I Wish I Had...

A Super Duper Pooper. Life would be so grand; just like this video:

In my vain attempt at potty training Gunny, I've resorted to searching through Youtube for funny little songs that he might relate to. If I can't talk him into doing a #2 with the promise of a new monster truck, I honestly don't know what will work other than a charming little song or two. The above video I've posted is not only funny, but it's slightly disturbing as well. Make sure you wait 'til the end when the male clown escorts three little kids into a well used bathroom. On a comfort level of 1-10, it got a -50 from me, but for the 80's I'm sure it won awards.

Back to my own big boy dilemma....I've kept the poor kid naked the past three days and he's been peeing like a champ both in his little potty and the big boy commode. He's now demanding to have his "dipah" put back on so I know there is an impending turtle head trying to make his presence known. It's like "Bad Day at Brown Rock" all over again - but the loser in this gets to clean the carpet.

I know he's ready for this - not only because I'm sick of his little man-poop diapers and the fact he's about ready to move into Depends - but he's recently started apologizing for his nasty little episodes. In fact, the other morning he greeted me in the hallway with a, "Morning Mom! Oh, sowwee bout dat, I poofed my pants. I discustin'." And that he was - clean up through his back and down his thighs. It takes a lot for me to dry heave but that morning batch of yuckiness did the trick.

I don't remember my older two being that difficult to potty train. With Taters, she had a couple of other little girls in daycare that were also going through the process In this case, the peer pressure did a super job of keeping her clean and dry. And C-dub, poor little fellow, he had the wrath of Taters to contend with should he have decided to slip up and have an accident.

C-dub's only aversion to potty training was the #2 issue on the big boy toilet. He'd hold it for days only to finally be in a frantic and running like a constipated cheetah to the toilet. When he'd finally sit down and relax (if only for a moment), he'd panic and scream, "Nooooo!!!! It's comin' out, Daddeeee!!!!" I'm not sure if he expected Hubby to catch his little "buddy" or if he thought the toilet monster was going to swoop in for seconds. Who knows, but each successful "completion" would end in clapping, cheering, and mutual sharing of gummy bear treats.

Gunny and I are currently watching each other from across the room. He's got one hand on his little butt and the other on his hip demanding his "dipah." I'm not giving in and I think he's slowly starting to realize this even though he's none too happy with his current predicament. His glares and heavy sighs are doing nothing to my psyche; having seen it all, I'm truly bulletproof to the "puppy dog" face. I've enlisted the older two to join me on poop patrol. They're out this week on break and found the idea of an easy $2 a piece, just to rat out their little brother, way too appealing. Wish me luck. It's gonna be a long day and I'm almost out of carpet cleaner.

February 14, 2009

Hyper Generator

My kiddos have developed a new invention guaranteed to drive any parent nuts. Rather cheap to make and easy to consume, this formula of madness is common on most holidays. The name of this new and secret invention, guaranteed to satisfy children and frustrate parents for hours?

Hyper Generator

You heard it right and named by my own nine year old. Here she is holding her invention, showing off it's pure awesomness:

hypergenerator1

She inspects each mix for perfect clarity and appropriate hyper variety:

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Satisified that her Hyper Generator is up to snuff, she looks death in the eye and scoffs at it's weakness:

hypergenerator3

I hope this Valentine's Day brings you your own bag of pre-mixed Hyper Generator and lots of Valium for Mom and Dad.

February 12, 2009

Body Of Evidence

Whenever I'm home alone with Gunny and I need to shower, I first plug him into a movie or throw him in with me. Sure, he might point and laugh, commenting on my many physical, err, attributes, but at the ripe old age of three, I can take his abuse. This morning left me with the challenge of trying to get in a quick shower with an unwilling little boy. Thankfully, he's discovered the joys of Monster Truck races on Youtube. If I time it just right, I can find a 10 minute movie (that's the Youtube limit), hop in the shower and then get out before he's ready to tear apart the house.

As I surfed through Youtube this morning, looking for a perfectly timed video, Gunny happily sat in the computer chair chanting:

"Monstah Jamssssszzzz!'

I finally found a 9 minute, 47 second video of freedom, and Gunny was content. With the countdown started I made a beeline for the bathroom. I already had the shower heating up and I flung my clothes off as I loped like a gazelle through the house. Approximately 8 minutes and 30 seconds later, I was out with a towel on my head and my favorite bathrobe circling my still wet body.

Gunny was still sitting in his chair but had some tell-tale evidence on his face that he hadn't been there the whole time.

gunnychocolate2

Mommazilla: Gunny? Did you eat Sissy and Brother's class chocolates?
Gunny: No Momma. I wuvs you. Sweetly smiling, chocolate covering his teeth.

gunnychocolate3

Mommazilla: Gunny, I know your not telling me the truth. You have chocolate all over your face.
Gunny: He licks his lips and softly touches his own face. Oh, sowry 'bout dat Momma. I ates Tatah's shocolit.
Mommazilla: Yes you did and that wasn't very nice. What are they supposed to give their friends for Valentine's Day?
Gunny: He looks somewhat oncerned and raises his little shoulders up as he says, I dunno Momma. Can I hab anoder won?

gunnychocolate1


February 11, 2009

Tech Savvy Kids

I was recently going through my laptop picture and video files when I stumbled across several suspicious videos. Knowing that I hadn't created anything recently, I opened them up to find my two of my little charmers had figured out how to use the video camera and editing features of my laptop. I normally take my laptop to work but for whatever reason, it stayed home one night while Hubby was "watching" the kidlets.

The first adventures involves Taterbug, C-dub, and a spaceship.

The next video involves the same characters but this time with a beatnic flair:

The sound of C-dub giggling makes me go insane! Moms and dads, make sure to check your laptops for potential blackmail bits. These will forever be lodged on a hard drive until future discovery is necessary.

February 08, 2009

Mommee's Stickahs

Last week, I set aside a whole morning to tackle Taterbug's bedroom. As a nine year old little pack rat, her room was overflowing with clothes, garbage, and wayward Christmas presents that haven't found a permanent location in our home yet. While I diligently worked, I plugged Gunny into a "Tonka Joe" construction cartoon and gave him a handful of Cheez-its, instructing him to to stay out of her room and stay glued to the video.

As I cleaned, I could feel a pair of eyeballs staring me down. I looked up to see Gunny standing in the doorway, coated with some sort of brown goo that at one point had resembled a banana. Ripe and gorgeous bananas I had carefully put up high on the counter, out of the reach of monsters - or at least, so I thought. When I asked him what he was doing, he mumbled something about "Nannas" and "Pwayin' wit Mommee's stickahs." I understood half of what he was talking about and thought I'd better investigate.

I followed him out into the living room in order to inspect what other damage had been done. It wasn't too bad - just cemented banana all over the entertainment center and a couple of blobs on the TV. All in all, not too bad for a Gunny mess. What caught my eye, however, were several empty wrappers lying on the floor. Empty wrappers that are normally found in the bathroom and not in your living room and certainly not in the possession of a three year old little boy.

Gunny again repeated, "Mommee, I wuz playin' witcha stickahs. Seee??!!!" as he gleefully pointed to the kitchen and more specifically, to the side of a cabinet. And this is what I saw (besides the messy counter):

A stickah!

Good..Lawd...you just can't make this stuff up. Gunny had found my stash of "stickahs" and thought they'd make a great accompaniment to my kitchen design. I'm just glad I found it before I had company over. That would have been a little hard to explain...and a little gross.

January 23, 2009

My Little PMS Warrior

Taters has no idea what PMS is much less a warrior for the cause. However last night, she made me proud and most importantly, satisified my inner raging PMS'y beast; she baked her first chocolate cake.

Several weeks ago, Taters had informed me that she had checked out a Hershey's baking cookbook from her library. Each week, she'd remind me she had recipes she wanted to try and she'd again, renew the book because I'd either flake on getting the ingredients or would have other excuses to prevent her from traumatizing my kitchen.

Then, the Gluten issue hit and I completely put a foot down on her cake making wishes. Taters was insistant and kept leaving the book in places I'd notice it. She'd drop hints about her love of baking and offered to help me grocery shop. I began to realize that for her, it wasn't the process of eating the cake and savoring it's chocolately goodness. It was the whole issue of making and baking it, so I finally gave in.

Taters tackled the cake last night while I made dinner. I assisted with the heavy lifting and the reaching of bowls too far above her head; but other than that, she did it all herself. I also loaded the dishwasher and washed an additional two sinkfuls of dishes, all the while wondering how one cake could take so many dishes. It was great watching her try to figure out tablespoons and teaspoons, cups and quarter cups, but she did it and did it well. Her cake was delicious and she relished in the fact that she could lick the frosting bowl out as it cooperated with her diet plan.

I am so proud of the little lady she's becoming and I'm especially happy that she's taking on my abilities in the kitchen rather than Hubby's. If he would have cooked this cake, there would have certainly been at least a can of beer added to the batter (for moisture of course - I can just hear his excuse) and he probably would have greased the bowls with bacon fat because bacon makes everything better - usually.

Here's the finished product:

chocolate cake

January 22, 2009

Daddy?

I have to beg, plead, bribe, and make false promises to my children, in order to get them to cooperate with my photography addiction. C-dub was none to happy today to help me out when I wanted to practice using some different types of lighting. I finally told him to just make whatever face he wanted as long as I could see his eyeballs. This is the face he made:

cdubtouse

Charming, I know. I think he's channeling his true father, Gene Simmons. See the similarities? Truly uncanny.

Gene Pictures, Images and Photos

January 12, 2009

Good Bye Terrible Twos And Welcome Terrific Threes!

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My sweet little baby is celebrating his third birthday today and it's a celebration. Where has the time gone? Out of all my kids, he truly seems to be aging the fastest. I guess it's because he's the baby of the family and a reminder that if we're going to have another, we'd better do it sooner rather than later (sorry Hubby - no pressure).

My sweet little Gunny is quickly growing out of his little body and is shedding the veil of toddlerhood; he's growing into a little man. While it makes me a little sad it does inspire some hope that the older version of Gun-Gun will become a little more cooperative with our rules and regulations.

Normally, I honor my birthday celebs with just a quick little posting and a goofy picture. With Gunny's birthday, I've decided to do a little more. Gunny's birth was a huge deal to me and hopefully after reading this (and it's gonna be long), you'll understand why. It was a personal and triumphant event that I love to share over and over.

I love reading birth stories. Hearing about a woman's greatest personal achievement is inspiring and can be entertaining at times. After all, who wouldn't enjoy a story that encompasses nudity, gore, screaming, bodily fluids and a happy ending? Ok, maybe not everyone so take this as your official warning. The following paragraphs will cover the birth of Gun-Gun and the work I did to get 'em here. There will be no gratuitous hoo-hah shots, so you don't have to worry about that, but I do mention things like "contractions" and "dilation," which are strong words not meant for the weak of heart.

Gunny's Birth Story
Birth Stats: 9 lbs 9 oz, 21 inches long (half born)

I discovered that I was pregnant with Gunny while rounding third base with my t-ball team, the “Angels.” I had never coached t-ball before but I knew that the waves of nausea and sore boobs I was experiencing during practice were not consistent with the type of abuse a coach goes through. Four pregnancy tests later confirmed my suspicions and thus began the joys of my third pregnancy.

My pregnancy flew by without a hitch. Other than the obvious discomforts of pregnancy and caring for a busy family, things went by very smoothly for me and I was able to keep working throughout my entire pregnancy.

When I reached my sixth month, I had a conversation with a friend that I would forever thank her for; it was about the topic of doulas. I had heard of a doula and was under the assumption that only large cities had doulas and they were only used by first time moms. Here I was, an experienced mom who had twice before, gone through labor and the joys of breastfeeding. I already had a great husband and family support system that were there for my labors and deliveries. Why would I invite a stranger into such a private moment? But it was what my friend said and how she said it that convinced me to call Tracey Dahlen.

When I first spoke to Tracey, I immediately liked her. I felt an instant connection and knew that she understood what I wanted for my birth. I had used a minimal amount of drugs during the birth of my older two children and had not liked the “power” they took from me. For this labor, I wanted to be completely drug free and experience the process as naturally as possible. Tracey was completely supportive of this and promised to smack me back into shape should I decided to “wuss out” and beg for drugs.

For the remainder of my pregnancy, Tracey encouraged me along, reminding me to stick to my Gestational Diabetes diet and checking in to see how all my Non-Stress tests went (they were weekly by the end due to Gunny’s large size and unwillingness to cooperate with kick counts). When the final night came, I was so excited to call her because I knew that we were going to be doing something special .

I began my labor at approximately 3PM, with mild but regular contractions. My two children joined me in the bathtub as I attempted to relax and prepare for the birth. Taters used the bath time to rub soap on my swollen belly and put a “no pain” spell on me so that she could have “her” baby sooner than later. I continued to take things easy for the remainder of the afternoon and evening. The contractions were slow and steady, easily managed by the breathing and focus exercises that Tracey had previously instructed me on.

At about midnight, the contractions were closer and more painful. Hubby called Tracey and she made her way out to our house. By this time, I had placed myself on a large exercise ball that felt perfect to bounce on, during the painful contractions. Tracey offered soft words of encouragement and expert touch during the painful moments and this allowed my husband to make all the phone calls and get things ready to go for the impending birth.

The night continued on and as the contractions became unbearable, I began to hum, softly at the beginning and quite loud at the crescendo. Tracey recognized the changes in me and we decided it was time for me to go to the hospital. We arrived at Redwood Memorial Hospital at about 3AM and I was quickly defeated to learn that I was only a few centimeters dilated. Tracey immediately noticed the look on my face and promised that the nurses would not make me go back home – especially since I was now beginning to panic at the idea of another bumpy car ride!

I started on the labor ball and quickly progressed to walking the halls. My contractions continued to be regular and were getting much stronger. Tracey ran interference with my parents and in-laws who had taken their places in the waiting room, with my two children. Hubby stayed with me, encouraging me on through each contraction and putting up with the humming that was progressively getting louder. I remember waiting for Tracey to leave the room so that I could “hint” to the nurses about what drugs might be available. She would then come back in and remind me to not be a “wuss.”

When I finally progressed to between three and four centimeters, I was allowed to get into the labor tub. The nurses reminded me (in an ever so friendly way!) that this was only a “labor” tub and not a “birthing” tub, as they expected me to progress quickly once I became more comfortable. I was only in the tub for a short time before I began to experience a great deal of pressure. The nurses then had me get out of my warm enclosure and head back to the delivery room. Within a half hour, I had progressed to seven centimeters and the doctor had arrived and offered to break my bag of waters. After this was done, things progressed very quickly and the feeling of pressure was intense. The doc checked me again and at this time offered to give me a Pudenal Block as he could tell that Gunny was a very big baby. I looked at Tracey and I remember her telling me that it was ok, and I thought that she looked a little worried too.

I have never experienced pain like I did with that injection. I screamed so much that even the nurse questioned the need for the medication, telling him that I was doing fine until he had started with that injection. I remember the doc apologizing and then stopping – I only went numb after the delivery. After the screaming subsided, Tracey went and retrieved Taters from the waiting room so that she could watch her little brother be born.

With even more screaming, Gunny was quickly born after only a couple of pushes. I felt him emerge with a loud “pop” as his little clavicle had been broken during the birthing process. While Tracey took pictures, Hubby helped Taters cut the cord and then give him his first bath. The nurses were so patient to explain everything to Taterbug, and allow her the opportunity to prepare him for meeting the rest of his family. It was instant love for the grandparents and his older brother, although Gunny looked like a Mafioso, red and swollen. But he was my Mafioso and we loved him instantly.

Thinking back over the process, the thing I appreciated the most was the overall clarity I had over the entire birthing process. I felt so peaceful and so proud of myself and know that it was because of the team we had formed to tackle the birthing process. I only wish that I would have found her about eight years ago, when I first tackled the issue of pregnancy. I look forward to not only the pregnancy but the journey of the birthing process as well, because I learned so much about myself and the strength of my friends and family, when I experienced the birth of my third child.

Thank you Tracey and Happy Birthday Gunny!

If you'd like more information about the joys of a doula, you can visit Tracey Dahlen's site here or her blog, here.

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gunnercheeks

gunnerpole

January 07, 2009

Attention Father Time: Please Go Away!

gunny_filtered

I can't believe he's almost three.

Father Time - please stop now, and give me back my baby. When you do, can you just make him a little bit more well-behaved? Oh, and convince him that underwear are a good thing 'cuz that would be great.

I'll post more on January 12th - the big day.

A Discouraging Message

Taters

I spoke with the nurse today regarding Tater's tests. She appears to have unfortunately passed with flying colors. The doctor still needs to review the results so I may hear something different tomorrow. With the negative result in hand, I allowed her to munch away on some Wheat Thins doused with a little line of Easy Cheese (a nasty habit inherited from her father - I hate the stuff). Within about ten minutes, her bellyache kicked in and now she feels like crud. I read the list of ingredients on both items and I'm at a loss as to what could have caused her to feel so bad (and I did check for Red Dye - thanks Indie).

I'm not going to let this go because I know that something is wrong. Sure, she's a bit of a drama queen, but in all honesty, I truly believe her when she says she's in pain. She has a great pediatrician who also believes her and most importantly, listens to Tater when she describes her pain. I'm not sure what the next steps will be but I look forward to solving this mystery and getting my little girl well again.

January 06, 2009

Gluten Free Shopping Is Painful

Day 1 of Gluten Free

While we await the results of Taterbug's blood test for Celiac disease and a gluten allergy, I've tried to remove all gluten from her diet. It's pretty cool to see her no longer in pain and to be a much happier little kid. I'm pretty confident we've discovered the cause of her digestional discomfort and I just hope the tests confirm this. It would make life so much easier to know what is making her feel so yucky.

I stopped by Eureka Natural Foods tonight and picked up a few items to tide her over until we get the results. I about had a heart attack when I began looking at the prices. I also quickly realized what a major life change she'll have should she test positive. I've heard that even McDonald's french fries have gluten but I haven't really found a solid answer on that. Thankfully, I've found gluten free brownie and chocolate chip cookie mix to ease her little sweet tooth. And tomorrow morning, she'll dine on gluten free pancakes. We'll make it work.

Any suggestions on local places for the anti-gluten child? Crazy enough, but Amazon.com has some great prices on gluten free groceries. My brown truck boyfriends might be visiting again, and soon.

January 05, 2009

Mrs. Grumpy...Revealed!

Gunny and Taters had a top secret meeting last night and I found out the results of their conversation this morning. Taters had left her journal lying open on my desk, which makes it fair game in the parent world, and I looked down to see a face I immediately recognized. Gunny had evidently sought out her services as a crime scene sketch artist and she had provided him with a composite sketch of Mrs. Grumpy. This is what I saw:

mrsgrumpy

The resemblance is uncanny - especially with that cigarette perched precariously in Mrs. Grumpy's fingertips. Please keep in mind that I had to get Tater's permission to post this rendition. This was also in addition to the 23 page letter of release I had to sign in blood, promising that I would not share my findings with the paranormal institute nor would I directly profit from her drawings without first giving her a 50% cut. That's my girl.

Burnt Bologna

What Taterbug says her classroom smelled like today after the bean and cheese burrito hot lunch. Gosh, I don't miss the whole classroom scene so much.

December 26, 2008

Happy Birthday Taterbug!

taters_filtered

Nine years ago today, I was inducted into the secret life of motherhood. My baby girl, queen of our castle, and boss of her brothers came silently into the world at 1:41 PM on 12-26-99. I had been laboring since midnight the night before and was unpleasantly surprised at how painful the whole process was. When it was time to push, I vehemently denied wanting to participate and rather asked the midwife to hook up a chain and pull her on out. After all, I had done my part and was physically and emotionally exhausted.

I did end up pushing and after an hour, she was finally delivered; a silent, beautiful, purple little baby doll. She was not breathing and did not have a heartbeat. Hubby was videotaping the whole process, unknowing that our little girl was on the verge of something terrible. The nurses feverishly revived her as the rest of us were oblivous to what was going on. You can actually see her start to pink up in the video and her first kitten-like cry makes me bawl everytime I watch it. A few minutes of resuscitation brought us a screaming little girl and she hasn't shut up since.

Happy birthday Taterbug, Shalimar Keisha, Ms. Fashionista, Tea, Butthead, T-Bug, Bubba and whatever other name fits her at the time. We love you!

December 24, 2008

Mrs. Grumpy ~ A Creepy Christmas Tale

Almost twenty years ago yesterday, my Grandma Joe passed away. I had just turned 13 and it was the first real death and funeral I actually remembered. Each year on the 23rd, I remember her by saying a little prayer for both Grandma and my dad, since it was his mom. It's my own way of letting her know I remember and good way for my kids to have some neat memories of a family member they've never met.

Or so I thought.

Gunny has a new friend and I was introduced to her yesterday. Her name is Mrs. Grumpy and she's an "owed yady." She likes to sit on the couch and enjoys watching the kitties play. Her preferred resting spot is on Gunny's Spiderman blankie, either on the couch or just next to it. She loves C-dub and Taters but isn't so sure about Mom and Dad.

She's Gunny's first imaginary friend and it's seriously freaking me out.

I thought Gunny had just thought of a new name for the kittens but he was adamant that it was a "yady." He'd walk over and pat the couch where he said that Mrs. Grumpy was sitting. A few minutes later, he'd tell me that Mrs. Grumpy was "yaffing" or "goin' outta da room," and then point to a certain area. It was so strange to see him act like that; as if he thought there was a real person there.

Taters is freaked out and wants me to buy a Oujia board so that she can "talk" to Mrs. Grumpy. I vetoed that plan. She swears she's feeling temperature changes and has a tingly back of the neck feeling whenever she sits on the couch. No more "Goosebumps" books for her and certainly no more "Ghost Hunters."

Is it coincidental that he discovered an imaginary old lady friend named after my Grandma's personality on the anniversary of her death? That was a mouthful but my nerves are as frazzled as that last sentence sounded.

What do you think? Is it Grandma Joe? Or could it be just the active imagination of an almost three year old? I'm not sure what I believe but I don't think anyone can have too many angels looking after them.

December 16, 2008

He's Gonna Ho, Ho, Ho It, Before You Know, Know, Know It!

It's been a lot of fun this Christmas trying to teach the older two kids that by giving gifts sometimes you can get the most joy. It seems for the most part, they're starting to understand how much fun it is to trick, tease, and outright lie - all in the name of the Christmas spirit.

Their school has really helped me in showing them how to be "givers" rather than just "receivers," during this holiday season. They host a little store where the kids are allowed to go in and make small purchases of donated items. I sent Taters and C-dub each with $6 last week and they were both very excited to be "rich." Six one dollar bills can turn a kid into a high roller. Just ask Taters.

Before they left the house, C-dub and I had a brief conversation about the holiday store.

C-dub: Mom, how'd dey get a store in da office?
Mommazilla: Well, they didn't actually bring a store in. They just use your library and fill up the tables with lots of good stuff.
C-dub: I weally hope they have Hotwheels. I need sum new ones.
Mommazilla: C-dub, you don't buy for yourself, you buy for me or daddy, or even Taters and Gunny. This is your special shopping trip for the family.

He looks a little perplexed, pissed off even. For a six year old, in the book of fairness, this just doesn't sit well. After a couple of processing minutes, he finally simmers down into the idea that he'd have to shop for us.

C-dub: You still like takin' pictures, Mom?
Mommazilla: I do. It's my hobby.
C-dub: Oh, do you need any camera caps? You said Gun-Gun stole some of 'em. I rack my brain to figure out what a "camera cap" is.
Mommazilla: Do you mean lens caps?
C-dub: Yeah, dat's what I said. Camera caps.

I dropped the kiddos off at school and returned home to take a long "Calgon Take Me Away" bath - wuth Gun-Gun of course. When it was time for pick-up. C-dub was happily waiting on the sidewalk in front of his classroom, clutching a fat paperbag he had obviously decorated himself. As he got into the car, he informed me the store was out of camera caps but he had found the next best thing.

C-dub: You wanna open your present, Mom?
Mommazilla: Nope, not until Christmas. I'm really excited to see what it is!
C-dub: Are ya sure you don't weally wanna open it? I won't tell Dad or the elf.
Mommazilla: No thanks, dude. Let's just get home.
C-dub: But I weally think you should open it. You could use it at yer work.
Mommazilla: But C-dub, you are supposed to wait until Christmas.
C-dub: You could dest wrap it back up again. Just take a wittle peak.

After his strong argument of it just taking a little peak and his promise not to rat me out to Dad or the elf, I carefully unwrapped the gift. He watched my face as I opened up my third identical school mug. I smiled and gave him a big hug.

C-dub: It's dest what you wanted, huh Mom. Now you can dwink all da coffee ya want!
Mommazilla: It's exactly what I wanted. Thank you very much.
C-dub: Don't worry 'bout those camera caps. I'll tell the elf you still need'em.
Mommazilla: That would be great.

One kid down, two to go - on the joys of gift giving this Christmas.

December 09, 2008

When Your Kid Has The Barfs...Go Techno.

The beloved germs of grammar school followed my children home and gave C-dub and Gun-Gun "the boffs" - at least this is what Gun-Gun named it. He informed me last night at 1:30 AM he had "boffed" on his bed and this morning he had "boffed" on the floor. Poor little guy. He kept apologizing for his boffs. This blessed little flu bug hit our family last year just around the same time; I'm starting to think our candy canes might be laced with ickiness.

While C-dub was much better today and managed to drag his little Kindergarten butt to school, Gun-Gun was not faring so well. He was acting a little lethargic but still gave me some goofy giggles. His little glazed eyes revealed how bad his tummy actually felt and the projectile vomit was a clue as well. Thanks goodness this happened after Taterbug left for school. She tends to be a sympathetic barfer and I didn't need another load of laundry. The ten I did today were enough.

The one thing that perks Gunny up when he's feeling bad is laughter especially laughter caused by goofy cartoon characters playing obnxious videos or busting insanely loud grumpies. I knew exactly where to go to cheer him up; Youtube. Here is our selection of videos for your viewing enjoyment:

For the best "busted grumpies" I offer you these family favorites:

Gunny's favorite splashed with a little chubby gummy bear butt nudity:

The song makes this one a keeper:

And you can't help but love the song "Axel F" even if this creepy little dude is singing it:

I have now given you some tools to put in your parental toolbox, the next time you need some cheap entertainment for your sick or bored child.


December 02, 2008

Jingle Bells, Gunny Style

For the life of me, I can't get these friggin' videos to load correctly. Thank goodness the audio is cute.

Jingle Bells (The Nice Version)

Jingle Bells (The Naughty Version)

November 20, 2008

Blackmail Has Arrived...

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Via "Elf On The Shelf." This kooky little kit is the perfect way to promote peace and happiness amongst your children...at least until Christmas arrives. Heck, you could probably even use it on your significant other if they still profess their love for Santa. Remember, if you still believe, you'll get more presents.

The full kit costs about $30 and it comes in a special box that you can personalize on the front with a message. Within the kit, you get a freaky looking elf, a hardbound book, and a carrying case to keep the elf during his off time.

After you open it, your supposed to name your elf (our guy is Elfred) and then allow your children to look and talk to him, but not touch him. I guess elves are weird about their personal space and I'm not sure if they bite or what not, so just play it safe and keep their grimy little fingers off. I think the book says something nice like the elf's recording feature will reset and erase all Christmas wishes if you touch it. I like my gruesome version better.

After you've named and ogled Merv the Perv (did I mention how creepy that little elf looks, seriously - you be the judge)...

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Read the book. It explains the tradition in kid terms and it's actually a cute little story. It says every night the elf magically transports itself back to the North Pole to deliver messages and his observations to Santa Claus. Children are supposed to talk to the elf (but remember, don't touch the elf hence you face losing a finger or two, Chucky style) and let him know what they want for Christmas. Wise parents can stay within earshot and use the information accordingly.

In our home, the kids have turned Elfred into the tattling God. Rather than threatening to tell Mommazilla or Hubby, I hear:

"Sissy! I'm gonna tell Elfred and you won't get nothin' for Chwistmas!"

Or:

"I'm gonna grab your hand and touch Elfred so he'll forget what you want for Christmas!"

It's kinda nice. He gets the brunt of the verbal punishment while I get to sit back and watch. He never asks for my opinion and I don't offer him any parenting advice. I really don't want to step on any little turned up toes.

Every night, Merv hides himself (with the aid of a parent) and the next morning, the kids have to find him, but again - no touching. It would be tragic to have them missing fingers for Christmas. Ultimately, it turns into a big fun game of elf blackmail. I've found having a direct line to Santa Clause is a powerful tool in the art of blackmail.

I'm not sure what I'm gonna do when it's time to say goodbye to Elfred. I'm really losing some leverage with the monsters and this makes me scared. I was thinking of some possible substitutes in the meanwhile. Like, "Midge on the Fridge." I could use some nasty old baby doll that would have a direct link back to the queen of some trailer park and if the kids misbehaved, no more pork rinds or soda pop. Now that's punishment. Or how about "Thor on the Floor?" I have some old He-Man dolls that I could substitute and if the kids were little turds, He-Man could report directly back to Skeletor and cause them to be banished from Grayskull. And just for information, He-Man was not a doll; he was an action figure - so Uncle R, you can feel better now.

I doubt that any of my suggestions will get my anywhere but I will give myself a pat on the back for trying. Anything you can do to stay ahead of your children is a good thing - especially at Christmas time.

November 09, 2008

The Hapless Wanderer

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I had the most scariest, vomit churning, gut wrenching day of my life today and I'm still sick over it. I wasn't even sure if I was going to share it with my blogging world but decided it might serve as a good reminder that you can never be too careful with your little ones.

I sometimes have to work the night shift and last night was one of them. The plan for today was to allow me to get some sleep while Hubby and both sets of grandparents worked on getting our almost six cords of wood stacked. C-dub was at his buddy's house, Taters had a friend over, and Gunny was going to help stack wood (a.k.a. play in the mud and throw sticks around). The plan was good for everyone - or so we thought.

At about 11AM, I am sleeping very soundly when I hear my bedroom door open up and my dad come rushing in. He looks panicked and he yells at me to get up because Gunny was no where to be found. He explains that Gunny had been missing for almost fifteen minutes and they thought he may have trooped up into the wooded area behind our house. We live in a semi-rural location with lots of redwood groves and a sometimes flowing creek that runs through our property. We've had a bear, mountain lion, and a duck-eating bobcat make their presence known; needless to say, I almost threw up when he told me Gunny was out there, possibly in the thick of it and by himself.

I ran outside barefoot, wearing nothing but a bathrobe and a terrified look on my face. We had the whole neighborhood (thank God for wonderful neighbors) searching for him and after another fifteen minutes, we decided to call the sheriff's department since our efforts had been futile. After being transferred several times, we were finally told that someone would be on their way. We didn't care who; we just wanted more bodies to help us search for our baby.

About another ten minutes went by and I was up on the hillside with Hubby, sobbing and thinking the absolute worst. In between the tears, I could hear Grandma D's voice yelling Gunny's name and then, "You're in big trouble!" It was the sweetest sentence I had ever hear her say. Hubby and I ran down the hill and into the driveway where we franticly waited for Grandma D to arrive with our little wanderer, whom she had found just down the street at our neighbor's place.

When she pulled in, Gunny was soaking wet and had bits of shrubbery stuck to his clothes. He had managed to walk through the woods and onto our neighbor's adjoining property about a 1/16th of a mile away. It's not really that far if you look at it, but nearly equivalent to 10 miles for tiny toddler feet.

I grabbed him up and started bawling (again), all the while trying to tell him how wrong it was to do what he did. He looked at me and I saw his bottom lip start to quiver. His only reply to me was, "I wuv you Mama. I was scawered." He then put his head down on my shoulder and began to cry, hugging me tightly and patting my back. Oh my God, Gunny, I was scawered too.

After a nice warm bath and an angry lecture fit for a two year old, he took a nice, long, nap and was no worse for wear when he eventually woke up several hours later.

Looking back, I am amazed that he was able to get past two sets of grandparents, a dad, a big sister and her buddy, a fence line, and three pet pooches who tend to "herd" him - but he did, and he did so quite successfully. I still feel so much emotion when I think about what "could" of happened and I thank God that it did not. I love that little man so much that having just a taste of him being gone was enough for a lifetime.

I've ordered a "kid locater" device tonight he'll be wearing from now on. This will follow the two books on how to parent a hard headed child, I'm borrowing from a friend. Hubby and I also discussed possibly fencing the property - although we're talking about over two acres of fencing which is going to be quite expensive and time consuming. Our final thought is on how we turn a wandering toddler into a little boy who will at least acknowledge us when we call to him? How do you make a two year old understand that he just about gave all his family members a heart attack? How do you "parent" rather than just "chase" your child? I think I need Dr. Phil or maybe even the Super Nanny to get us going on the right track.

I'm reading and re-reading articles on child discipline and punishment - two words which are evidently not supposed to be interchangeable when dealing with a toddler. The lecture, tears, and pure panic he saw seemed to make an impression at the time on his little two year old psyche. Some friends asked if I "beat his butt" when he got home. No, I didn't. I was so happy to have his little butt back in my arms the last thing I thought about was to spank it. And, I don't want to delve into the spanking issue on this posting because I believe it's a personal decision that every parent has to make and live with. It's an option that I did not choose today.

I think my biggest quandary is that I feel like a new parent during this process. I had absolutely zero trouble with his brother and sister at this age so I don't know what the heck I'm doing wrong with him. I know it's the way he's geared but it's scares the crap out of me and goes to show that we all have to buckle down and work together to tame this tiny savage beast. Gunny truly shows that it does take a village to raise a child and I will hopefully become a better parent out of the process.

November 07, 2008

Throat Chuckle

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Did you know that the movie, 'Barnyard," is so hystewical and hilwawious that it will give you a chuckle in your throat? You betcha. C-dub told me so tonight. I can hear him in my room all sprawled out on my bed, laughing at the antics of the cows. Good times.

October 29, 2008

The McDonald's Troll

I've been making a conscious attempt to avoid McDonald's like the plague. Not just because the food is terrible for someone trying to get rid of some extra baggage, but it's getting expensive. My kids have protested but after a month, they've finally given up knowing that I wasn't going to give in. It's been a really good thing for my family's health and my my pocketbook. But it hurts. It hurts so bad.

Weakness set in today. I smelled the waft of french fries being cooked to delectable goodness. When I turned to fondly gaze upon our local Mickey D's, it's golden arches were seductively waving one shiny finger at me in a "come hither" gesture. Of course I complied. My greasy lover wanted me, needed me, and I fell under his voodoo love spell.

The good thing about McDonald's is that our local one has a nice playground. I don't feel as guilty letting the kids have a Happy Meal if I know they're gonna run part of it off prior to leaving. And since it no longer has a ball pit, I don't have to worry about them finding hypodermic needles, razor blades, vomit, or poisonous snakes.

When I pulled into the parking lot, the kids were so excited that they were chanting and screaming how wonderful their young, voluptuous, porcelain skinned, blue eyed mother was. Of course, I was humble about the whole situation and told them to quiet down and only profess their flattery when we were in the company of other mothers whom needed to be impressed. :-)

When we got to the playground, the kids hungrily ate their burgers and fries and slurped down the ever forbidden soda-pop. Am I the only one that uses this term? I hope not. After eating, they ran off to play with the other little snot-nosed punks (literally, it is the cold season) and proceeded to break glass with their high octave screaming.

Everything was going great until Taterbug came down the slide and marched over to me, obviously embarrassed. I asked her what had her panties in a bunch and after she lectured me for using such a weird phrase, informed me that Gunny had taken over the top portion of the play equipment. He was not allowing any children to utilize the top little playhut and he was yelling at them to, "Get out!" I assured Taterbug that he was probably just playing a game with the other kids and she looked at me sternly and replied:

"Mom, he's poopin'. That's why he won't let anybody up. He told that little girl over there to get out until he's done. I'm so embarrassed and I think I'm gonna puke 'cuz he smells so bad."

I sat there, quietly eating my fries and contemplating how to get him out of his sequestered prison without first causing his "load" to squish up his back and down his legs. Yes, he still wears a diaper, THANK GOD, but he's not a sweet little baby anymore. He poops like a man. I swear on this.

I called to Gunny to come down the slide and see me (as this was unfortunately the only way down) and received no reply. I looked up and could see him through the plastic window in the play area; his little face was red and sweaty and he had a look of determination.

I finally heard a stern little man child's voice say, "No Momma. I poopin'. Yeave me awone."

I gulped my soda and looked around to see if any of the other moms and grandmas had heard Gunny's proclamation. The snickers and smiles answered my question.

"Ok Gun. Just come down when you're done." I said as sweetly as possible.

"Alwight Momma." He grunted his reply. I was obviously ruining his mojo.

A short time later, I heard a couple of shrieks of, "What stinks so bad?!", and Gunny reappeared. None of the kids protested when I told them it was time to go and we quietly loaded into the car. On the way home, we had the sunroof open and all four windows down in a frantic way to ventilate out the smell. It was bad. Very bad.

I guess this will teach me to eat at McDonald's. Geesh.

October 23, 2008

Gunny's Yady

My BFF Sandruh stopped by awhile back, to drop off some books and chit-chat. Before she came over, I begged and pleaded for her to bring her daughter so that I could take a couple of pictures. She has a beautiful little girl and I wanted some practice. Selfish I know, but persistence paid off and she brought Joey over.

Gunny loves Joey, even though he can never remember her name and just calls her "widdle gewl" or "hey yew." He followed her around during the picture taking and promptly lined up to give his best "cheese!" when I asked her to smile.

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I don't know about you, but a skeleton shirt doesn't exactly go with a gorgeous little girl. And my gosh, my kid is a pale little Swede. He and I need to hit the tanning salon.

Here's one of my favorites:

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Her Gap winning pose:

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And a final close-up of the cutie:

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Thanks again Sandruh and Joey! I look forward to the wedding :-).

October 05, 2008

The Only Good Thing About Rain...

Is the mud puddles. Actually, I love the rain and look forward to when the gloomy weather settles in and takes over Humboldt County. We have a beautiful wood stove that gets used throughout the winter and it truly creates such a cozy feel. Plus, it keeps the PG&E guy away since it cuts our bill in half when we avoid using our energy efficient forced air heater.

I'm not the only one in my family who loves what rain brings; so do my boys. Mud boggin' at it's finest, all in the comfort of our front yard.

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As a little kid, I also loved the huge mud puddle that would form in front of our house every year. My brother and I (normally hacking with our seasonal case of bronchitis) would make mud angels in the street and see how far we could get with our bikes.

An even more special treat was during high water times when our grandma's ranch in Ferndale would flood. To an adult, this is a very tragic and scary thing, with a lot of hardwork to follow. To a kid, it's a great way to find awesome mud and get away with playing mud hockey on your grandma's hardwood floor. My brother and I would ride our BMX bikes all over the backroads of Ferndale, driving through foot deep water exposing ourself to the yuckiness of old flood water. Aww, those were the days. I wouldn't even think to allow my kiddos to do the same thing nowadays, but in the 80's life seemed to be a bit more simple, if not cleaner.

Do you like the rain? Or am I alone on this?

September 29, 2008

Sorry 'Bout That Guys!

"Sorry 'bout that guys," was all I heard coming from Gunny as I cleaned up the kitchen after making C-dub's birthday cake. Evidently, Gunny thought he'd try C-dub's birthday cake rather than waiting until after dinner with the rest of us. C-dub was pretty torked but Gunny assured me that I had done a "gweat job" on the cake. He was also very apologetic to C-dub and it was funny watching him try to give his brother "loves" all the while having the offending frosting smeared across his face.

Thanks Gunny, now stay out of it!

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September 24, 2008

Add One More Notch To The Mommy Belt

My little man-child, bestest monster truck driver, ax-man, and all around little love bug, turns six tomorrow. I was looking back over his baby pictures - which I still need to scan in since they're on old fashioned film negatives - and it made me wonder where the time went. I remember being pregnant with him, puking my guts out for the first four months, and then feeling like I was carsick for the remainder. When I finally had him, at the petite size of 8 lb. 8 oz., I had no clue what to do with a baby boy with a fireman's hose. That kid shot me numerous times until I figured out how to cover pieces and parts with a diaper. And now, he's a big six year old. I just can't believe how the time has flown. He's reading and writing and I'm so proud. I guess you can't tell :-).

No matter how old he gets, some things will never change:

He still sucks the same fingers:

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He still enjoys "getting into" his food:

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He still loves gettin' dirty:

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He still loves wrastlin' and to make his mommy scared:

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He still loves the snow - only five minutes at a time:

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And he's still Hubby's bestfriend and hunting buddy:

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I love ya, C-dub. Have a wonderful 6th birthday little man.

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September 21, 2008

Are Your Knees Hungry?

As I was doing the fifty millioneth load of laundry from this weekend's hunting trip, I came across these:

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Look closer. Do you see the knees?

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Evidently Papa Tom noticed that C-dub's knees had some major blowouts over the weekend. When he asked C-dub, "Are your knees hungry? You've got some holes there, buddy." C-dub didn't really know what to say other than to give him his goofy, googley eyed face and say, "Nooo, Papa Tom."

When C-dub was getting dressed, Papa Tom carefully cut off all the excess strands and smoothed the knees out, placing duct tape across the knees to keep them in one piece. Papa Tom didn't want his oldest grandson to be in religious jeans all weekend.

The jeans turned out near perfect and C-dub didn't know what to think about his "fixed" pants. I think they look kinda cool. We'll see how many washings they live through.

September 15, 2008

A Texas Wedgie

My children are far more worldly than I thought and they proved this fact the other day. C-dub had ran into my bedroom, shrieking and pulling at the back of his jeans. Taters was in hot pursuit, belly laughing and pointing at C-dub's obvious discomfort. Gunny, not knowing what the heck was going on, followed the two into the bedroom and proceeded to scream his enjoyment of the raucous event. I sat on the bed and tried to smother myself with a pillow. Just kidding.

Once I got the screaming/shrieking/insane laughter stopped, I asked C-dub what was the matter and I put my hands on his shoulders in order to turn him around and look at what he had been pulling at behind his back. As I moved him I quickly saw the problem: approximately eight inches of Spongebob undies were pulled up his poor little butt crack and he was having trouble removing this cotton torture. As I helped free him from the hellacious wedgie inflicted upon him by his evil sister, Taters informed me that C-dub had received a "Texas wedgie" from her willing and capable hands.

Taters: How'd you like that Texas wedgie C-dub? She's snorting and grinning, obviously content with the big sister torture she had provided.
C-dub: That's not funny, Sissy! It hurted my butt!
Taters: You know C-dub, you're gonna need surgery to get that thing out. She's still grinning like the Chesire cat.
C-dub: What's sergawee, Momma? In typical C-dub fashion, he's beginning to panic at the unknown.
Mommazilla: C-dub, I almost have it out so no surgery for you. You just need to stay away from Taters and her Texas wedgies. Maybe next time she'll go easy and stick to a small state wedgie. Like Rhode Island or something.
C-dub: Ok Momma, thanks. See Sissy? No sergawee for me. You were wonggg!!

Free from his torture and with a pair of undies stretched at least two sizes to big, C-dub ran off to play with his little brother, staying away from the faux Texan with killer wedgie skills.

August 25, 2008

Three Amigos - Minus Dos

First Day of School

I have the sniffles and no, it's not because I've come down with the Humboldt County crud. My sweet little C-dub, the king of momma's boys and keeper of my heart, has started kindergarten. I remember being sad on Tater's first day of kindergarten but I knew that she would be fine. Miss Independant practically kicked my butt out the door the first day of school and has had the same 'tude ever since.

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C-dub, on the other hand, is much more sensitive and a little more needy than his older sis, so leaving him in the big, colorful classroom was a little unnerving. As I dropped him off, I thought to myself, who will tell me all day that he loves me? Who will tell me how pretty I am and how I'm the bestest cooker in the whole wide world? Who will ask me questions all day long and hint about how he wants to go to the park, zoo, Bounce-A-Rama, etc.? Ok, that's a part I won't miss so much.

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And most importantly, what will I do with this guy?

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Who's gonna play trucks and cars in the mud with him? Who's gonna take baths and have submarine races and farting contests? The poor kid won't know what to do with himself because I certainly won't fit the bill. Brudder is his bestfriend, not Momma.

The kindergarten teacher is great and C-dub already commented on how pretty she was so at least she'll have his attention. He's just like his father in that sense. He will be fine. He will be fine. He will be fine. Ok, I think I'm starting to believe it.

Gun-Gun and I are home now and the house is quiet. Too quiet. I didn't realize how much I'd miss the constant sound of chaos and raucous noises. We have lots of crayons and wall space so he'll have plenty to do. His older sibling, "Noggin" is also on 24/7 guaranteeing me some breaks.

Is it 1:15 PM yet?

August 12, 2008

My Future Daughter-In-law

Good news. C-dub informed me today that I'm bound to have an excellent daughter-in-law (in about 50 years or so).

C-dub: Mom?
Mommazilla: Yeah?
C-dub: If danger was a beautiful woman, I'd probably marry her.
Mommazilla: Oh, that's nice C-dub. Let's just wait a coupla years, K?
C-dub: OK Mom.

I guess C-dub has his sights set high. I look forward to eventually meeting the woman who fits the bill.

August 10, 2008

Glass Eyes

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I recently took C-dub to his first eye doctor appointment. He has great vision but since my little man-child is starting Kindergarten this year, I wanted him to be thoroughly checked out. I made the appointment so that he, Taters, and myself could all get checked out at one visit rather than having to travel to Eureka on three separate occasions. I also thought it would be good for him to watch his sister go through the same process as he tends to be the family "Paranoid Pete."

When we got to the appointment, Taters climbed up into the chair and sailed through her exam. When it came to C-dub's turn, he reluctantly climbed into the chair and informed her that he would not be doing the "alphabet stuff" today and that he preferred arrows. Knowing that C-dub tends to get stage fright, I assured the doctor that he did know his alphabet and that he'd be happy to show her his stuff. C-dub gave me a dirty look but then, like his sister, showed his skillz at letter and number recognition. I was so proud...and relieved, as Kindergarten starts in a coupla weeks.

C-dub proceeded to point out whenever he could see the "dirt" in his eyes (it was actually the veins of his eye - rather creepy if you ask me) and giggle when Taters made fun of him when he was placed in front of the freakish eye checking machine. That's a technical name, just in case you didn't know.

C-dub had almost completed his exam when he started to chat with the doctor about glass eyes. Evidently he had heard about the glory of glass eyes during an episode of either Spongebob or Chowder. He asked her how well you could see out of a glass eye and if you could pick your own color. The doctor was very nice and obliged his questions with simplified answers. Taters and I were holding in our giggles about his questions for fear of not being able to control them. At the end, C-dub concluded that it really wouldn't be that much fun to have a glass eye and I heartily agreed.

Prior to leaving the appointment, it was my turn in the chair and the two little heathens had to maintain their composure for ten more minutes. They did good for a little while and I quickly found how difficult it was to give them the "look" whilst having your chin perched on the eye checking machine. As I sat there hissing through my teeth to "knock it off," I could hear the giggles getting louder and I was finding it harder not to join in. When the doctor finally removed the eye checking machine, I could see why the monsters were in hysterics. They were mimicking my precarious position in the seat with little jaws jutted forward and googly eyes pointed directly at me. When they saw that the equipment had been removed from my face, they quickly sat up, looking at each other, and finally released the suppressed laughter - even cracking a smile on the otherwise serious doctor.

The appointment went well and I was happy to hear that my prescription had not changed and no glass eye would be needed. C-dub did ask me again later if I could have a glass eye, what color I'd want. I told him hot pink and he said I was "weyerd." Go figure.

August 02, 2008

Hygiene: The Discovery

The super reclusive and uber secretive hygiene bug has made it's way into my eight year old daughter's life and our world has been turned upside down. I've lost my blowdryer, fancy hair products, and lip gloss to a small child who now thinks she knows fashion better than I do - and the sad thing is, she probably does. The worst part about it all is that she has taken over my bathroom when she has a perfectly functioning throne right outside her door but evidently, her little brother's lack of aim just isn't too appealing.

I knew this day would come and I'm actually glad that she's taken an interest in how she looks and smells. What I don't enjoy is that I'm losing my stuff in the process. I've discovered that I really don't care for sharing and I'm actually a rather selfish snot when it comes right down to it. I typically treat myself when it comes to bath and hair products; it's the one area where I don't mind spending a bit more since it's a personal treat. Well, Taters has also developed a similar type love of the good stuff and she's been resembling a fruit cocktail whenever she gets out of my bathroom. I tried to scare her away from my Blackberry Vanilla bathwash by telling her the bees would think she's a gigantic flower. Yeah, that didn't work too well and proceeded to use up the tube explaining to me how important it was to use layers of soap rather than just a quick scrub.

I guess I should just get used to it because I really don't want her love of hygiene to go away. It's just going to be an expensive habit for the duration of the next ten or so years.

Chesticular Fortitude

And one more re-visit because this is probably one of my favorite stories about C-dub.

If there is one thing that I've learned as a parent it's that each child is different and should come with their own parenting manual. Since no such Baby Bible exists, hubby and I typically fly by the seat of our pants, with a little help from very knowledgeable grandparents and a stiff shot of whiskey here and there. However, recently there was a situation that neither experienced grandparents nor hard liquor could help; it was how to cope with our five year old son and his infatuation with lovely lady lumps.

Yes, my son discovered the beauty of a woman's breasts and for the past several weeks, we've been fighting the battle of the booby. I'm not sure that I can put my finger on when his infatuation began, but it's sure been a nipply situation to deal with. In hindsight, I remember C-dub being abnormally interested in whether or not I would be changing into my pajamas at night and if it would be necessary for me to remove my shirt. Thinking that this sweet little man-child was concerned with his momma's need for my warmth, I would give him a big hug and he would always squeeze me back. All the while, he’d be pressing his little cherubic face firmly against my chesticles, looking like the Cheshire cat. The saga continued and every now and then I'd find a stray Victoria's Secret catalog curled up under his Fisher Price racetrack, strangely dog-eared and marked up with crayon.

Even with those circumstances, I still wasn't convinced that my sweet little angel was becoming interested in the female anatomy... Sure, he would stop dead in his tracks when a Playtex Cross Your Heart commercial came on and yeah, I did think it was a little strange that he'd always offer to fold my laundry, but then again, maybe he was just earning brownie points for Santa? It wasn't until I had a conversation with his preschool teacher did I learn of the significance of his desire to be closer to the pillow buddies.

After weighing the facts of the case, I asked Miss K if C-dub had ever made any off the wall ta-tas comments while in class. She looked at me with a little surprise and her facial expressions quickly turned to shock.

"You know, last week while we were doing our exercises, C-dub just stopped and stared while I was doing jumping jacks. I thought he was just trying to see how I was doing it, but his eyes were focused on... Oh my!"

That was it. I knew then and there that my man-child had been macking on his preschool teacher. It was time for hubby to intervene before things got even more out of hand and other women were victimized by C-dub’s wandering peepers. I knew this certainly wasn’t my area so I instructed hubby on some of the areas to cover…privacy, implications of being a Peeping Tom, etc., etc... I did my own internet research and spoke with other moms of boys and discovered that his current obsession with lactoids was rather innocent in nature. In other words, he knew what he liked; he just didn't know why he liked them. He was finally noticing that girls and boys had differences, and boy did he like what he was seeing!

Hubby called C-dub into our bedroom one night while I stayed in the living room with Gun-Gun and Taterbug. Taterbug noticed C-dub's absence and asked why the boys were having a talk that she was not included in on. I didn't know what to say but being the brainiac that she is, she quickly asked, "Is it because of that boob thing? I don't know what his problem is but he'd better stop staring at yours Mom. It’s weird."

The conversation was brief yet effective as I am once again safe to dress and undress in the comfort of my own room, and without the offering assistance of C-dub. I still have to deal with Gun-Gun and his hooter infatuation but at least he's a little less vocal and certainly not as obvious with his affections. C-dub seems no worse for wear and he’s back to playing monster trucks and racing his cars with never a mention of his previous bigguns’ affliction. I truly look forward to the day when I can give a copy of this blog to his first girlfriend ;o).


August 01, 2008

Rumblings

Don't you love to wake up to the sound of, "Mom, I'm not feeling so well - insert barfing sound here - !" And no, it never happens while your beloved child is hovering precariously over the toilet or even in the vicinity of the bathroom. Evidently, vomiting children crave the reassurance of comfortable carpeting, as C-dub did the other day.

I typically have pretty healthy kids with only the occasional cold here and there. So when the stomach bug hits our house, I'm on an anti-bacterial high, cleaning and scrubbing every possible surface that may contain something to pass on. I hate being sick but it's that much worse when it's a little fella or perhaps even a Hubby (since men tend to be sicker than most) contract something that requires a double dose of toilet paper.

In between the bouts of sickness, getting cold water, and making lunch for the healthy Taterbug, I've been working on getting Gun-Gun accustomed to his "big boy" bed. He's the new owner of a lower bunk but he's just not havin' it. For the past two days, he's gotten out of naptime due to a hectic schedule and errands. Fate was not smiling down upon him today because when nap time came, I escorted him into his room and tucked him in. All the way out to the room, I'm trying to be as animated as possible about the joys of his new bed. We cheered and marched all the way out to the big boy bedroom, but his little brakes came on as soon as we hit the threshold.

He doesn't "yike it."
He's "scawed."
He wants to "pway outshide!"

The excuses go on and on but I think we're slowly winning the battle of the bed. Now only if we could get that potty training thing down...

July 23, 2008

First Words...

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Well, we're far past the first words uttered by sweet little Gun-Gun, but now we're on to the biggies - like the words that inspire an immediate reaction out of mommy or daddy. Yes, you know the words that every child stumbles upon and then wonders what to do with their new found power of attention. Cuss words, profanity, bad words, whatever you call them, Gunny have discovered the power of the spoken word through the help of fellow family members. His word(s) of choice?

Gawd Damwit!

And yes, there is an exclamation point after that because he says it with such fervor - his little veins poke out the side of his temple and neck as he yells it for whatever reason.

When I first heard him say it a few months back, it was a mimic of a not-so-careful parent (probably me) dealing with some frustration. I was shocked to see my little baby mouth those words and I immediately corrected him and then placed a secret call to Hubby to share the funny story.

Flash forward to this past week. Grandma L watched the munchkins on Sunday morning and Gunny decided to be a holy terror (actually, no worse than normal). After removing his diaper and pooping on his bedroom floor, he then proceeded to let the ducklings out of their cage to have free reign of our household as he knew Grandma L was tied up on poop patrol. While the ducklings chirped, running through the kitchen, a sweet little Gunny followed right behind admiring how "twute" they were. Of course, Taterbug and C-dub seeing the excitement began to scream and laugh all the while egging Gunny on and causing the ducklings to have their own accidents, thankfully on the linoleum.

Grandma L wasn't too happy 'bout this, and emitted the dreaded words that Gunny had previously developed a love for. Gunny, hearing his catch phrase, immediately started uttering it throughout the house in his best Marlboro Man voice.

Gawd Damwit Grandma L!
Gawd Damwit duckies!
Gawd Damwit Tata!
Gawd Damwit Cajun!

When I finally got home, there was a brief mention of the escapades that had befell my house earlier but no mention of the verbal altercation until Taterbug popped up with the comment that Gunny had used the "GD" word again. Grandma L threw her a quick scowl and reminded her that they weren't going to talk about it. Oops Grandma, you got caught! I assured her it wasn't the first or last time we'd hear Gunny use that phrase but that we all needed to be more careful of our household mynah bird.

As I'm writing this post this morning, I can hear Gunny in the kitchen trying to get his Hotwheels out from under the stove. He can't reach them and I hear him say, "Gawd Damwit kars!" C-dub starts laughing and Taters is quick to join in on the fun. I quickly call an informal family meeting and sit Gun-Gun in the time-out chair.

It was cute while it lasted but seriously, I shouldn’t have to worry about censorship for my two-year-old or the fear that he might mouth off in public. We’re going to tackle his utterings by correction and then ignoring the words he's spoken. No more laughing or snickering from anyone, including myself. I’m hoping this works because I’ve never experienced a potty-mouthed toddler before. I really don’t want this to be the start of his criminal history nor the beginnings of an incorrigible juvenile. I’m not interested in having to look up metal file loaf cake recipes so I can visit him in Juvie. Any suggestions? On the discipline – not the recipes :-).

July 21, 2008

Recipe For Success

Here's a recipe we made today and it was so good I thought I'd pass it on:

(1) day of lukewarm sunshine
(1) freshly turned dirt pile
Approximately (20) gallons of yucky well water
(10) monster trucks
(5) Hotwheels
(2) Dirty little boys
A big handful of giggles

Mix together and enjoy! The fun will last hours and the shower and soap it takes to clean them off, will last just about as long.

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I'm An Acktohrr.

Wonky

My daughter is fickle. Like a barracuda in the sea of life, the shiniest thing will attract her and she'll quickly move on to the next prey if her attention is diverted. Yes, she's just like her mother. Tater and I have what I like to call, "commitment issues" since we both seem to have visions of grandeur that eventually fade into afterthoughts when the next hobby is presented to us - even if we've already spent a tremendous amount of time and energy on the previous task. A quick peek in my garage will show you the Craftsman rolling cart filled full of unused cake decorating tips. It's parked right next to the art supplies, egg incubators and kitchen supplies that were going to be side projects and superb venues for moneymaking; eh, not so much now that I look back. You can add glitter or sequins to any pile of crap and we'd probably start collecting it. It's just so sad.

Tater has presented this same sort of "barracudesque" (that's my own word) in the sports arena, although Hubby and I have tried to encourage her into doing something - anything - just not the art or sport of coach surfing. Neither of us are huge sports enthusiasts but we do our best to try and encourage our children to be the opposite of their TV and Internet loving parents with "spreadage" issues.

When introducing sports to Tater, we started off with what I thought was a surefire win, soccer. When I was younger, I was a huge soccer fan and played throughout my school career. Every Saturday morning, my mom would lug Uncle R and I to various parks where we'd kick our little hearts out and run 'til we were sweaty and sufficiently muddy (it was always wet during soccer season). When I had my own kids I was confident I would get a at least one soccer player out of the bunch and I was pretty sure it was going to be Tater because she had my short and stocky soccer girl physique.

I mentioned soccer and she asked if you really had to run as much as she had heard. When I told her that yes, you have to run in soccer, she told me that she wasn't too interested in getting sweaty or dirty. Plus, the idea of giving up her Saturday morning sleep-in sessions was just too much for her to handle.

The next introduction to sports came in the form of T-ball, the sport that ALL kids love, right? Wrong. I was barely two months prego with Gunny and in my heightened emotional state, thought it would be a great bonding process to coach her T-ball team. First of all, you cannot successfully keep four, five, and six year olds from picking their noses and making daisy chains while on base. Second of all, no matter how many times the goofy coaches rounds the bases in the correct direction, there will always be one kid who wants to go the opposite way when they actually hit the ball. Let's just say T-ball wasn't her thing; she spent most of her time in the outfield dancing like Hannah Montana or yelling at me when she couldn't hit a "coach pitched" ball. I was obviously sucked as a pitcher because she told me so daily.

We ended her sports career with karate. She quickly realized she was a lover and not a fighter and spent most of the time admiring herself in the mirror. She looked so freakin' adorable doing her little moves and making those verbal outbursts but I just couldn't keep her interested when she found out that you didn't get breaks every 15 minutes and that her teacher actually expected her to work hard. The only day that I actually saw her enjoy herself was when she was sparring and accidentally gave a little kid a bloody nose. I was actually very surprised at her take on the situation as she is normally a very caring little girl. She finally admitted to me that she smiled so much when it happened because the kid was a little jerk to her and she was glad she gave him some "paybacks." Ugh, karate career over until appropriate maturity could be reached. I didn't want a little loaded weapon whoopin' up on fellow first graders.

Hubby and I were about to give up on trying to helping her envelop new hobbies and interests when I saw an ad for the Ferndale Repertory Theater's Young Actor's Workshop. It was a month long program taught by a talented actress named Denise Ryles. If you want to see the embodiment of spunk and charisma, Denise would be the poster child. What a neat lady.

I showed Tater the flyer and asked her is she was interested. I didn't let the desperation of a mother searching for her child's happiness, leak out too badly and I honestly didn't really think she'd be interested. But then again, I thought soccer was going to be a sure thing. I actually saw a sparkle in her eye and she instantly told me she wanted to do it. Her drama queen side had seen the light and she was going to give it a try.

For a month, Tater spent nine hours a week at this workshop and she loved it. She would come home and give me total attitude, professing that she was "acting" and that I needed to "chill out." Yeah, that only worked a coupla times before she learned I didn't appreciate her method acting. She'd also reminded her brothers several times a day that she needed to watch certain shows or listen to certain music, because she was going to be an "Acktohrr" (insert fake British accent and an eyeroll) and "Acktohrrs" had to practice their craft.

It was really nice to see her interested and satisfied in what she was doing. It was also a crack-up to hear her describe practicing in the Ferndale Repertory Theater. She swears that it's haunted and smells like "corpse." I was intrigued that an eight year old would know what "corpse" smelled like, but she assured me that she did. I think she's watched too many Montel Williams/Sylvia Browne shows or perhaps read too many "Ghostbumps" books. She had it dead set in her mind that she and her little acting buddies only had their three practicing days to send the ghosts to the "light." Ok Tater, whatever floats your boat. I just reminded her that she could play "Ghost Whisperer" all she wanted but she still needed to memorize her lines.

Over the weekend, she had her final performance and I was so proud of her. She did great and remembered all her lines. She was quite the little ham and had to be gently removed from the stage after her first performance. She gets that from her dad - I'm the shy one ;-).

Ultimately, the lesson we learned from all this is that you really can't guide your child into any of your own interests. Kids will discover their own likes and dislikes, and on their own time frame. Sure, I'd love to raise a kickass soccer playing girl, but I'm more than satisfied with my little Acktohrr (insert snooty, uppity tone here) and the many performances she brings into our lives.

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July 17, 2008

Ickdonalds

Gunny loves McDonald's and my infatuation with their french fries has not helped the situation. We oftentimes drive by our local Mickey D's on the way to Grandma's and each time, it's a conversation over whether or not we can stop for "frenchy fries." Typically it's a "no" unless the weather is nice and I can run them hard on the germ infested playground to work off their nuggets. I don't feel so guilty letting them eat junk if they are getting a bit of exercise out of the process.

I expected the usual question as I drove by McDonald's today but rather than ask me if we could stop, he held his own conversation:

Gun-Gun: We go to Ickdonalds? Frenchy fries?
Gun-Gun's Other Side: No. No Ickdonalds ooday.
Gun-Gun: Wuhhyyyy?
Gun'Gun's Other Side: Cuz.
Gun-Gun: Ohhh tayyyy.

Problem solved, courtesy of Gun-Gun's dual personalities.

July 14, 2008

My Marlboro Man

Mad!!!

I seriously think my two year old has taken up the habit of smoking. Somewhere in the midst of his diapers and wipies, I think he's sequestered a pack of unfiltered Camels and a lighter - for his smoking pleasure. No, I haven't noticed his pudgy little fingers turning a tarry brown color nor has he developed premature wrinkling around his mouth and eyes. But, he has the sound - you know, the husky, sexy smoker's drawl - that low rumbling Marlboro Man of a two year old kind of voice. And the best thing is that he can turn it on and off, mainly when he's torked at a sibling or at mom and dad.

This morning, my little Marlboro Man woke up in a rather grumpy mood and stumbled into our bedroom around the ripe 'ole time of 6AM. He instantly came in demanding his cocoa and was none to happy to hear that neither mom nor dad were interested in getting up and fixing it for him. His sweet little pleas turned into the angry little smoker and Hubby finally gave in just to have some peace and quiet.

When I was finally in alert mode around 9AM (I don't do mornings), he again whipped out the Marlboro Man side and attempted to bully me out of a second cup of cocoa and some three year old ho-ho's he found in the junk drawer. As a mother, I'm impermeable to threats and I'm not usually effected by the ever loving "puppy dog" face (parents, you know what I'm talking about - lip trembling, slight welling of the tears, etc.) but this rumbling growl that emitted from his tiny body was something I was not prepared for. I was aghast at such nastiness and the look in his eyes meant business. So rather than giving in, we negotiated a breakfast deal. He could have a bite of the three year old ho-ho's, but then he have to chase it with a bowl of cereal sans the cocoa. He growled in agreement and used his best Marlboro Man husky voice to say, "Tanks Mamuh."

I'm very happy that he's becoming a more verbal creature but I'm finding that along with the sweetness comes the sourpuss. He has a hot little temper (no idea where he got that from, wink, wink!) and now he's just able to express it better through his sexy smoker's growl. It's really hard not to laugh when you hear it, but I think that just torks him off even more. Ahhh, the joy of the terrible twos...why did it seem so much easier with my older two?

July 02, 2008

Rapunzel! Rapunzel!

"Rapunzel! Rapunzel! You've cut off your hair!
Your billowing tresses are no longer there.
That mohawk you're sporting is spiky and pink.
I'm really not certain just what I should think.

"I came here expecting to clamber a braid,
ascending your tower to come to your aid.
Instead I have suffered the greatest of shocks
to find that you've cut off your lovely blonde locks."

"Prince Charming, Prince Charming," Rapunzel replied,
"I have no intention of being your bride.
We will not get married. We will not elope.
I've cut off my hair and I've braided a rope.

"You came here to visit me once every day,
and promised that soon you would take me away,
but you were too clueless to even concieve
of cutting my hair off so we could just leave.

"I cannot believe you were such a big dope.
I come and I go as I please with my rope.
And so, I'm afraid I can't give you my hand.
In spite of the fabulous wedding you planned."

From then on Rapunzel was known through the land.
She toured the world in a rock and roll band.
And silly Prince Charming, with rocks in his head,
rode off and got married to Snow White instead.

--Kenn Nesbitt

I love this poem because it reminds me of my own little "Rapunzel" and her buddy "L," who spent some time with us yesterday. Two headstrong little girls who will hopefully stay that way into adulthood.

Taterbug has gotten used to the fact that whenever she has friends over, they have to deal with me begging and pleading for just a coupla pictures. Yesterday, the girls agreed but they ended up goofing off so much that our pictures ended up, well, not so serious but cute nonetheless.

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On the fence

Hugs in Chocolate

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Thanks for looking!

June 30, 2008

The Benefits Of Water Torture

About six months ago, I had the bright idea of buying Gun-Gun a brand, spanking new potty chair. When it came in the mail we all chanted and cheered about the magnificent piece of plastic ready to tackle Gunny's little cheekies. The little throne was placed in our bathroom and quickly became the host to Gunny's waterlogged Hotwheels and Taterbug's Barbies. He's occasionally park himself on the seat only to get up and quickly assure me that he had "pooh farted." I have no clue what that is but I'm guessing he was speaking of two year old air biscuits.

Until last weekend, I truly thought that Gun-Gun was going to go to his prom in a pair of Depends with a special apology note to his date. However, Heaven's pearly gates opened on Sunday morning, and a "golden" light emanated from our bathroom. With the promise of "shocolit" (chocolate) he sat his little butt down on his seat and peed...and peed...and peed a little more all over his hand and some of my bath rug. Yes, the kid has no aim but who cares! We've began the potty training process and I can quit buying stock in Kirkland diapers!

With our oldest two, potty training came pretty easy. Taterbug trained with two older girls and C-dub had the wrath of Taterbug should he choose to - Heaven forbid - wet or soil his diaper. I wasn't sure how my older two were going to take the whole potty training issue but they've needled themselves easily into the process and they've become little experts on making Gun-Gun pee. Why, you ask? Why would my children be interested if Gun-Gun used his potty chair rather than a diaper? It's the candy. When Gunny does his duty, he's rewarded. If the kids help Gunny, then they get rewarded as well.

This morning, Gun-Gun started doing the familiar "potty dance" in the living room. My eagle-eyed children noticed this and quickly hustled him into the bathroom. I walked in and through the bathroom door could hear this:

Taterbug: Now sit down, Gunny. Let's go potty!
Gun-Gun: OK Sissy. I pee! I pee!
C-dub: Oh man! He's not doin' it Sissy.
Taterbug: He'll do it, just turn on the faucet. Running water always makes me have to pee. The sink goes on and a few seconds go by.
Gun-Gun: I dun, Sissy, no pee pee.
Taterbug: Come on, Gunny!
C-dub: Yeah Gun. We want candy so you better pee!

I was starting to feel bad for the little guy and I really don't like him being subjected to water torture, and I decide to go in and rescue him. Just as I do I hear the toilet seat go up and Taterbug announces that she's, "Gonna show him how it's done.”

I start to open the door only to hear the sweet sounds of two of my little urinators doing their thing. The countless minutes of peer pressure and bladder harassing paid off and Gunny produced some liquid gold for his sibling’s candy enjoyment.

They each lined up and received their "schocolit" reward and Mommazilla took one as well - after all, the supervisor needs to get paid.

I don't really consider his potty training to be in full force because honestly, the only time he wants to use the potty is when he or his siblings want a piece of candy. Then he's forced back into the torture chamber until his little bladder produces at least a noticeable droplet. We've even had trouble with some counterfeit urine as C-dub has an incredible sweet tooth and is known for "accidentally" spillin' a little water in the potty chair and claiming that Gun-Gun did his thing, re-diapered himself, and then put his pants back on. Right.....

I hope the process eventually goes into full force and poor Gunny doesn’t sustain too much damage to his modesty or his urethra.

June 28, 2008

The Tractor Pull

As sophisticated as I consider myself to be, as of last week, I'd had yet to partake amongst a good 'ole tractor pull. When I saw that Redwood Acres was hosting one during fair time, I decide that it was the time to embrace my redneck roots and take my family.

Before we even made it to the "pull" I had a million things buzzing around my head - primarily, what does one wear to such an event? I opened my closet and immediately pulled out my freshly ironed pair of daisy dukes with matching red flannel tank top. For just a moment, they whispered to me, whitetrash princess, but I ignored my wish to be royalty and I promptly put on several layers of warm clothing - the princess in me would have to wait.

When we got there, we met up with some friends who thankfully, were more prepared than Hubby or I, as they had a steady supply of earplugs for our kiddos. Who'd a thunk that a tractor pull could be that loud? I had no clue that some of this "rigs" had helicopter engines and other loud pieces of ear shattering exhausts. Sounds like some liquored up rich guys had too much time on their hands...

After sitting there for about 15 minutes and getting asked a bazillion times, "When's it gonna start?" and "Are we still gonna ride dah rides?" I hosted an impromptu interview with each of my kiddos, asking them what they were most looking forward to:

Taterbug:
Taters, not likin' the noise.
I'm not really looking forward to any of it. I just came for the rides. But a pink truck would be nice.

C-dub
Loving the trucks.
I'm weally excited. I want to see lots of twucks and fast stuff. And I wanna hotdog with lotsa ketchup. And maybe some nachos. A soda might be a good idea too, right Momma?

Gun-Gun
Gunny likes the trucks.
Wanna see twuckies! Wanna see twuckies! Wight now, Momma!

When the show finally began, my boys were enthralled:

The Boyz

Taterbug, on the other hand, found herself a little bored and discovered that she preferred blocking out the noise by using smellavision:

Noseplugs!

We saw lots of really neat trucks and other "rigs" - because frankly, I have no idea what you would call these things:

A cool car

And believe it or not, this is a little corvette:

Yes, that's a corvette.

We also discovered the reason behind global warming and they assured us it was entirely normal:

Smoking 101

This is normal?

At one point, Taterbug informed me that it wasn't too bad:

Hey Mom!  This ain't so bad!

And after about the hundreth hopped up diesel truck, C-dub proclaimed that he was now ready to ride the rides:

Waitin' on the trucks.

It was a fun night even though we tortured the kiddos by making them wait until all the trucks had gone and done their thing. I think that next year, Taterbug and I will leave the truck show for the boys and we'll concentrate on the gourmet carnival food and massage booth.

June 22, 2008

The Joy of Leather Couches

** I'm feeling a little under the weather so rather than come completely out of my Sudafed induced stupor to create something new, I'm re-publishing one of my older blogs. It's probably one of my most favorite gross out stories of all time. You've been warned :-) **

I love my leather couches. Affordable, super comfy, and most importantly, easy to clean; they are (and continue to be) a perfect fit in our household. The kids also love these couches for many reasons other than the ones I previously mentioned (i.e.: They make awesome farting sounds when you glide stinky feet across the cushions and you can catch major air jumping from the first to third couch cushion and then back to the middle love seat cushion). They are also a direct representation of adulthood as they were the first "grown up" purchases hubby and I made as adults. They replaced the heavy wood framed couches with the gorgeous black floral satin cushions (think Brady Bunch crossed with John Holmes and you'll get the fashion flavor of these things) given to us by well-meaning in laws. Gotta love hand-me-downs. But I digress, let's get back to the subject of my pride and joy leather couches.

A few months back, I allowed Taterbug and C-Dub to have freshly baked chocolate chip cookies on my prized couches. Our carpeting is also fairly new (and wayyyy too light for the presence of little people) so it's a real treat to eat anything in the living room, especially on mommy's prized furniture. It was a typical night and as usual, both kids were naked after hosting their own karate/kick boxing/slap fighting living room tournament (it was a draw by the way, due to both kids ending up crying at just about the same time and accidentally wiping out their little brother). Besides being all riled up from the tournament, they were both completely covered with chocolate (mixed in with a little cookie and milk for good measure). After a good bath with lots of soap and loofah scrubbing, they were off to bed. Just prior to dream time, I praised them for doing so well eating on the couches.

When I awoke the next morning, I walked into the living room and began to admire my beautiful couches in the beaming morning light. As I conducted my daily inspection, I could clearly see two dried brown streaks on the cushions of the larger couch. I immediately did the mommy thing and licked my pointer finger in an effort to wipe the cushion off. That stubborn "chocolate" stain just wasn't coming off. So, I continued to do the mommy thing and licked my middle finger in an effort to add more mommy-cleaner (spit) to the cushion. This helped a little but I still had more to go. So, I proceeded to add more cleaner (spit) by licking my ring finger and as I did, I caught a whiff of something that certainly didn't smell like chocolate. As I suddenly came to the realization of what I was actually cleaning, my daughter walks out, sees what I'm doing and says, "I told you C-Dub had a dirty butt last night, mom, he doesn't wipe very good." This immediately brought on a session of dry heaving and gagging, only to be soothed by the brushing of my teeth with my very effective Oral B electric toothbrush and a good dosing of Listerine (some swallowed for the medicinal qualities).

The moral of my story is simple. Love your furniture but don't love your furniture. No inanimate object is worth the taste of a five year old's stinky butt on your tongue.

June 18, 2008

My Ax Man

Tree Climbing 101

"If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?"

I have no freakin' clue as to an answer for this ageless riddle, but what I do know is that C-dub wants to cut down a tree something fierce, after having become addicted to the History Channel's "Ax Men." Every day I'm asked, "Mom, do you weally think there's a twee fallin' somewhere?" or "Mom, how many twees do yah think fell down taday?" My reply is the same, "I dunno C-dub. Ask your dad. Or better yet, ask Grandpa D or Papa Tom. Grandpas know everything." I knew that I could only put him off for so long as the frustration was slowly mounting in his little body.

I figured his love for this show would slowly go away as it was a cycle I had seen before with other shows. We went through the whole ocean/fishing/net every animal in the yard with "Deadliest Catch" and then we had the checking the rat trips with dad because of "The Verminators." I dreaded the idea that he might try an episode of "Dirty Jobs" because they seemed to be a tad bit more daunting for a five year old.

I didn't realize the intensity that C-dub had for this show until I saw him in action with Hubby. Hubby was in the backyard splitting a load of madrone and oak and C-dub was out "yarding logs" for dad. He had taken one of Hubby's ratcheting tie downs and told me that he was using it as his "yarder." He'd carefully wrap the tie down around a small log and then pull it to Hubby to cut up and split. When he was finished with the smaller logs, he proceeded to the split wood pile and continued to wrap his "yarder" around the pieces of firewood, dragging them around the yard until he was tired.

When he eventually made it into the house, he explained to me how he had been "logging" in the backyard and how he "definitely" needed a good dessert because of his strenuous workout. Over a bowl of vanilla ice cream and strawberry sauce, he explained to me that he was ready for his own ax and that he was going protect the family by getting rid of our "leaners." I later learned that "leaners" are the trees that hang precariously over forested areas and C-dub thinks we have several in our backyard. Who am I to argue with an expert?

No, C-dub did not get an ax but he did get to take a spin with the hacksaw on a piece of firewood but I think he was just as thrilled. C-dub may not know this, but our family has a strong history in the timber industry and his Great-Grandpa was a short little Irish whiskey drinkin' logger. I know he'd be proud to see C-dub's "logging" diligence.

June 17, 2008

Sarcasm And Bunk Beds

Today was the big move...Gun-Gun is no longer contained in a crib and C-dub now has a roommate. I won't bore you with specifics but it was a very long day with beds being taken apart and added, and a lot of vacuuming of unknown items stuck in the carpet. My poor Dyson got a heck of a work out and many Barbie shoes lost their lives.

As most parents know, it's really hard to get anything done with three kiddos' underfoot who are utterly amazed at what lies at the bottom of their toy box. For them, each box moved was like having Toys-r-Us throw up a little in their room. After a day of "Christmas in June," both Hubby and I were getting pretty frustrated by the end of the day. I don't know how many times we threatened to throw it all in the garbage only to hear, "Go ahead. We're tired of workin'." Geesh. If only real life could be so easy...

When we finally got done around 6ish (after starting around 11ish), I threw myself on Gun-Gun's bed and Taterbug took a snuggle spot right next to me.

Taterbug: Mom, we sure got a lot done today.
Mommazilla: Yep, we did. You guys worked sooooo hard! I then laughed and received a dirty look from Taterbug.
Taterbug: Are you being sarcastic, Mom?
Mommazilla: Why do you think Taters? Maybe I was, but just a little.
Taterbug: That's what I thought. Well, you and Daddy were just greatttt parents today. You didn't even yell at us to get goin'. She then gave me a big grin.
Mommazilla: Nice Taters, very nice.

June 11, 2008

Holy Halitosis!

A funny little dude.

Our dear sweet C-dub is a very honest little boy - so much integrity that it tends to be a tad bit embarassing at times. Lately, he's been acutely aware of personal hygiene - not so much his, but that of others. I heard him comment to Hubby yesterday that he didn't appreciate the wafting smell of chips and salsa on his breath and he's also been quick to announce when Sissy's feet are starting to make him gag.

Tonight, he had the opportunity to visit with his best buddy and his family was having a birthday celebration for their grandma. When grandma left, she gave all the boys hugs, including little C-dub. As she hugged him, he told her:

"Oooh! Somebody's bweath stinks!"

Thanks goodness this is a great family with an excellent sense of humor. Grandma laughed and C-dub got a little embarassed realizing they were laughing at what he had said. Hubby later had a little chat with C-dub about the issue of honesty and then the concept of tact. I'm not sure how well it went but I guess we'll find out the next time someone has a case of butt breath ;-).

Awww...another untold joy of parenthood.

Too Cool For School

I love having a daughter. It's so much fun to live vicariously through her eight year old little body. I get to do all the fun things that a normal grown-up might not get to do, and just blame it on her. The Taterbug made me do it, I swear by it.

Today was one of those days when Taterbug needed a little lift. Since tomorrow's the last day of school, I caved in on the idea that she could have pink hair. We settled on coloring the tips of her hair so that it could easily be cut off for the next school year. She also talked me out of some blonde streaks but that's a whole 'nother story.

Let me just say, I'm now the world's coolest mom (so she says) and she's totally rockin' the pink look. Secretly, I wish I could do the same thing to my own hair but I don't think it would look as cute on a mom of three as it does to a cherubic little blonde. And Taterbug informed me that it would be "totally uncool" should I decide to do the same. She knows fashion so I'm leaving my discretion up to her.

Here's my little rockstar:

Mattea with the pink hair

Little Feet

And one more to show she's still my kid:

Goofy

June 08, 2008

My Graduate

A BIG congrats to C-dub, the current graduate of our household. Watch out kindergarten; there's a new ex-preschooler in town!

My Graduate

June 05, 2008

Twins?

Is Grandpa D really a triplet rather than just a twin? You be the judge...

Grandpa D:
dadinshades copy_filtered

His little shadow:
gunnyshades_filtered

June 02, 2008

Don't Waste The Demo

Tonight I had the opportunity to spend some quality one on one time with Taterbug, which can be a real rarity in our daily lives. We ate dinner, got our nails done, and did a little shopping at the mall - which I normally despise and only visit around Black Friday and Christmas.

I needed to make a stop at GNC and took my time selecting just the right vitamin concoction for my aging body. Taterbug proceeded to look around and then made her way towards the area of the front of the store where the dreaded scale is kept. You know, the motion activated one that demands only "one at a time" when you step on it.

I had a few questions for the clerk while I was making my purchase and Taterbug switched her attention to a chair positioned at the front of the store. As I paid for my fountain of youth pills, I could hear Taterbug saying, "ouch," every five seconds or so. It wasn't a true "ouch" but more of an "I will annoy my mother until she gets me the heck out of here," sort of "ouch."

I smiled at the clerk and asked her if she wanted a free child informing her that Taterbug was normally well-behaved and could recite almost every Hannah Montana song created. The very young clerk smiled back in sympathy and politely declined my offer. I told Taterbug to knock whatever she was doing off. She did so at first but then the rhythmic ouches began again, extending to about every ten seconds, with a few giggles in between.

I finally completed my purchase and walked out of the store to see Taterbug sitting in the chair at the front of the store. The chair was equipped with a shiatsu massage pad and she had the thing going full blast. The massage fingers going over her neck prompted the ouch and giggling, as it was just bit too forceful for her little muscles. She was sitting back in that chair with her little hands gripping the chair arms until her knuckles were white. She was thoroughly enjoying the ride.

Mommazilla: Taterbug! Why in the world would you keep sitting there if it hurts? Get up!
Taterbug: It's not that bad, Mom. Plus, I don't wanna waste my demo.

With that final comment, she gave me a little grin and finally got up out of the chair once the *free* demo had subsided. She offered to have me also receive a demo but I politely declined, still laughing at the budding bargain shopper I had created.

May 28, 2008

An Afternoon At The Cemetery

Cartoonized

This might sound strange, but we spent a few hours at the cemetery today. It's tradition for my family to leave fresh flowers on my grandparent's graves around Memorial Day. With all recent comings and goings, we were just a tad bit late.

My kids have never been to a cemetery before and I thought that today might be a good day to introduce them. I gave them some brief rules; no running, no screaming, no knocking down headstones, no digging, and God forbid, if they find a bone, don't touch it. They agreed to my list of demands and quietly giggled to one another in the backseat of my parent's van. I could hear bits and pieces about the "Grim Reaper," "zombies," and "ghosts." I smiled at Hubby who was rolling his eyes.

When we pulled into the cemetery, the kids instantly became quiet and were in awe of the serene setting that it provided. I allowed my older two to walk around and look at the different headstones and to "meet" some of their older family members. They "met" my grandparents, great aunts and uncles, and even some of Hubby's family. I was really surprised to see how they reacted to some of the gravesites as I could see them doing the math and realizing that both babies and kids had their place in the cemetery.

They did great at staying along the paths and occasionally I could hear C-dub admonishing Taterbug for "stepping on a dead guy" when she wasn't careful to stay on the given path. They were quiet and respectful and each had a lot to say when it was finally time to go. I swear that they each grew up about 10 years during the time we were there and I was so proud of them.

I don't want my kids to fear death nor be scared of the unknown. At the same time, it's really hard for me to know when I'm telling my kiddos too much and then not enough. Recently, we've had many talks about life and death and it just doesn't get any easier for me to give good, solid explanations - especially when I'm dealing with the learning levels of a five and eight year old. I'm striving for a happy medium but I just don't think I'm there...yet.

May 27, 2008

Pink and Orange Sand

It's routine for Taterbug to review her school lunch menu on a weekly basis. She draws big happy faces on the yummy food days and big black "x's" on the days she deems as unacceptable for her refined palate. This week, while reviewing the lunch menu, I noticed that she had crossed out the "ham and cheese sand" option, which is highly unusual as she is rather fond of the cured pork arena. When I asked her about it, this is what she told me:

Mommazilla: Taters, what's up with this? You love ham and cheese.
Taterbug: But maaaooommm, it's ham and cheese sand. That is so disgustin'. I can't eat sand.
Mommazilla: I'm laughing of course. Taters, it's not sand. Sand is short for sandwich.
Taterbug: Nope Mom, you're wrong. I even asked the Lunch Lady and she told me they have special buckets of pink and orange sand that taste like ham and cheese.
Mommazilla: Seriously? You think they'd actually make you eat colored sand? Come on!
Taterbug: Yep, they would. And I'm not gonna eat it.

Well, being the mean Mommazilla I am, I still made her eat hot lunch on that day because I knew I was right. She went to school and asked me to pack lots of snacks, "just in case."

When she got home that night, I asked her about her lunch. She was very relieved to tell me that it was in fact a delicious sandwich and no sand was involved in the process. I think she's still a little torked at the Lunch Lady but it was kind of nice to be right for once - especially when dealing with an all-knowing eight year old. Thanks Lunch Lady.

Coffee and Popcorn

This morning, Hubby allowed Gun-Gun to select my breakfast...and he chose a cup of rejuvenating coffee and some freshly popped microwave popcorn - yes, the type that will give you cancer should you choose to eat it a dozen times a day for your entire life. While I readily agreed to swig down the coffee, I just couldn't bring myself to chomp down on the popcorn. I know it's five o'clock somewhere, but I just can't eat popcorn for breakfast. I have my standards but I do appreciate the thought.

Gun-Gun on the other hand, wolfed down his bowl of popcorn ('cuz you know it was never really about Mommazilla's love for popcorn) and added a dry bowl of frosted flakes and some orange juice for good measure. I really miss the days of being a kid when this might have actually sounded like a gourmet breakfast. Sometimes it sucks to be a grown-up :-).

May 23, 2008

Diapers Optional...

Cheeky Gun-Gun

Gun-Gun, if you've never listened before, now is the time to listen to your Mommazilla. I realize you've discovered how to remove your diaper with two little snaps of your chubby hand, but can you please stop showing off and leave the darn thing on? You're not a fireman, so there is no need to keep your hose handy to put out fires. And your certainly not doing it because your interested in using the big boy potty. You've proven this point as our efforts of allowing you to water the tree in the front yard have been futile. Come on little man, leave it on for Mommazilla, that's all I ask. Our carpet is begging you.

Window washing?

May 20, 2008

Need I Say More?

My parents ARE exhausted!

My Hinter

C-dub does this thing...it's almost like reverse psychology crossed with a little pig latin in the form of a strong hint. This probably makes absolutely no sense, so let me give you an example.

Today he decided his stomach was too upset for him to stay at preschool. Now take note, this was only after he learned I would be heading into Eureka to get my oil changed. I saw his gears grinding, anticipating I'd more than likely pass by the vicinity of the mall that contains the Bounce-A-Rama and just maybe, I might take pity on his little soul and let him bounce 'til his heart was content. But house rules prevail; if you're too sick to go to school, you're too sick to do anything that might have the least bit of fun contained within it.

Today's conversation went something like this:

Mommazilla: C-dub! Hurry up! We're going to be late.
C-dub: OK, OK, I'm hurryin'!
Mommazilla: Are you feeling better big guy?
C-dub: Yeah Mom. Are we not going to dah mall today?
Mommazilla: Nope, I wasn't planning on it.
C-dub: Do you think Bounce-A-Rama's open?
Mommazilla: A lightbulb suddenly goes of in my head. I don't know if it's open, but you're not going. You're sick, remember?
C-dub: But Maaa-Ommmm! I didn't weally wanna go. I was just askin' a question. I was just wonderin'. That's all.
Mommazilla: OK. I'm pondering, waiting for the next barrage of questioning. I can just feel another hint coming on.
C-dub: Are we not going to eat lunch tahday?
Mommazilla: We'll eat lunch at home.
C-dub: I wonder if McDonalds is opened up'd? I weally like their nuggets.
Mommazilla: C-dub! No more asking for things! You're sick, remember?
C-dub: But Maaa-Ommmm! I'm not askin'! I was just wonderin'! Geez!
Mommazilla: You might not be asking but your hinting. Same thing in my book.
C-dub: What's hintin' Momma?
Mommazilla: It's when you ask for something without saying it.
C-dub: Oh, OK Momma. Is Grandma not workin' at dah pool tahday? I weally like swimmin' and my tummy feels much gooder.

I give up. There was no winning this insane pissing contest I'd placed myself in with my five year old son. I'm hoping this is a stage - just like his last bout of chesticular fortitude - but you never know. One could hope, especially Mommazilla.

May 19, 2008

Power Of The Sun

Yesterday, I subjected Taterbug to potential blindness by asking her to assist me with some solar flare sort of shots. The kind where you are forced to stare up into the sun until you get your perfect shot. Yeah, it was fun and the first three layers of my retina are completely gone...burned up presumably. Anyhoo, here are a few of the shots I took. Not perfect by any means, but I was happy with the overall kind of dreamy effect. I think I may try it again today, that is if the sun will cooperate.

Practicin'

Urbanized

Lilac Sniffin'

Edited Sun Flare

My personal favorite:

More Practicin'

And a normal one:

Daydreams

Thanks for looking! Let me know what you think.

May 13, 2008

The Bestest Storyteller

What makes a good storyteller? In my book, it's someone who can keep Gun-Gun enamored for more than two minutes on end. It's someone who will listen to their audience and then make adjustments as necessary, so that their two year old little fans will keep listening. I was surprised to learn that I had an excellent storyteller in the midst of my own family; in the shape of a Grandpa....

My dad

You can't help but believe that Grandpa D is, hands down, the bestest storyteller in the whole, wide, world. Just ask Gun-Gun. I bet he'll agree. Gun-Gun thinks his Grandpa D is pretty neat - and I think Grandpa D returns the favor.


The Best Storyteller...ever!

May 11, 2008

Princess Taterbug

My daughter is the epitome of a princess...

She takes care of her loyal subjects with a steady hand...

Leapin' lizards!

salamanders

Or even a firm hand, at times:

Slapboxing

She makes sure to do her share of upkeep on the royal grounds...

Taterbug and Barney

Taterbug and Barney II

But in the end, she still knows who her true King is...King Hubby.

Tater and Hubs

All hail, Princess Taterbug.

Karma

I thought I had this mom thing down up until about two years ago - around the birth of Gun-Gun. My older two chillins' were thoughtful and kind and most importantly, we could go out and act like a normal family without fear of being asked to leave public places. And then along came Gun-Gun... He refuses to hold hands in public, likes to throw food, and is fond of pinching unsuspecting waitresses. He's the reason we never see a complete movie and the cause of concerned looks due to pubic displays of random screaming - actually shrieking, would be a better word.

My mother-in-law swears that we are once again raising Hubby in the form of his youngest child but at the same time reminds me that Hubby didn't turn out all that bad. Afterall, I did marry the punk.

This morning, I had the opportunity to spend some quality time with my pair of heathens and enjoy the Karma brought about between the two of them.


Cuddles 3

Cuddles 1

Cuddles 2

Twins?
My boys

May 07, 2008

Shalimar Keisha

I was just reading something the other day that reminded me of a story involving Taterbug and her creativity. When Taterbug was almost four, she decided that she no longer liked her name and wanted to change it and we “unofficially” let her. After all, we thought it would just be a "family" thing and she'd switch back to her normal identity whenever we took her out.

Around this time, Taterbug had been invited to a birthday party that was being held at a local gym. She was so excited to go to her first "big girl" party and made me sit and watch her as she hung out with the big kids. When it was time for the tumbling the start, one of the gym leaders circled the kids up and then asked each of them for their names. I was chatting with other moms during this, not really paying attention. After all, she was doing the big kid thing and I needed to give her some space.

When they got to Taterbug, I evidently wasn't paying attention because she supplied them with the name, "Shalimar Keisha." She had previously created this name by using her Great Aunt’s horse and her favorite Barbie doll. She thought it sounded worldly and exotic and I was just happy that she had finally stopped griping about her name.

Every once and awhile, I'd look over to see big grins and giggles coming from her as she was truly enjoying her time doing awkward somersaults and crabwalks. I'd also occasionally hear snickers from the other parents but I thought that they were just enjoying the free show that the kids were putting on.

But then I heard it. One of the instructors called, "Shalimar Keisha! Let's line up over here now!"

Oh…my… gawd… that's my kid but that's not her name. I looked at Taterbug as she happily ran over to the instructor and did as she was told. She casually looked back at me and gave me a little wave and a big smile.

For the rest of the class, she was Shalimar Keisha. I did eventually fill in the instructor on the story behind the name but ultimately, I think everyone got a kick out of it. I reminded Taterbug of this name when we were recently trying to name some of our chickens. She was like, “Mommm, puhleazzee! What sorta name is that?!” I then reminded her it was a Taterbug sorta name and a good one at that.

May 05, 2008

Baybee Twickies

For the past couple of weeks, the kids and I have been daily (if not hourly) fans of the University of Nebraska egg cam. Last year, we were actually able to do the real thing but this year, after experiencing over 20 roosters at once, we decided to go the technological route with our hatching skills. We've seen ducks, chicks and most recently, turkeys, hatch on this dang camera. It's truly addicting to watch those little slimy creatures turn into adorable fuzz balls, right before your eyes.

Gun-Gun has also taken a notice to the egg cam and likes to sit on my lap and "ooh" and "aah" over the hatchlings. He loves looking at the eggs and will tell me how "twute" he thinks "dah baybee twickies" are - even if they haven't hatched yet. Because he's taken a notice, I've involved him in helping me collect the eggs that my chickens have finally decided to start laying. It took awhile, but we were able to talk the hens into laying their cackleberries in the nests we built for them, rather than letting them rip from the top of our screen door. Yep, I agree. Entirely disgusting. Hence the new nesting boxes.

Yesterday, Gun-Gun and I headed out for our daily Easter egg hunt and located three eggs. Gun-Gun took great interest in one of the goofy looking oblong eggs, and packed it around the house, patting in on the back as if it was his own baby. He walked around with it for quite awhile, telling it what a "twute baybee twicky" it was until I finally talked him into putting it in the fridge. It's seriously no fun to look for things he hides - as he does it so well. We only just recently found the one pound box of butter for the Christmas cookies.

Fast forward to today...C-dub wanted his Atkins diet of sausage and eggs and being the short order cook that I am I started to prepare the feast. Once the sausages were looking edible, I opened the fridge to prepare the scrambled eggs. Gun-Gun beat me into the fridge and grabbed his "baybee twicky," jabbering at it and patting it on the back of its eggy shell. Not thinking, I asked him for the egg and told him that he could help me mix up the eggs for breakfast. He said, "OK Mama!" and hopped up on the stool, ready to roll with the old fashioned egg beater in hand.

And then I did it. I cracked his baybee twicky open and he wasn't happy. "Mommmeee!!! My baybee twicky cwackeded up'd!"

Oh schat. I hadn't even thought of his emotional attachment to the baybee and now I was expecting him to mix it up and eat it. What sort of Mommazilla was I? Was I helping to create another Jeffrey Dahmer? Ack!

He quickly calmed down once he realized that no babybee twicky was hiding in the egg. He happily helped run the old fashioned egg beater and then helped to eat C-dub's breakfast - much to the dismay of C-dub ('cuz Gun-Gun has dah germs - at least according to C-dub).

Before you start lamenting over the fact that I'm destroying my child's ability to love and trust or that I've irreversibly damaged his little psyche, rest assured that he is absolutely fine. In fact, he helped me find three more eggs today and we were able to also watch another batch of baybee twickies hatch today on the egg cam. I'm sure he still thinks that every egg carries a chick and that all the eggs in our fridge are potentially ready to hatch, but I'm ok with that. It's actually pretty cute watching a two year old try to "burp" an egg.

April 30, 2008

Screwin'...As Told By C-dub

This is a conversation that took place over the weekend while Hubby and Grandpa D were doing some house repairs for Grandma Linda. C-dub had went along for the ride as he's Hubby's right hand man when it comes to fixin' stuff.

It's not for the faint of heart but it is very funny. Read if you dare...

C-dub: Dad, you know what? I really like screwin'. He's holding a screwdriver in his hand and looking ever so innocent.
Grandpa D: Chokes on his coffee.
Hubby:
Swallowing his surprise and thinking, oh my God, how do I answer this without totally losing it?. That's great. How many times have you done it, C-dub?
C-dub: Just once Dad.
Hubby: That's good C-dub. Now go play.
C-dub: But Dad! I weally wanna scwuw somethin'! Weally bad Dad! I like scwuwin' so much! He's still clenching his screwdriver.
Hubby: In a few minutes, C-dub. Shaking his head. C-dub finally wanders off, somewhat satisfied.
Grandpa D: Finally swallows his coffee. Relieved that the moment is over.

Grandpa D and Hubby share a brief moment of silence and a quiet reckoning that one day, C-dub might actually mean what he says. He better not - or some sort of chastity belt for boys will be on two-day order from Amazon.com.

The Danger Of Horseyback Riding

Dear, sweet, little Taterbug loves to help me with Gun-Gun, especially when she can tell that Gun-Gun's worn out his welcome with Mommazilla. Today was no exception, as I was trying to prepare a somewhat healthy dinner all the while entertaining Gun-Gun who wanted to "Squeeeeeze!" Mommazilla's legs. Judging from the higher octaves in my voice, Taterbug offered to supply Gun-Gun with an endless supply of "horseyback rides" in exchange that I'd remember her kindness when it came time for allowance handouts.

As I skinned the fresh caught squirrel and possum (gotcha for a second, didn't I?!), Taterbug went round and round our kitchen and living room. Gun-Gun was squealing in delight and C-dub and his little buddy, J-dub, were cracking up at their antics. However, the squealing soon changed into screams from Taterbug as she proclaimed that Gun-Gun had peed on her. She promptly dropped him on his little padded diaper butt and began reaching around towards her back, feeling for the wet spot.

C-dub, watching the show, explained to Taterbug, "That's not pee, Sissy. He pooped on you! That's so disgustin'!" And the laughter ensued from both he and J-dub. Taterbug had a look of panic and quickly looked at me so that I could dispel C-dub's proclamation that the wetness was caused by natural brewed fudge sauce. As she turned around, I saw the clear sign that Gun-Gun was part leprechaun as she had a smear of green across her freshly cleaned Cheetah Girls shirt.

I couldn't help myself and I started to crack-up. This caused C-dub and J-dub to laugh even harder and then Gun-Gun started to giggle, all the while pulling at his droopy butt and complaining that he had "pooh-farted." In her game of "horseyback riding" she had inadvertently bounced the remnants of a nasty diaper, all the way down little Gun-Gun's legs and in turn, all over her back. It was quite the moment of chaos.

When the dust finally settled, I was able to get Taterbug into a clean shirt and Gun-Gun once again had a clean hiney. The boys were lectured about making Taterbug feel bad and I also verbally reprimanded myself (just for looks since Taterbug was watching) for laughing – although it was pretty damn funny. I guess if it was my favorite Cheetah Girls shirt, I’d probably feel a tad bit different.

April 27, 2008

What's Up, Chicken Butt?

chickenbutt

Gun-Gun intently stared at this poor plastic chicken for quite awhile, trying to figure out why in the world she had such a large hole in her butt. He patiently waited for a few minutes and anticipated when the next bubble gum egg was going to emerge and make him giggle. Evidently, the chicken was molting and refused to lay for the eager toddler - which made for a happy Mommazilla as I didn't have to pluck any chewing gum from his hair.

April 25, 2008

Double Trouble

wrestling

I caught these little hooligans raising holy heck in my livingroom. C-dub was supplying Gun-Gun with endless piggyback rides while Gun-Gun was shrieking constant giggling and encouragement. Fearful that C-dub was going to pop out with a hernia, I ended their fun...but not until I at least got a cute picture for potential blackmail. I can't wait until they start dating - revenge is sweet ;-).

April 23, 2008

Snakes And Snails And Puppy Dog Tails...

Gunnyandmom_edited-1soft

Now that Gun-Gun has reached the ripe 'ol age of two and a quarter, I really believe that he's taken huge steps towards major testosteroney manliness. Thanks to the infinite wisdom of Hubby and C-dub, Gun-Gun is becoming aware of his machismo and is demonstrating this on a daily basis. He's quickly learning the ways of "man"kind and is showing Mommazilla, that he's a quick study.

An example of his impending manhood can be seen in our trip down potty training lane. While he's a tad bit young for potty training, we went ahead and purchased a cute little potty seat. Gun-Gun will park his naked little cheeks on the seat and announce that he's "pooh-farted" although there is no evidence to support his claim. Once he gets relaxed, he'll take the time to check his "junk" and provide whoever's watching with a long dissertation about his "weenah." So far, I've come to the conclusion that the potty seat is best used for holding excessive Hotwheels that have made it successfully out of the bathtub. Hopefully, we'll have him potty-trained by the time he gets his driver's license.

Another example of his dudeness can be observed in a conversation I overheard between Hubby and Gun-Gun. The newest "guy" thing Gun-Gun has learned is the ability to place a perfectly manicured fingernail into a rather clean little nostril and find the most disgusting little creatures, fondly called "boogahs." Gun-Gun was happily drilling away today when Hubby decided to interrupt:

Hubby: Are you picking your nose buddy?
Gun-Gun: Yeahhhh. Still picking.
Hubby: Did you find anything in there?
Gun-Gun: Slowing down. Yeahhhhh.
Hubby: Did it taste a little salty?
Gun-Gun: Completely stopping and pondering at the wisdom just presented to him. Yeah!

I 'm excited to see Gun-Gun's little personality coming out, but I just wish he wasn't such a little "boy." It's funny, because even C-dub was a little more refined than his baby brother. I don't remember C-dub ever taking great enjoyment in eating dog food, drinking out of mud puddles, and purposely dropping his food on the floor in order to slurp it off the linoleum. He's a strange little dude but we love him. It will be interesting to see what he learns next.

April 18, 2008

Brotherly Spittle

Last week, when the weather was deceivingly warm, I took the boys over into our orchard in the hopes of obtaining some natural looking posed pictures (!). Of course, Gun-Gun's reply was, "No cheese, Momma!" and C-dub just growled back a response when I demanded he look at me, just one..more...time. However, the temptatation to stop and spit off the bridge did allow me to grab a few shots without them realizing the cute pictures I was taking.

What is it with little boys and heights? What pushes them towards the need to either spit, or even worse, pee from high elevations, just to watch their bodily secretions splatter on the rocks below? Is it a power thing? Or is it just a gross little habit passed down among the male population? I remember Uncle R (being around seven or eight), and another neighborhood boy (just a little younger), climbing trees and acosting anything that happened to walk under their habitat. Maybe they were just marking their territory like a pair of tomcats - I certainly never understood it but it was certainly fun to narc them out to my dad. I was sadistic little child - especially when it came to torturing Uncle R.

I admit, Hubby and I probably didn't help too much with our boy's fondness of this activity - especially when we originally potty-trained C-dub. In order to attrack him to the toilet, we allowed him to pick his "victim." Whatever little food item that would float (Cheerios, Fruit Loops, mushrooms, etc.) and could be easily flushed, fell prey to the "super duper pooper" that C-dub quickly became during potty-training. He became spot on with his shooting skills. It was truly a proud parenting moment that I'm sure we'll reproduce when Gun-Gun is ready to be a big boy.

spitting

April 11, 2008

A Day In The Life of Gun-Gun

Scrubbing popsicle juice off the wall and then finding the remaining melted pieces throughout an 1800 square foot house...three hours.

gunnerwild

Chasing Gun-Gun down the driveway after he's hijacked a Hotwheels from his brother and has decided to flee to Mexico...two hours.

gunnerdramatic

Repeating instructions to stop jumping off the furniture, quit hitting the TV with Hotwheels, and to stop screeching like a banshee...four hours.

screaminggunny

Getting told, "I wuv you Momma" and giving and receiving sloppy wet kisses....endless.

gunnylayingdown

I wuv my widdle man.

April 09, 2008

A Math Equation For You

What do four Q-tips, two boys, and a lot of quiet giggling equal?


qtips copy


Yeah, trouble for Mommazilla. You should have seen the rest of the Q-tips. At least C-dub showin' some love for his Momma.

April 04, 2008

Where's The Cheese?

My Hubby is addicted to the yellow, gooey stuff that you squeeze out of a can. It professes to be made out of some sort of cheese product which in English means that at one point in it additive life, there was a smidgen of milk dumped into it, to make the claim. Hubby has passed this love of the "cheese" onto the kiddos who enjoy it on anything from hotdogs to Wheat Thins. Today, they evidently thought it tasted better on C-dub.

Taterbug and C-dub had politely asked if they could make themselves a snack today of crackers and cheese. Relieved that I wouldn't have to get up from the couch or my favorite LMN channel, I readily agreed and told them sternly to clean up after themselves. A short time later, the banging of cupboards and giggles told me that they had finished and were preparing to eat their feast.

Their giggles became distant and I decided to unpeel my sleeping butt from my leather couch and check on their snack progress. I found them in my bedroom and this is what I was greeted by:

easycheese

Seeing my inital shock and hearing the laugh that escaped from my inner soul, they decided to continue on in the process, hamming it up in an effort to make Mommazilla enjoy the show that much more:

easycheese2

Until poor C-dub looked like this:

easycheese3

And you know what? Easy Cheese is a major pain in the ass to get off of the skin and hair; especially to a kid that thinks he's allergic to soap. It leaves this strange Vaseline type residue that is a constant reminder of it's never ending memory. It also gave C-dub a funky red rash - probably from the ungodly amount of MSG or other "safe" chemicals used to keep it "alive" for 500 trillion years.

Fast forward to a few days later...Hubby confronts me, thinking I threw out his beloved cheese. I show him the photographic evidence and his reply is, "What the Hell? My cheese?!!!" You can literally feel for this man as he goes through the variety emotions one would have over the loss of a loved one.

Needless to say, the kids are now to be supervised whenever they have a cheese craving and Hubby is keeping his own stash in the back of the cereal cupboard. Right next to my stash of Cadbury eggs ;o).

March 30, 2008

7AM Smooches

My two year old is broke, literally. His little internal time clock is obviously damaged in that he thinks 7AM on Sunday morning is a perfectly good time to wake-up and start playing Hotwheels - on top of sleeping Hubby. He normally begins testing the waters around 4:30 AM by letting out just enough of a scream that one of use will come and check on him. It's as if he's asking, "Are you still there? Are there parents in this house who love and respect me? If so, show your face...NOW!"

It's amazing the type of bribery that occurs between Hubby and I when our cantankerous alarm clock goes off at this ungodly hour. Whoever can tempt the other one with the most appealing item - usually a promise of changing the next two stinky diapers or ending world hunger, top the list. And no, sexual favors are not used in this precarious game of cat and mouse; the demanding, angry voice in the next room is one hell of a libido killer and a strong reminder of the terminal diseases sex can cause. I'm just kidding, of course. Well, sorta.

As usual, Gun-Gun woke up and followed his routine of early rising and rumbling. I went in and retrieved his cherubic little body from his crib and brought him back to bed with me, promising him an unending flow of cartoons if he'd just let Mommy and Daddy sleep a bit more. He seemed to be game and settled back into the pillows, jabbering about "Bob Bob" (Spongebob) and "hopsicleys" (popsicles). He'd occasionally lean over and give me a raspberry on exposed skin and ask me if I was going to "waked up, Mom? Mom? Mom!"

His "Moms" were escalating and becoming even more demanding, causing me to open one eye-up in order to inspect for problems. Seeing none, I told him to give me a smooch and then to beat on Hubby, who was still sleeping like a baby. Gun-Gun continued his torture of wet kisses, slaps to exposed skin, and "chickle, chickle, chickles" (his version of tickling) and in turn, we alternated between Nickelodeon to Disney in order to keep his one minute attention span.

For about an hour, we were able to keep this process going and then Gun-Gun starting bringing us breakfast in bed; yogos, fruit roll-ups, Cheetos, and the occasional pudding cup. I'm not quite sure what Gun-Gun ate, 'cuz Hubby was blindly opening packages in order to keep him happy but more importantly, quiet. Judging by the stains on my pillows and the cheesy residue on my skin, I'm betting he had a smorgasbord of a little bit of everything.

Once Gun-Gun was again pacified and settled into cartoonies, Hubby and I eventually fell back asleep and he was left free reign of the house. Before you start calling Child Welfare Services on me, let me begin by telling you that I have a very child-proof house (but somehow, they still keep getting in). The padded beach towel walls, lack of metal silverware (we only buy sporks), and no running water or heat pretty much ensure the safety of all our children. Even though we are safety conscious enough, for that fleeting moment when I woke up and realized that Gun-Gun was loose; scared the crap out of me.

I immediately called out to him and heard the thumping of little feet running towards my room. It had only been about five minutes but it seemed like so much longer, especially when you're trying to wake-up. He burst through my room with a "Hi Mom!" and I was immediately relieved to see his dirty little face and little butt hanging out of his saggy diaper.

I decided to finally get up and survey the damage caused by tornado Gun-Gun. In the duration of my down time, he'd managed to wake up his siblings as well as Taterbug's buddy who was spending the night, and then tackle his brother's room by emptying out all the toys and books from the shelf. He's also polished off the rest of his snacks leaving a trail of squished Cheetos and gummy items in my carpet as well as in my hair.

The hour of cleaning up the aftermath in actuality only bought me about ten minutes of extra sleep. And Hubby? Well, he got a little bit more than I did because he has this insane ability to sleep through the torture practices of a talented two year old. I only wish I was that good.

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March 28, 2008

Stroke Meh, Stroke Meh!

Tonight I decided to load up C-dub and Taterbug and take them swimming at a local health club. As I was playing Mommazilla Taxi, I made a quick call to a friend whom had texted me earlier. Yeah, I know, blah, blah blah, cell phone usage in the car is not safe but the law doesn't take effect until July so we're all good. While I was chatting with my friend, I had the music on so that the kiddos could listen to the tunes rather than my grown-up conversation.

Every once in a while, I could hear the word, "stroke," emitting from C-dub's lips, followed by a snicker from Taterbug. Thinking that this was a strange word for him to be saying, I quieted my conversation and turned down my stereo. In his best rock star voice, C-dub was signing:

Stroke meh, stroke meh! Say you're a winner but man you're just a sinner now. Stroke!!! Do it!!!

I started laughing and my partner on the phone, hearing bits and pieces of what my little backseat Billy Squier was singing, started laughing as well. Then came the compliments of my supreme parenting skills and I politely told him that I needed to go and find some Kidz Bop immediately.

By this time, C-dub was embarrassed because of my laughing and then his embarrassment turned into anger.

C-dub: Whatsa matter Mom? He's growling his question through clenched teeth and looking at me through squinty eyes.
Mommazilla: Where in the heck did you hear that song, C-dub?
Taterbug: Dad played it for us this morning on the way to Grandma's house. It's funny, huh?
Mommazilla: Well, it's kind of a funny song but not really a good one to sing if you're a little kid.
C-dub: What's stwoke meh mean anyways, Mom? I started thinking as fast as I could for a good response.
Mommazilla: He's got sore muscles and wants a massage. Tater, turn on your I-pod and lets listen to some Kidz Bop, K?
Taterbug: Still snickering but not sure why...O.K. Mom.

When I got home, Hubby and I had a brief conversation about his son's rock star aspiration. Hubby laughed his way through my description of C-dub rocking out in the backseat but ultimately agreed to better monitor what songs his eldest song memorized and chose to sing to his sister.

March 26, 2008

Take It Easy On Me, Doc

My poor little man-child, C-dub,was faced with a dreaded doctor's appointment this morning due to a nasty case of poison oak that refused to comply with OTC products. Since he's my little picker and itcher, I feared the worst when I saw that his rash was getting much worse rather than better. He did his best to camoflauge his "owies" with Hotwheels and *gasp* Barbie bandaids, but the all seeing Mommazilla couldn't be fooled and an appointment was made.

C-dub hates going to the doctor and I hate taking him. Thankfully, Hubby was home this morning and got the dreaded duty of dragging him into the office. C-dub has never been a sick kid nor does he really have reason to fear the doctor's office. It's just understood around the house that he's my little Paranoid Pete with a severe case of white coat disease.

Prior to the appointment, I heard Hubby giving C-dub a pep talk about what to expect when he got to the doctor.

C-dub: Dad, can you pwease tell the docta to be easy on me? He asks Hubby, in between the large tears rolling down his cheeks.
Hubby: Sure, buddy. I'll tell her to be easy on you. He's trying not to laugh and to also remember his request.
C-dub: Will I get a tweat if I'm weally good, Dad?
Hubby: How 'bout breakfast at Burger King? Only the best for you, buddy. The promise of the breakfast sealed the deal and C-dub agreed to go with Hubby to the visit.

Hubby told me that when they got into the examination room, he politely gave the doctor C-dub's instructions while C-dub patiently waited for her to respond. Hubby said the doctor chuckled after initially looking a little confused, but then agreed to be as careful as possible. C-dub later expressed his relief to me that the doctor didn't even have to touch him, although she did see his undies, which he wasn't too fond of. Modesty has found my five year old; unfortunately it bypassed my eight year old.

When they got home from the visit, C-dub proudly told me all about the visit.

C-dub: I did so good Mom! They even gave me a free Spongebob sticker. I'm a fan of his, ya know. And the dawctor didn't even touch mne, she just looked at me. I didn't even cwry. I had to give him a much needed bear hug and a smooch for this, which he promptly wiped off.

Later that night, when it was time for C-dub to take his medicine, we all lined up in the kitchen to watch him take his pill. He was so proud of the fact that he could swallow a "grown-up" pill rather than the baby bubble gum juice he had vetoed at the pharmacy. I'll admit, I got a little sniffly watching my man-child swig his Vitamin Water and pop his pill, but it was only for a passing moment. I realize that he can't be little forever and these little episodes are friendly reminders of his impending manliness.


March 23, 2008

It's Tricky

My hubby and I have always wanted to be the "cool parents." You know the kind of parents that are loved by all kids due to their high sense of coolest? We've come to realize that this goal is quickly deteriorating due to the fact that we're just boring and we like Wal-Mart far too much to be fancy. The kids are slowly getting used to the idea that they have nerdy parents who have strict rules as far as how they're raised. Although they don't appreciate it now, I hope they do in the future. Until then, "Mean Mommy" is an o.k. title with me.

One thing that has kept us up on the cool scale is Hubby's taste in music. He loves old school rap and it's very common for Run DMC, Paperboy (yes I know he was recently arrested but he was cool at one point), Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five, Kool Moe Dee, and a little Sugarhill Gang, to be playing in either our cars or home stereo. I recently uploaded "It's Tricky" by Run DMC to my I-pod (points on the cool scale – thank you very much) and C-dub and Gun-Gun are addicted.

During every car ride, I hear an echo of, "Tricky pweeesssseee!! Tricky pweeessseee!!" and we're forced to listen to the song until Mommazilla can no longer take it. The other day while listening to the song for the fifth time in a row, I told C-dub that he was "addicted" to the song. He informed me that no, he was not addicted, he was "attracted" to the song. Rather than argue for correct word usage, I had to slightly agree with him. Yes, I guess he was "attracted" to that song, and his uncanny ability to be a five year old white rap star demonstrated this fact.

In order to promote my junior "Vanilla Ice" the Easter Bunny brought C-dub Run DMC's greatest hits in his Easter basket. On Easter morning, I saw his little eyes light up when he looked at the CD. He's just learning to read but was able to decipher "Tricky" off the back label. For the rest of the day, C-dub sequestered himself to his room; the walls were vibrating with Run DMC as C-dub practiced his rythmes and break dancing. He hasn't quite perfected his moves yet but he's getting there and it's definately enjoyable enough to watch a litte blonde-haired five year old boy telling you:

This speech is my recital, I think it's very vital
To rock (a rhyme), that's right (on time)
It's Tricky is the title, here we go...

It's Tricky to rock a rhyme, to rock a rhyme that's right on time
It's Tricky...it's Tricky (Tricky) Tricky (Tricky)
It's Tricky to rock a rhyme, to rock a rhyme that's right on time
It's Tricky...Tr-tr-tr-tricky (Tricky) Trrrrrrrrrrricky

C-dub is certainly already better than Vanilla Ice ever was. And he's got the moves to back up his righteousness. He hasn't asked me for any "bling" yet but Taterbug already assured me she's got a drawerful that he can borrow from. I guess when the time comes and he wants to go professional with his career (myabe when he's six or seven) we'll try to find some more age appropriate songs. Until then, Vanilla Ice Jr. will be rockin' the 80's at the 'ole Redneck Ranch.

For your viewing pleasure, "It's Tricky":

March 17, 2008

I Got Da Hives?

My middle son is a picker, picker of scabs that is. Whenever he gets a ding, scratch, dent, or otherwise minor abrasion, he's addicted to it's welfare. He constantly looks at it and applies new bandaids on the hour, every hour. If it's not covered, he's sure to touch or pick at it, usually 'til it bleeds and then he tries to hide it from the all knowing Mommazilla. But Mommazilla knows all and sees all...besides, she has an excellent informant that supplies her with a steady supply of kidlet information. She goes by code name, Taterbug, and relishes in the fact that she can regularly spill the beans on her brothers to a very attentive audience.

My little whistleblower came to be the other day, telling me that C-dub "had the hives." I don't really know where she's heard about hives nor do I really think she knows what they actually are; but she was convinced that C-dub was afflicted. After much begging, pleading and eventually prying of his little arms, C-dub allowed me to inspect the problem area on his stomach. With all my mommy wisdom and experience in the area of itchiness, I diagnosed him with a minor case of poison oak; more than likely caused by the monster truck rally he held in our front yard forest grove. I never told C-dub the name of his rash for fear that he wouldn't understand the concept behind the name. He tends to be a "Paranoid Pete" so the less he knew, the better.

While he screamed and cried big crocodile tears, I applied some salve to help his rash dry out. I also told him that if he picked at it, his fingers would melt off. No, not a shining mommy moment but it kept his grubby little fingers from scratching and making things worse with infection. I assured Taterbug that he did not have "the hives" but she wasn't so convinced and she scowled her disapproval at me. She then wrapped her little arm around C-dub and pulled him out to the livingroom while I cleaned up my nursing supplies.

I heard the two of them a short time later, speaking in hushed voices. I knew it wasn't a talk that they wanted me to hear because Taterbug kept glancing towards my bedroom while I spied on their conversation.

Taterbug: C-dub, Mom doesn't really wanna tell ya but you got the hives. You got'em bad. Real bad.
C-dub: What? No I don't! Mom said I don't! I don't want da hives!
Taterbug: Your gonna have to get a lot of medicine. Yucky tastin' medicine.
C-dub: What?! He starting to cry and I'm getting torked. I don't wanna drinkkkk medicinnnnneeeee!

C-dub then runs back into my room, crying, asking me essentially how long he had to live in this world since he had "da hives." I immediately called Taterbug in to give her a little lecture, some information, and to make her right her wrong.

Mommazilla: C-dub! Calm down, buddy. You don't have the hives, just a little case of Poison Oak, K?
C-dub: Rubbing his eyes and the big salty tears away. Poyzin Oak?
Mommazilla: Yeah, just a little rash. Mommy gets it all the time (but Mommazilla didn't tell him that she normally gets a huge shot in the butt and a round of steroids that would make Awnold blush, whenever she even looks at that hateful weed).
Taterbug: You can see Taterbug's wheels spinning and the impish grin on her her face. She's trying hard not to say anything but then she lets it out: Oh great, C-dub! It's worse than I thought! You got poisoned!

With that final note, Taterbug and her smart little mouth were sent to their room while C-dub and I spent some quality time on the 'Net looking at various pictures of Poison Oak and learning more about his ailment. It's nice to have a witty child but not when you have a hypochondriac for a sibling.

Remember, leaves of three, leaf them be.

March 13, 2008

Bargain Building

What happens when Mommzilla bargain shops? The kids get the benefit, literally. I recently partook amongst the Amazon.com sale and bought several items in bulk including Au Gratin potatoes, which are easy to cook and all the little monsters like them (including the big monster, hubby, who can be finicky with his food). When the order got here yesterday, C-dub's lttle eyeballs lit up like he was looking at a Christmas tree.

"Mom! I'm so 'cited that you bwought us presents. That was supa nice of ew! Can we open 'em uped?" He was already peeling the tape off of one of the large boxes. When he finally got the tape peeled back and the box opened, his face clearly showed his dismay.

"Food, Mom? How boringggg!" This was his reply as he started to dig through the boxes. Suddenly, as if a little light went off in his head, he looked up and smiled.

"Momma, can I pretty please pway with the pawtatoh boxes?" Not really seeing the harm in this I told him that he could, but just not to damage it past the point of human consumption. So this is what he and Gun-Gun did...

He first carefully constructed a stwucture (his words):

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And then made some faces at his brother:

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And some more faces...

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He was so proud of his creation...

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But Gun-Gun was mad! Brother wouldn't share, so Gun-Gun took one. And wouldn't give it back...

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And so the game was over...

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Both boys were mad but at least my pawtatoh boxes were safe and eventually secured in their own cupboard, never to be molested again.

The end.

March 12, 2008

Acts of Aggression

I'm having a helluva time with this whole time change thing and so is C-dub. About an hour ago (it's currently almost midnight as I type), I could hear his TV blaring in his room. Now, I allowed the little fella some leniency with his bedtime since he didn't have preschool tomorrow morning, but 11 PM is too late for a five year old little insomniac. I went out to his room and instructed him that he had five minutes to get ready for bed and then I'd be back to see him off to dreamland. I went back out to the livingroom and a few minutes later I heard his door open. He came out in his finest Underoos and asked me if I wanted to see something super cool he had set up in his room. He assured me that it would only take a minute.

Intrigued at the prospect of something super cool, I followed him out to his room where he had taken and emptied his little nylon sleeping bag case. He struggled to pick up the case, which was now filled with something soft and squishy, and hang it up under his bunk bed. He asked for some help so I obliged him by hanging the object from under his bed. He then told me, "Now watch this Mom. You might wanna step back a widdle bit."

So I stepped back. And the pummeling began. He used all the spectacular muscles his little five year old body could contain to beat and ravage this little nylon case. After a minute or so of violently dancing and punching, he looked at me and said, "Pretty amazing, huh?" I grabbed his sweaty little body and gave him a big hug, assuring him that Mommy thought he was her hero.

I then asked him what he had used to fill up the bag. He looked at me and I could see in his eyes that he didn't really want to talk about what was in the bag. I reached for it and he began to playfully slap box at my hands. The more I tried to open it the more aggressive and verbally defensive he got until the bag finally popped open to reveal it's contents. From the bag came eight of Taterbug's precious Webkinz stuffed animals. C-dub had been beating the crap out of sweet, little precious animals that Taterbug had kept tucked away in her prized toy chest.

Of course, after I controlled the laughter, I admonished him regarding assaulting his Sissy's favorite toys. I then made him sneak the animals back into her toychest so that she would never know that he had beaten "Ruby" the rabbit or "Cami" the cow. Taterbug's pretty sensitive when it comes to her things and she's apt to seek revenge on some easily flushible Hotwheels. It was cute while it lasted.

A Day at the The-Ah-Tah

I've never been a big fan of the "the-ah-tah" (insert uppity British accent here) but when I had the opportunity to attend a play at the new Arkley Center for the Performing Arts, I jumped at the chance. Plus it was a free. Oh, and I got to go with my kid. Bonus mommy points on the karma counter.

We left Taterbug's school at about 10:15 AM in the hopes of being there and in our seats by 11AM. After a rather painless drive from Fortuna to Eureka, I turned onto G Street and saw something that seriously shook my consciousness, grabbing my spinal cord and violently squeezing it into bloody pulp. Lining the sidewalk was a sea of wild short people. There were at least two million grammar school children with a few parents scattered here and there, pounding at the doors of the Arkley Center, demanding entrance. I looked for a way to quickly turn around and escape the terror promising to envelop me and schat me out, but it was to no avail. The four large orange slugs (school busses) blocked my way and the entire street for that matter.

I carefully parked my car and sat there in the driver’s seat, looking for any friendly faces that might greet me in my plight to insanity. I saw my daughter’s teacher and ran over (yes – I did freakin’ run – the little people scared me) to find shelter, ducking small people cries and cheers. I also found my daughter who was standing with her little classmates. I think she could sense my fear because she grabbed my hand and squeezed it in her sweaty little palm. The line slowly moved towards the doorway of the the-ah-tah and I saw two nicely dressed woman and a suave looking man, attempting to direct the horizontally challenged grammar school traffic. The parents looked at them sympathetically as they franticly spoke to each other via expensive looking radios. Did they not notice they were within earshot of one another? But heck, you don’t look nearly as sophisticated yelling. I’d stick with the high tech walkie-talkies, too.

When we finally herded the vicious cattle through the first door, we were ushered upstairs to our awaiting section. The children and grown-ups for that matter, seemed to really appreciate the beauty of the rehabbed the-ah-tah and I heard many ooh’s and aah’s. I, on the other hand, was more interested in finding out where the bathroom was as my coffee had decided to make an early escape into the golden pipes of the the-ah-tah. I left Taterbug with her buddies and quickly found the bathroom.

Prior to leaving my seat, sweet little Taterbug reminded me that we were “sposed” to use the bathroom before leaving the school. I explained to her that I don’t like midget toilets that forced my knees to touch my ears when I peed and that’s exactly what her school bathrooms contained. You may call me a bathroom snob but I know for a fact that little girls aren’t the cleanest creatures – especially in this area.

As I reached the bathroom, I walked through one elegant door and then another and another, to discover there were only two bathroom stalls in a small room. I wasn’t quite sure of the appropriate bathroom etiquette – do you stay in the little two stall room and await the pee’er or do you wait by the sink and then face the chance that some little biotch will jump your spot in the line professing her need to go first while doing the well know potty dance? Decisions, decisions. I chose the latter and waited patiently outside the stall door, occasionally sighing and ever so often, tapping my foot for the slow going urinators.

After I did my business, I returned to my seat only to find a roaring the-ah-tah. The kids were going ape schat as they screamed, yelled, and otherwise strongly encouraged the actors to begin their play (which was “Cinderella” by the way). I guess they were expecting the worst from these little heathens because they even took the time to hire a uniformed security guard to patrol the second floor. He eyed each little bugger, threatening to take them in if they got too close to the balcony or even showed a sign of having chewing gum. I gulped when I saw his dedication and quickly looked through my purse to ensure that my cell phone was off. I didn’t want to get “hooked up” in front of my kid.

As I turned my cell phone off, Taterbug leaned over to me, whispering and pointing at a mother in the front row of our section. The mother, oblivious to the felony she was creating, was chatting away to some other nimrod on the other end of the phone. My daughter was peeved that this broad had not been following direction nor listening to the rules, so she offered to go over and “punch her in the nose” as a reminder that her phone needed to be off. I quietly suggested to Taterbug that although I did agree with her aggravation, I didn’t think bodily harm would do much for her and my reputation around the school yard.

When the play finally started, the lights dimmed and the kids again went ape schat. You’d think that Hannah Montana had hit the stage or even better yet, those yummy little Jonas brothers (who Mommazilla doesn’t mind watching). Heck, I’d probably even start screaming, throwing my granny panties at the stage and dramatically fainting in my seat until one of those little brothers came up and…well, you get the point. Cute kids. Bet their momma is proud. Yes, that’s so much more motherly sounding.

The play started and for the better part of an hour, the kids were very entertained by the actors and actresses. I was so relieved to see and hear that this was not a musical, except for just two songs. I think I would have completely lost it if there was singing. Again, I repeat myself: I don’t do the whole the-ah-tah experience, unless that is it’s covered with buttery popcorn, a large Pepsi, and a box of Milk Duds. And, the Jonah Brothers perform (the three good things about the Hannah Montana in 3-D movie). But I digress…

I liked the play just fine but was sad to see that they didn’t include any of the little rodents that helped to build Cinderella’s dress. The costumes were so-so and actually reminded me of the prom I went to my freshman year of high school. The kind of prom you want to forget when you look back at the craptacular pic’s . You know, the ones you took with that looser date who kept trying cop a feel the whole night, telling you what really happens on prom night and then looks so forlorn and sad when you tell him to pound sand – oh look, I’m digressing…again.

We then left the the-ah-tah without much hooplah. After I bid my daughter and class adieu, I was pleasantly unsurprised to find that one of the freakin’ busses had parked so closed to my car door that I think my car is now expecting a baby bus – a short bus I guess. The little turds on the bus saw my frustration (and the couple of f-bombs I mumbled loudly didn’t help too much) and laughed out loud watching the “funny wady” climbing across her passenger seat into her driver’s seat. And of course, while I’m trying to leap the gear shift, the bus pulls away from my door clearly exposing my precarious position to the million students on the sidewalk, waiting for their bus ride. Thankfully, the little monsters were too busy picking their noses and slapping each other to notice my vehicle frolicking and I was able to flip them the bird and quickly pull away from the sidewalk. No, I did not flip any innocent children off. It was only to the little schats who gave me a headache from their incessant screaming.

You may not have guessed it, but I did have a good time and I was ever so pleased to have been invited on this class trip. Next time, I'll just bring ear plugs for the more "quiet" portions of the adventure.

March 04, 2008

Gun-Gun and Me

I've recently had the pleasure of spending a lot more time with my kiddos than I normally get to. I like to say that I'm a hands-on mom, changing diapers, wiping noses, feeding them Doritos and Coke, you know, the usual things moms do. It's been an especially challenging time since my youngest feels the need to constantly be on his game even though I'm not on mine. His newest challenge to me is the trick his older brother and sister taught him on a recent two hour car ride to Oregon. I knew that the constant giggling and the, "Gun-Gun, look at me!" was probably going to bite me in the ass, and as you'll see, it sure did. Besides his newest verbal tauntings of, "Stop it!" and my personal favorite, "No way!" he's added some facial gestures to go with his obstinate attitude.

This morning he and were arguing over Nickolodeon's decision to play a cartoon he didn't care for. I calmly explained to him that I didn't give a darn how much he hated the Backyardigans, but pelting the TV with hardy candy gummies will not change the channel. After instructing him for the third time to stop throwing Yogos at the TV, I was greeted by this:

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After initially laughing and then gasping at his snottiness, he then pulled his little lip down even farther, daring me to react:

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And then he added his little animal like tongue for good measure:

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I wasn't quite sure what to do other than placing his little butt on my lap for a quick time-out (the whole time he's telling me, "I wuff you Momma" and "Knockeditoff!"). Ultimately, I know that face will be back but now I'll be ready for it. In the meanwhile, I found a shirt that is very appropriate for this little man and I've decided to keep it on him as an explanation for any weakness hubby or I might project to the general public:

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We love our little monster and with this face, how could you not? His sweetness does come out on occasion, although it is usually a rare one at that.

Flipper

My five year old has always had a fascination with anything creepy, crawly or slimy; the smellier and grosser, the better. He's recently discovered that a redwood stump in our front yard is a haven for little black salamanders. Last weekend, he was able to find five of the little buggers and promptly put them in a little plastic habitat, specially made for little icky things. He was so proud of his catch that he placed them on the counter so that they could join him while he ate dinner. He slurped chicken noodle soup and the salamanders did what they did best, they were stinky and played dead. C-dub had a long, one-sided conversation with his buddies, describing how he would bring them a delicious snack of worms and would even squish them up if they wanted him to. This was much to the dismay of Taterbug who was sitting next to C-dub trying to also swallow down a bowl of soup containing what she perceived to be worms.

After dinner, C-dub and I had a talk about what we would do with our little friends. Of course my suggestion was to first, place them back outside, and second, release them back to their home. C-dub wasn’t so convinced and argued that with our nice warm house and his supply of fresh bugs, they’d surely live a much happier life. Hubby was the deciding factor in talking C-dub into releasing his little buddies back into their redwood resort. He explained to C-dub that the girls in the family just couldn’t handle such manliness and that it would be safer for the poor little critters to go back to their home.

The next day, with some sadness, C-dub quietly released his friends back to their stump. As usual, they ogled him with their bulgy little eyeballs and sat there, even after he tipped the enclosure over to give them their freedom. It was just a very anticlimactic moment for C-dub and for Mommazilla who was watching her little boy become a man in the front yard.

C-dub took the releasing of the salamanders very well and has now become what I like to call a “flipper.” Whenever he’s outside, he’s constantly flipping everything over; rocks, sticks, toys, and even the occasional dog if she hasn’t moved in awhile and could have potentially had a creep crawly sneak underneath her. Thank goodness for patient animals. It makes it a challenge to walk with C-dub in the park because you’re constantly tripping over him as he’s intently looking for new critters. He doesn’t mind though, he’s got the patience of a saint. He tells me, “Mom, I’m a good critter spotter aren’t I? I’ve got good eyeballs.” I always reply that he does and how proud I am of his “hunting skills.” At least with this hunting, there is no killing involved (you kill it – you eat it, house rules). Besides, I’m not really sure that I have any recipes containing salamander nor would I want any.

February 27, 2008

Da Berdz and Da Beez

As I'm sitting here blogging tonight, I look over to see sweet little Taterbug reading a book to C-dub. They seemed intently focused on the pictures accompanying the story she was ever so lovingly narrating to her little brother. I settled back into my own little world until I began to hear some snickering and the occasional word that perked my mommy radar. But when she uttered the phrase, "It is not uncommon for him to mount various objects, and people, in an effort to satisfy his mature sexual urges," I knew it was time to step in.

Mommazilla: Whatcha readin' there Tater?
Taterbug: Just a book about dogs.
Mommazilla: Show me.
She holds up a book about Golden Retrievers and shows me the picture she and C-dub were studying. It's a diagram of a very well endowed male dog, penis and all. His momma would have been proud.
Mommazilla: Tater, read a different chapter, K?
Taterbug: OK Mom, but why?
Mommazilla: Well, it's not something that C-dub needs to see or hear. He'll get nightmares or something...I start to mumble a rebuttal but she thankfully turns the page.

She continues reading to C-dub and I settle back into my computer world. She starts reading again and life is good until I hear, "If you need to walk your bitch, take her in the car to a nearby park or field for a chance to stretch her legs." Taterbug and C-dub both start laughing hysterically, knowing full well that they had just read an expletive in a real, live book.

Mommazilla: Taterbug! Enough! That word is a naughty word but it's also the name for a female dog. OK?
Taterbug: Giggling... OK Mom.
C-dub: We have bwiches Mom! Taterbug is rolling at this point.
Taterbug: C-dub's right! We do!
Mommazilla: Yes we do and they each have a name, so use it rather than your new word. K?

The conversation ended with me confiscating the book. I know that "the talk" is coming soon but I want to have reinforcements for this one - I may pass out or worse, start giggling uncontrollably. Grandma Tain did buy us a wonderful book, fully explaining "the talk" (with great cartoon lovemaking included - gag!) but I'm just not ready. I'm torn whether or not to let her learn the way I did - 3rd grade, girl's bathroom, the first girl with boobs and her period layed it down for us. I think I'm just going to wait it out just a bit and try to grow a set of cajones big enough to tackle this task because right now, I'm a self-proclaimed virgin at all this stuff.

February 21, 2008

On Strike!

It's been an interesting adventure raising an eight year old little "woman." Not only is she smart, witty, and wise for her age (and no, I'm NOT biased, not even one little bit), but she has already earned the title of "Procrastination Queen" for our household. My mom tells me that I was exactly the same as a child and I've also heard that most kids around her age have it ingrained in themselves to be procrastinators. I like to tell myself that I can change her; through the use of constant nagging, friendly reminders, and pleading, I know that some how, some way, I can break through that hardened shell of deferment she has grown.

The skill of procrastination she has developed has reared it's ugly head in several facets of her life; most noticeably in the cleanliness (or lack there of) in her bedroom. At least once a month, I go in with two trash bags; one for outgrown clothes and toys and the other just for trash. We turn on the Kidz Bop CD full blast and spend the remainder of our afternoon bopping around the room picking up Barbie parts and dirty, sometimes unidentifiable, laundry and possibly once edible items. I praise and congratulate her on a job well done even though in reality; I've done most of the work with her standing in front of her vanity singing into a naked Barbie. She really seems to be truly pleased with her handiwork when the task is completed, but this wonderful feeling tends to be forgotten in the next week when I'm once again yelling at her to clean her room.

Today was no different other than the fact that she has assured me that she had conquered her procrastination problem and had cleaned up her room to suffice my obsessive nature. One look at her face told me that she was again putting off what should be done today, and that she was not being entirely truthful when it came to her level of bedroom filth contamination. When I walked out to her room, I could immediately tell by the apologies spilling from her mouth that she still had some work to do.

As I started to evaluated the disaster, I noticed that she had a large stack of scribbled on papers sitting on her desks and being the snoop that I am, I casually glanced through them, prior to sending them to the burn pile. In several different types of written chicken scratch, cursive, and printed font, the words, "I'M ON STRIKE" read throughout the messy papers. I guess Taterbug had been paying attention to the Writer's strike and thought that she'd take on a similar type motto in order to avoid cleaning her domestic domain. She had carefully practiced and perfected the verbiage she thought would bide her time. Unfortunately for her, it just provided hubby and I with some much needed comic relief and a reminder that our dear daughter was becoming craftier that her 'ole mom and dad.

In the end, Taterbug was again procrastinating but at least she was getting a little more creative in her way of doing it, or should I say, not doing it. And you know what? I'm glad she's got the personality she does because she certainly makes life more interesting around our household. Her wittiness is refreshing and makes the procrastination issue that much more tolerable.

February 20, 2008

Mommy Needs a Time-Out

I've often been asked by my friends and family, how do you do it? How do you and your hubby both work long hours but still have the time to raise three little demanding cherubs and manage a house and business? I like to call it, organized chaos, with an emphasis on the chaos rather than the organized. Up until we had our third child, our life was relatively calm and quiet around the house. The two older kiddos were uber close and liked to frolic in green meadows and make daisy chains together. OK, maybe not daisy chains but they did like mutual mud fights and chicken chasing relays. Kind of the same thing - just without the Walton Family spin to it.

When Gun-Gun joined our family, it was a whole different story. He came loudly screaming into the world at nine and a half pounds of fists and fury. He professed his freedom by promptly peeing on the delivering doctor and than schatting on the OB nurse. When he "peaked" at the age of 18 months. I tried to ignore the subtle changes in him...protruding horns from the temple, forked-shape tale stump just above his tail bone...but it was to no avail. Gun-Gun slowly turned into some sort of monster created from all of the evil Karma hubby and I had coming to us. The mother-in-law quietly informed me one day that I was once again raising my hubby as a toddler and this was sweet justice to her.

After a frantic call and a consult with my very sympathetic pediatrician, he assured me that Gun-Gun was a normal, however a very active child. Most importantly, the Ped assured me that neither hubby nor myself did anything to “break” him; it was just the way he was intended to be. Yes, I had done a superb job (self-proclaimed of course) of child rearing with my oldest two - with neither of them going through the “hitting” phase or God forbid, the “Vampire” phase (biting for the fun and enjoyment of it). However, Gun-Gun appeared to me to be right on the track for a life of juvenile delinquency – smoking on street corners, kissing random girls, and listening to *Heaven forbid* rap music with cuss words. We had to do something.

The painful raising of Gun-Gun came out in so many issues...So what if we can’t go out to restaurants anymore because Gun-Gun likes pinching waitress, head banging windows, and random screaming? We’re saving money and calories on junk food, so ultimately it’s a win-win situation. And who cares if I have to pay good money for a babysitter so that I can grocery shop without little Gun-Gun fingers grasping and breaking my selected items? He’d probably make me buy stuff I really didn’t need, anyway. Who gives a care if I can no longer have houseplants (non-toxic of course) because Gun-Gun thinks they look better uprooted than in the pretty planter? I didn’t really need that stress relieving hobby. Many thanks to my little boy, for keeping me at home and saving me time, money, and calories.

Rather than fighting the monster he became, hubby and I have slowly learned to embrace his differences of violent tendencies towards flying Hotwheels and PDA's - Public Displays of Aggression. We’ve learned (and are still learning) how to creatively address discipline issues both in the house and in public where prying eyes always find the screaming child and flustered parent. I’m not saying that I’m an expert child whisperer by any means, but I know what works for us and what makes Gun-Gun happy.

I'm not a huge fan of spanking and the technique of lecturing is usually followed by the rolling of two-year-old eyes, so I've had to come up with other ways to discipline the little man. We've currently settled on the method of time-outs, with the G man having to spend a few minutes in a selected chair or in his crib. He professes his disdain for this situation by screaming, throwing toys or blankies, and yelling out the new phrases, "KNOCKITOFF!! STOPIT!! NO WAY!! I OUT!!" It seems like his verbal and physical taunting he provides are way worse on the family than the discipline being imposed on him.

I've discovered something just a little bit better; I impose time-outs on myself. The concept of mommy punishment is intriguing to a two-year-old. When I've absolutely lost it, I place myself in my bedroom, on my bed, and as many child advocates advise, I give myself a minute of time-out for ever year of my life. For 32 glorious minutes, I have the absolute, undying attention of my little hellion, fascinated at the fact that mommy is in trouble. The older two have caught onto my game, but little Gun-Gun is still a fan. He watches at first and then slowly joins me on the bed to watch cartoonies (of course I'm not watching because I'm in trouble) and get some much needed hugs and wet kisses. An occasional raspberry might utter from his lips especially if he sees any exposed skin, but for the most part, he's mine for the duration of my time-out.

Yes, at times I do feel like I'm a prisoner in my own home and no, it's entirely fair to the other two who are perfectly fine in all of the previously mentioned situations. But the Ped assured me that this is only a temporary thing and many parents find themselves being housebound during certain "trying" months of their child's life. I just hope that we'll be able to venture out again before my other kids turn 18 and 15, respectively. They have been so patient in the meanwhile, and hubby and I do our best to lavish individual attention in order to keep them on "our side." Because as you can see in our house, it's just a quick little jaunt to the dark side... of the Gun-Gun monster.

February 18, 2008

Hannah BLAHtana

After being faced with a tremendous amount of mommy guilt over a failed play date, I promised Taterbug that I'd take her and a buddy to see the new Hannah Montana/Miley Cyrus 3-D concert/movie. When C-dub heard this, he quietly professed to hubby that he thought Hannah/Miley was super duper cute, and asked to tag along. Not wanting to discourage his little boy crush, I told him he was more than welcome to hang out with mommy and the girls and wear the cool 3-D glasses.

I mentally prepared myself for a night of preteen angst and bubbly boy crazy songs by making sure my cell phone was charged and my I-Pod was ready with over 500 songs. After all, I was there to supervise three little monsters, not actually enjoy the movie. After a quick drive, we arrived at the movie and the girls were chatty and excited while C-dub played it cool, not wanting to look too interested in a "girl movie."

The first surprise of the night came in the form of the price. I about dropped my smuggled candy when I heard the clerk tell me it was $11 a person. He proudly explained that you also received complimentary souvenir 3-D glasses with your purchase. Whew! And I thought we were totally getting ripped off. After spending my children's diaper and milk money, we purchased additional garbage food and made our way to the theater.

Of course, the kiddos wanted to command the first row of seats in order to make the entire viewing experience as real as possible. I firmly placed my old lady shoe down explaining that the awesome 80's style 3-D glasses made me queasy enough; I didn't need a case of whiplash and ruptured eardrums to complete this already awesome night. So we took our seats at the very back of the theater (as you can probably guess, there were plenty of available seats - go figure) and I got the kids each situated; candy packages open, straws inserted in cups, and napkins ready to go on laps. C-dub, being the little gentleman, chose to sit right next to me and offer me a piece of candy. I grabbed the tiny sour globe and realized that it was already licked, by the time it hit my tongue. I asked C-dub if he had tried the one he gave me and his reply was, "Oops. It still tastes good, huh?"

As we settled into the previews, some latecomers walked into the theater. C-dub took his position as the unofficial usher and advised them very loudly that, "Hey! The movie aweady stawted! You're weally late ya know!" I shushed him and lowered myself into the seat, hoping that the mock Buddy Holly glasses would hide most of my face. Munching and crunching of popcorn ensued and then a slow paced "rat, tat, tat" sound shook the movie theater. C-dub had managed to spill an entire package of Sweet Tarts on his lap and couldn't stop laughing about what he had done. I salvaged a couple of the little spheres and placed them amongst the stale popcorn.

The movie then started and we all placed our glasses on. C-dub was first to notice the intense styling of our shades by loudly proclaiming that we all looked like "freaks!" I reminded my little angel that he too was wearing the glasses and I promptly took a goofy picture of him with my cell phone. I labeled it, "Hannah Sux," and texted it to hubby, whom I knew was sitting at home drinking some brews and enjoying a quiet house. Jerk.

The 3-D aspect of the movie was actually pretty cool and I found myself ducking streams of confetti, waiving fists, and the occasional moving microphone. About mid-way through, my tolerance level began to quickly dwindle and I was forced to again text hubby, proclaiming that I was suffering a slow death. He texted back that he'd make up for it and I just sunk lower in my seat. The kids again asked if they could venture down to the front row and I gave in, giving them the ok while I tried to entertain myself with a phone call to Uncle R. While Hannah/Miley sang, or rather screamed, I phoned Uncle R in a weak attempt to gain sympathy. C-dub arrived back at my seat about that time in order to retrieve his popcorn and loudly proclaimed in the phone that "Hannah sucks! She's tewable!" I ordered him back to his seat and Uncle R forced me back into mommy punishment by ending our phone call.

I checked the time on my phone and realized that it was only about five minutes since the last time I had checked. It was time for another text photo, but Hannah/Miley wasn't cooperating by giving me enough light to take a satisfactory cell phone photo. I sighed, placing the phone back into my pocket, while glancing down at the three kiddos in the front row. I could hear screaming that sounded very near and far fresher then on the movie screen. I took off my funky glasses and replaced them with my prescription granny focals, only to see my sweet little Taterbug and her buddy, standing up in the front row, dancing and screaming. They held imaginary lighters in their chubby little fists, wildly waving as if Hannah/Miley could see them and their devotion. All the while, C-dub is sitting in his seat, clapping and screaming, egging the girls on. The people sitting above the kiddos seemed to be amused by the Three Musketeers, but I was not. I marched myself down to the front row, after first taking off my 3-D lenses (in an attempt to save myself from broken bones), and threatened to do bodily harm to the next screamer who professed their love to Hannah/Miley.

After returning to my seat I realized that an hour has sailed by and that the movie would be ending shortly and my agony would soon be over. I took off my Corey Feldman glasses and placed them in my purse...after all, they cost me the additional $5 and I just knew that they might come in handy later on should I choose to rent this movie on DVD...NOT!

I then sat back and tried to think of some positives rather than just sulking in my misery. Hannah/Miley might be suffering from multiple personalities but at least she's not preggers with a studio exec's baby nor is she constantly suffering from a bloody nose due to a coke problem (no - I'm not talking about soda pop). She is actually a great role model for my daughter and I do appreciate her for that very reason. While Jamie Lynn Spears has forced me to cover the facts of life with Taterbug, Hannah/Miley has shown my daughter that you can be a strong willed girl with a slight lisp and bad wig, but that's ok, people love her that way. Plus, Hannah/Miley's dad is Billy Ray Cyrus and I certainly wouldn't kick him out of bed for eating crackers. He has definitely grown from his mulleted Achy Brakey Heart days. He's turned into a DILF (think MILF, but add the daddy factor). Overall, it wasn't a terrible hour, 14 minutes, and 10 seconds but it was a challenging one. I at least made some huge mommy points and my kids think I'm that much cooler because I wore the glasses and rocked out to Hannah Montana/Miley Cyrus, or whoever the Hell she is.

The real movie stars of the night...

Hannah Montana Glasses

February 01, 2008

He's in Wuv With a Woman

C-dub came to me today to inform me that his best buddy was in "wuv with a woman." A woman? How in the world does a five year old even know what a woman is? Upon further quizzing I learn that this mystery woman is actually their preschool teacher, Miss K. C-dub explains that Miss K had told his bestest buddy that she "wuved" him, so now bestest buddy has proclaimed his undying "wuv" for her. C-dub, rather matter-o-factly, then told me that he expected them to be dating soon, because that's what you do when you, "Weally wuv someone."

January 30, 2008

Potty Party

Once upon a time in a land far, far, away, lived a beautiful young woman who loved her bathroom time. With books and magazines galore, she would spend many glorious hours, indulging her fantasies in luxurious baths or taking care of *ahem* basic needs. Whatever the event, she spent as much time as possible taking care of herself, without worrying for a second about what anyone thought or who might need to use the bathroom after her. Life was beautiful in that tiny bright room; time seemed to run just a bit slower.

Fast forward twenty years and the beautiful young woman is now a settled in, loving mother and wife. Bathroom time has quickly diminished to quick showers and public displays of peeing, oftentimes shared with an audience of her children. No longer are the baths slow and rejuvenating; they are now lukewarm and communal with the occasional child asking, "Uh Mom, is it not ok if I peed in here?" Private areas of bathroom virtue are now shared and critiqued by her children and she wonders if she'll ever get back at least five minutes of alone time...

So yeah, I'm that gal and no, I'm not naive enough to realize that bathroom alone time will happen again, especially now that I'm trying to potty train Gun-Gun. Every time I try to use the facilities, Gun-Gun chases behind me yelling, "Pawwwttteeee! Pawwwttteeee!" I sit down and he sits down (although he's fully clothed, refusing to shed his diaper) on his little potty chair. I try to ignore his intense staring and amazingly long arms with pokey fingers, and do my duty as quickly as possible. As he sits there, he's telling me that he's "Poofed" and I tell him what a wonderful, fantastic job he's doing. As we do our duty (although he doesn't do anything) he proceeds to demand several high fives and a couple of "knuckle-ups" while we're still both sitting there, looking at one another. I guess in another time, I might have thought that this was weird but unfortunately, it's becoming second nature.

He ends his potty dance but keeps me held hostage while I futilely hurry to finish up whatever I may be doing. After hopping off his potty he rushes to the light switch where he flicks it on and off, all the while I’m demanding he stop. It seriousy looks like some weird disco scene with Gun-Gun doing his signature "wiggle-wiggle" dance. Once done with the light switch, he moves on to my make-up bags where he proceeds to unzip them and steal my lipstick because evidently "Nutmeg" looks better on his luscious lips then they do mine. Again, he's corrected but only moves on to trying to sling one of his chubby little legs into the bathtub with one grubby hand on the faucet. Gun-Gun also loves a good bath, fully clothed or not. By this time, I'm normally done and cleaning up the mess he's left for me in just a period of two to three minutes. He’s long gone, running through the house shrieking like a banshee; looking for his next victim or room to destroy.

So yes, bitter I am. I relish my bathroom time and that's the one thing I look forward to getting back after my rugrats are born and living in places with their own bathrooms. Maybe, 20-30 years if I'm lucky?!

Taterbug's Explanation of Hygiene

While picking up Taterbug from school, I immediately noticed the smell of fresh cut onions and stinky cheese.

Mommazilla: You play hard today, kiddo?
Taterbug: Why, can you smell my onion pits? (maniacal laugh ensues)
Mommazilla: Tater, I can't wait until you discover hygiene and embrace it.
Taterbug: I already have hygiene, Mom. I just don't have a lot of it.
Mommazilla: (knowing that I was just schooled by an eight year old) You know Tater, you're right, very right.

I'm amazed at the daily affirmations of pure comedic genius provided by my daughter. The puberty talk should be fascinating. She'll probably explain things to me rather than vice versa.

They Said What?

I never really truly realized how illiterate I was until I started having children and they perfected their ability of verbally amazing me. Some of the words that they come up with on a daily basis give me total shock and awe because neither hubby nor I tend to use such big words. Our relationship is based more on pointing and grunting, maybe with the occasional please and thank you - but we KISS (Keep It Simple Stupid). Here are some recent examples of my chitlins:

C-dub on his Burger King breakfast: I have 10 hash browns, Mom. Impressive, isn't it?
Taterbug on the rooster attack: The rooster only attacked grandma because falling in the pond jacked him up.
Gun-Gun on everything: Oh man!!! (o.k., he doesn't really count yet because we're still working on the whole issue of talking).
C-dub on his monster trucks: My monster trucks have the most amazing and spectacular crashes.
Taterbug on my recent bout of heartburn: You’re taking enough drugs to have to go to rehab mom. Will we be able to visit?
C-dub on the topic of his future: Mom, when I grow up I want to be a butt shaver. (This was later clarified due to pronunciation issues). Mooommmm, I said animal saver!
Taterbug on puberty: You know mom, I am getting boobies. They're even starting to bounce when I run.

Geesh. If they're putting things together this well now, hubby and I will surely be faced with eventually finishing up on our 8th grade edumacation.

January 26, 2008

Eye Rolls and Rehab

I don't think I’ve had a full nights sleep in over eight years. In fact, the wrinkles - or love lines (I like to call them) - tell me so. This particular night was no different other than that it wasn't Gun-Gun waking up at the crack of dawn to crow with the roosters; it was Taterbug with an earache. If I recall correctly (it was two in the morning) I was having a wonderful dream about beating Tom Cruise over the head with an L. Ron Hubbard book, while Katie looked on lovingly (although rather vacantly), when I awoke to, "Mom, are you asleep?" Hmmm...I could have been a smartass but the good sleep and exciting dream left me weak. I answered back, "I was," and Taterbug proceeded to complain about her throbbing ear drum. After two Tylenol, she wiggled herself into our bed, directly between hubby and me, and of course, she slept semi-horizontal so that I had to balance precariously on the edge of the bed for the rest of the night.

In the morning, the earache became worse and an appointment for the doctor was made. Hubby, ironically enough, suddenly had too many projects going on to take her to the doctor so I was left with the task of taking three munchkins. I knew it was going to be fun. I had drama queen that made up ailments as soon as she got there; paranoid Pete who had panic attacks in the waiting room; and the "licker" who liked to taste every different instrument in the examining room. Oh yeah, I could hardly wait.

When we arrived at the doctor's office, the waiting room was packed with newborns, sick toddlers and several uncomfortable looking preteens who needed physicals. I took my place in the corner and tried to filter out any germs by breathing through my shirt. Did I ever mention that I hate doctor's offices? The kids were doing great and were playing ever so nicely with the other children. This was at least until a brave little girl decided that she would befriend the anti-social Gun-Gun and drive the imaginary bus that he had so nicely commandeered. I saw him eyeball the little girl and his chubby knuckles turned white as he was gripped the steering wheel, waiting for the attack. Surprising enough, he let her have the steering wheel only after a few shoves (between the two) back and forth. I held my breath and waited for the flurry of chubby fists to erupt between the two of them, but instead, Gun-Gun quietly got up and rolled his eyes as if to say, I've moved on to Hotwheels, babe. He freakin' rolled his eyes and the entire waiting room saw him do it! The parents of the infants didn't know how to react since their silent little angels only knew how to burp and pass explosive gas, and the other, more seasoned parents, only smiled in quiet sympathy. I honestly thought the eye rolling began in puberty.

We miraculously only had to wait about 15 minutes (long enough for Gun-Gun to try and give an infant whiplash via shaking the baby carrier and for C-dub to repeatedly ask me if he was going to get an "ear injection"). Taterbug was in all her glory and collapsed on the examining table, proclaiming her ailments. The ear infection was quickly confirmed by Dr. Doogie and we then left with a prescription for the pink bubblegum goo, but only after making follow-up appointments for *gasp* shots! What fun! Each of them needs shots at their next visits! I can’t wait – must…find…earplugs!

Once we got to the car and the animals were contained, I told Taterbug that we had better go down and get her "drugs" before my Mountain Dew induced caffeine high wore off. Her reply to me was, "Drugs? What am I going to be next week, an alcoholic? C-dub, you'd better tell Sissy goodbye 'cuz she's probably goin' to rehab!" With the reference to rehab, he began to sing, "No, no, no!" Ah, the joys of children who love Amy Winehouse songs. Like the dysfunctional family we are, we all sang the chorus to “Rehab” on our way to pick up Taterbug’s “stash.”

At the pharmacy, I finagled all three children past the toy aisle and the Valentine's Day chocolate (much to their dismay), to the awaiting high tech pharmacy with excellent video surveillance. C-dub quickly saw that we could be seen on the video screen, so he proceeded to give Sissy rabbit ears for the remainder of the drop off. Thankfully, Taterbug didn't notice and this prevented a violent slap-boxing attack between the two of them. After dropping the prescription off with a demanding phone call to hubby ordering him to pick it up – after all, he missed all the fun – we ended the day on a high note, a shopping trip to Safeway.

I never really understood how exciting one person's life could be doing rather uneventful things. In relative hindsight, I totally agree with Sam Levinson when he says, "Insanity is hereditary: You can get it from your children." I'm so glad that my own kids are very giving of this disease.

January 15, 2008

Spectacular Monster Truck Crashes

Are you familiar with the Grave Digger? How about Bigfoot or Gunslinger? Or the infamous Wild Hair? Well, I suspect that you are probably not unless you have a monster truck lovin' five year old in your home. C-dub has been bitten by the Redneck bug; It's a frightening little creature that causes my otherwise loving child to sing AC/DC songs, wear only camo, and refer to his mother as "Woman." My sweet little boy is now a man-child and I'm left to vaccum up the remaining pieces (and Hotwheels) with my hot pink Dyson.

His redneck affliction began about three years ago when he quietly discovered hubby's Hotwheels, long forgotten in an old shoebox. He first admired the cars and then one by one, took them out to the vast abyss of his bedroom. We'd find Hotwheels everywhere; the toilet, our bed, and at one time, in our broiler, firmly melted to the grill. Over the years, as his love of redneck grew, so did the size of his cars and trucks. Little Gun-Gun was provided with the remnants of Hotwheels while C-dub grew into remote control trucks and fast race cars that crashed themselves.

As he became more computer literate, he discovered (with the help of Taterbug and hubby) the magic of Youtube and the endless monster truck crash videos it contained. My son was the only preschoolian who could chant the web address for his favorite videos, as well as how to spell out his redneck love with: MONSTER TRUCK CRASHES. Over and over, he would replay the videos, laughing and singing along to the narrating songs (hence the previous reference to AC/DC). During share time, he would re-enact his favorite crash scenes complete with the AC/DC song, "DND, I'm Dynamite!" (a.k.a. TNT-yes, he's hearing it wrong but no, he won't change his mind or his pronounciation), which he would belt out until embarassment got the best of him. Other parents would look on and smile, secretly thanking God that their child was still into Disney and not the hunting or racing channel.

Knowing full well of his current affliction, I recently took C-dub to a local video store to pick up some movies for the family. While there, I told C-dub that he could pick out his own movie. Of course, he quickly scanned the cover pictures until he found the "Best of NASCAR" video and swooped it up. I was deeply engrossed in the description of "Knocked Up" and faintly heard him calling for me, asking about the movie. I mumbled a response back which he evidently did not hear or did not care for. He asked again a little louder, but this time pre-empted his question with a loud, "Woman! Are you ready to go yet?" I looked over at him, thinking that my hubby had been suddenly re-incarnated in a five year old frame. I could hear snickering from the older man standing next to me, and I quietly nodded to my man-child. My man-child, a.k.a. C-dub, clutched his NASCAR movie to his chest like a prized-trophy, and led me out of the store. I followed behind like a submissive Stepford wife.

And the saga continues... At least a gazillion times a day, I'm presented with "spectacular" monster truck wrecks and the most "amazing" car crashes a person has ever seen. He does not allow you the choice to watch; it's a demand and then he wants critical feedback on the techniques demonstrated. When he's not demolishing Hotwheels or playing on Youtube, he's stealing our couch pillows and photo albums to prop up livingroom carpet ramps and jumps. You cannot walk across our livingroom floor without hearing (and feeling) the crunch of assorted vehicles under your feet. Airborne hazards are also common - just ask hubby about the tiny chip in the NEW flat screen TV.

While I love the creativity, I do admit that I'm looking forward to the day when I can dress my little man in cute corduroy pants and then take him to the museum for a day of art history (blah, I wouldn't even like that, who am I kidding?!). And, I also look forward to when he wants to actually give me smooches rather than forehead smacks or a command to "knuckle up." I admit, I do love seeing C-dub play with his cars and trucks, especially when he's doing it nicely with his little brother. Whenever he catches me staring, I'm usually greeted with a big toothy grin and then a raised fist with an exposed thumbs-up. I love my little man-child, but the emphasis certainly is on the "child" rather than the "man."


To the Child - A Poem

This is a poem I wrote several years ago, just after having my middle son. I think many of you will find that you can relate :o).

To the Child

Spit-up, diapers, and runny noses,
Stumbling steps and awkward poses.
Swollen gums and teething rings,
A purple dinosaur that sings.
Picking noses, eating paste,
Changing classes without haste.
Dating, hormones, and driving cars,
Thinking your parents are from Mars.
The joy of a child is apparent,
But only to those who are a parent.

January 13, 2008

Nudey No! No!

I think that any person who has been around children, for practically any period of time, understands that the more quiet a child is, the more trouble they are looking for or even worse, getting into. Add muffled giggles and shushing sounds, and you've got a complete menu for trouble. Having been a self-proclaimed professional mother for over eight years, I know this secret all too well and have oftentimes foiled potentially dastardly deeds, thought up by my oldest two.

This brings me to my most recent escapade with Taterbug and C-dub. It was a normal Sunday afternoon and little Gun-Gun was sawing logs in his bedroom, taking a well-deserved two hour siesta. The older two, proclaiming how "boredddddd" they were, decided to play a game of hide-and-go seek, completely ignoring hubby's orders of staying out of our room. It's not that we have anything to hide, but after finding smashed crackers and sippy cups of juice inside our bedcovers, and pudding fingerprint drawings on the vanity's mirror, proclaiming "Taterbug was here," I had to draw the line somewhere.

The game was getting heated and C-dub was getting rather pissy since he couldn't find Taterbug. I saw him wandering around the hallway, mumbling about how he hated being "it" and that "Sissy" was always "cheatin." Having seen Taterbug run into my room just prior to C-dub walking through the hallway, I gave him a sideways look, cocking my head towards the general direction of my room. With a knowing glance, he yelled, "Thanks Mom!" and ran off towards the sound of a now pissy Taterbug who was obviously torked that I had helped the enemy.

The game continued on for a few more minutes and I could hear shrieks of laughter - all was well and their frustration and boredom had subsided. I continued relaxing on the couch, allowing myself to slowly shut my eyes and enjoy the peaceful solitude that my house was now becoming. This quiet realization suddenly jerked me back into reality...who was I freakin' kidding...my house is never this calm!!

I slowly crept into my bedroom where I could hear muffled giggling and plenty of "Ewww...look at that C-dub!" While listening to their obvious dismay, I began to guess as to what they were doing in my domain and what they had found. A sick feeling began in the pitt of my stomach. I knew what they had found and I knew that I had some 'splaining to do. It was time for the partial "talk." Not yet the birds and the bees, but close - too close. They had found hubby's Playboy and it wasn't pretty.

Mommazilla: What the heck are you doing in here? In my most big girl voice of course, holding back the laughter that promised to leak out of my smiling lips. Taterbug dropped the magazine like a hot potato .
C-dub: We weren't looking at the naked ladies mom. Honest!
Taterbug, who couldn't contain her obvious amusement, continues whooping and hollering.
Taterbug: Dad's a total perv!!! He likes lookin' at disgustin' nakid chicks!
C-dub: Dad's not a perv Sissy! Right mommy? Hey mom, what's a perv anyways?
Mommazilla: Dad's not a perv and that's not really a nice word for you to be using as an eight year old lady. He just likes reading the stories but he thinks those pictures are totally gross. I bet he was just about ready to throw this one in the trash.
Hubby suddenly walks in to check out all the excited voices until to be greeted by:
C-dub: Daaaadddd! Sissy says your a perv! And I says you're not! Right dad?
Hubby: Hey guys...oh, you found Uncle R's magazine. Good! We'll give that back to him.

Yeah, the blame was passed onto a family member but it helped us to save hubby's fall from grace and took the label "perv" from his name. I don't know who the hell taught Taterbug the word, "perv," but I'm guessing that this same little friend will more than likely explain the full set of facts of life to her at the next recess or bathroom break. Heck, I learned where babies came from during the spring of my 3rd grade year. My good friend Maria promptly informed me of how they got there and they were sprung from your body through a full belly zipper. Yes, it was a little misconstrued, but for years after that I knew that making out and hugging boys could easily get a girl pregnant and I certainly didn't want the doctor unzipping my belly to deliver a kid.

Well here we are, a day later and a dollar wiser. Thinking that the drama from the day before was over and forgotten, C-dub casually approached me tonight,and the following brief conversation ensued:

C-dub: Momma, I love you.
Mommazilla: I love you too, honey.
C-dub: Momma, where do you think daddy put that naked girl magazine?
Mommazilla: He probably gave it back to Uncle R. Remember? That was his book, not daddy's.
C-dub: Oh, OK momma. We don't want to look at it again, right momma?
Mommazilla: No C-dub, we don't.
C-dub: Not even a little, huh?
Mommazilla: No C-dub.
C-dub: And I can't kiss you anymore cause that would mean we're on a date and I don't ever want to date a girl.
Mommazilla: C-dub, go play. And quit talking to your sister.
C-dub: OK momma.


The Joy of Bras

For her 8th birthday, Taterbug received a Wii game called, "My Sims Pets." It's a really neat game where you can create your own town; all the way down to the people and their pets. While playing the game, I heard Taterbug and her brother (C-Dub) have a very interesting conversation about creating a female character and how to dress her...

Taterbug: C-Dub, you need to start with a good bra. She has to have one.
C-Dub: Sissy! Stop telling me what to do! She's doesn't need no bra, they're ugly!
Taterbug: C-Dub, do you want her boobs to sag? Do you really want her to look like mom?!
C-Dub: Oh, sissy, you're right. Mommy's boobies are super saggy and yucky.
Mommazilla: Um, yeah, thanks kids. Let's just pick a bra and move on.
Taterbug: You mean the granny bra, Mommy?
Mommazilla: Yes Tater. The granny bra.

I guess that my topless excursions around the house will now be limited to several layers of clothing and a Wonderbra. Gotta love the innocence and *ahem* knowledge of children.

January 11, 2008

Swimmingly Fun

All week long, I had promised my kids that we would do something fun on Friday night. The movies are too expensive and neither hubby nor I enjoy chasing Gun-Gun up and down the hallway so that Taterbug and C-dub can kick back and relax. Our other choice was skating but I knew that with hubby's track record, a broken bone was inevitable. The overwhelmingly popular choice was to go swimming at a local indoor pool.

Now, as a mom , I could care less if I had to tackle the issue of a swimsuit. I could go in cut-offs and a sexy t-shirt, as long as the kids were safe and happy. However, as a woman, the idea of a swimsuit terrified me. I know what I look like naked and I didn't think I needed to share that vision with strangers or friends I might see at the pool. Mother nature is a witch and she has taken great care in making sure that gravity has done it's duty on my poor body. It ain't pretty but it gets the job done, especially since the creation of Shapewear.

Knowing full well that little elephants do not forget, I knew that there was no way I was going to get out of going. I swallowed my pride and opened up the drawer, exposing the dreaded swimsuit. I pulled my perky pink suit out and held it up, only to hear a snicker from Taterbug.

Taterbug: Ya really gonna wear that mom?
Mommazilla: Yeah Tater, I am. You don't want me to go naked, do you?
A look of horror crept across her sweet little face.
Taterbug: No mom. That would be terrible. Seriously.
I started to get undressed and looked back to see Taterbug still watching me, amusement clearly present on her face. She wore a big toothy grin.
Taterbug: Hey C-dub! Get a load of mom's suit. It's even got big 'ole cups in it like a bra! And look! Her boobs aren't even gonna fit!!!
C-dub can't comment because he's laughing too hard.
Taterbug: Momma, what do you do if your boobs fall out into your armpits? They're saggy too!!
She's snickering as she asks and her comical momentum slowly starts to speed up with her questioning. C-dub continues laughing and begins to call for hubby, so that he can partake amongst the fun.
Taterbug: Betcha can't run in that thing either. Why dontcha try?
Mommazilla: Taterbug. You'll be a mom one day too. And guess what? I'll give you my swimsuit to wear because you're going to look like me.
The idea of a mommy swimsuit was enough to shut her up and make her ponder the probabilities that she'd eventually inherit my physique. She slowly wandered out with a look of disgust and I smiled in response.

We eventually made it to the pool and had a great time. Gun-Gun, quickly realizing that the water was not as warm as his usual bath, decided that it just wasn't for him and made the great escape with hubby. The other two little sea creatures proceeded to pummel and attempt to drown me by repeated belly flops into the water. I did notice the water was quite warm and thankfully the cholorine took the edge off the urine. Remember the saying, "Thanks for not peeing in my ool. Notice there's no "P" in it." I can't help but think that the other 20 or so people swimming with us probably didn't share in my sentiments. I thanked my lucky stars for the chemical chlorine goodness that provided us with a safe barrier from all the floating nasties.

All in all, it was a fun night and well worth the pain that the pukey pink bathing suit (with not near enough spandex coverage) brought me.

Raisinettes

I love naked babies, especially little baby butts. Little Gun-Gun has the cutest round cheekies (not the ones associated with his cherubic smile) and I love when he's fresh out of bath, running from me like I have the plague in an attempt to avoid a diaper. Tonight was no different, other than he was not fresh out of a bath and he was supposed to have the diaper still on, pending our nightly fight with pajamas.

As he streaked through my room yelling, "Moooommmmmmyyyyyy!!!", I immediately noticed that he was naked. Completely naked. Hubby looked at me and I looked back at him in a silent fight over who was going to track down the missing diaper and prevent our little fire hydrant from watering the furniture. Gun-Gun continued his streak through our room and into the bathroom where he promptly announced that he "poofed" and needed to "brush eeth!" Hmmm...poofed? He farted? Normally a "poof" was a "fart" in Gun-Gun language, so I didn't worry too much. Thanks for announcing it Gun-Gun, and thanks for doing it outside of mommy and daddy's room. Hubby and I continued to try and ignore his nakedness so that we could finish our grown-up talk, thinking that time was on our side.

Shortly thereafter, I heard a squeal of disdain and saw C-dub flying down the hallway, pinching his nose in one hand and a dirty diaper hanging precariously in the other. C-dub ran from one end of our room to the other, frantically looking for a place to dispose of his hazardous waste. He was screaming, hubby was yelling and Gun-Gun was hiding. I had just taken a phone call so I shrugged my shoulders at hubby, giving him the go ahead to handle the situation. Gun-Gun took this as a sign of weakness and quickly ran out of our room and into C-dub's room, where he promptly smushed his "raisinettes" further into the carpeting. I knew that hubby needed back-up, so I ended my conversation and caught up with the "poof" offender. I calmed hubby down, all the while holding Gun-Gun back with one hand, preventing him from further smearing or should I say smudging. I then gave him his fourth bath of the day as he had decided to also fingerprint his belly with his homemade paint.

Thinking that we had located all of the offending spots, we left for the evening and later returned, only to put the kiddos to bed. I put on my sweats and took off my shoes and socks, to fully relax and get ready for bed. The kids were asleep and Gun-Gun once again smelled good. As I walked down the hallway, I suddenly felt a sick squishiness between my toes. I looked down only to realize that we had not, in fact, located all the offending raisinettes, and that my foot had quickly become victim to Gun-Gun's "poof." On my hands and knees, I found a few more spots of joy that I scrubbed and cleaned. It figures that Gun-Gun would wait to spoil the carpet only after I had just shampooed the rugs two weeks ago...Murphy's Law sucks.

I still love baby butts *BUT* next time, there will be a mandatory cheekie inspection prior to any nakedness entry into the confines of my bedroom.