Sunday, June 2, 2013

The Pee Pee Race

You may or may not already know that the biggest baby C won his baseball tournament this weekend.  Which means that I've finally won a first place trophy.  It totally counts, people-  you just can't fuck with my imaginary glory.  It's mine all mine and you cannot have it, no matter how much you beg.  But I will share it with you-  because that's the kind of person I am.  I'm a giver!  You also can't fuck with my perception that I'm a giver. 

Anyway, you already know that I totally embarrassed myself, right?  Of course I did, because that's what I do!  This time the embarrassment came in the form of a pee pee race.  Let me explain-

So I take the babiest Baby C to the potty.  He follows me into the bathroom and enters the stall beside me.  I start to use the potty and  remembering the state of the baby C's toilet when I cleaned it this past week, told him "don't piss on the toilet seat and if you do, for God's sake, clean it up with some toilet paper!"  I felt bad for a second- why can't I ever just relax and have fun?!  Anyway, I took that opportunity to challenge him to a pee pee race. (Please don't ask me what that is-  I figured I would win because I had already started peeing and...forget it.)  "Pee pee race- here we go...I'm gonna win!"  Corbin ignored me, as he often does so I reached under the stall to grab his foot.  "You better pee fast-  I got a head start!"

Yeah.  I totally grabbed some random lady's foot.  Who had a fresh pedicure and lovely sparkly flip flops.  Her response?  "You should know that I'm the pee pee race champion of this park..."

Monday, October 15, 2012

Peeing in the trash can...

Last night Corbin walked out of the bathroom, hand raised to give me a high five and he said two words-  'trash can.' 

So you already know that he totally peed in the trash can, right?  I can sugar coat that 1,000 different ways, but the truth is, he peed in the fucking trash can and also all over the floor.  And once again, I got nuthin'.  Nuthin' to say about it at all.  Except this...

I'll never understand the depth of little boys nastiness.  I told you about the booger wall.  I told you about the biggest Baby C peeing in all my pans and trying to wipe a booger in my mouth.  The babiest Baby C proudly pooping on the trampoline.  I told you about precious nephew peeing in a glove.  There's also the story I never told you all about one of my dearest friends- one time, her son pooped in the sink.  Another friend?  Her son was busted bent over in front of a mirror trying to put a quarter in his butt.  All of this makes me scratch my head and wonder if life would be slightly less...intertwined with buttholes and bodily functions if God had given me daughters instead of sons like I politely requested.  Maybe I wasn't so polite, I can't remember.  My point is while some mom is loving playing dolls with her daughter, I'm over here trying to figure out how my kids got pee on their ceiling.  I'm not kidding.  That actually happened.  And honestly, I don't wanna know how they did it. 

My boys are a constant reminder that as a parent and even as a human being, I don't know shit.  It's also a constant reminder that no matter how hard you try you can never, ever be prepared for everything.  And the worst part is, that the stuff you actually prepare for?  It isn't gonna happen, I promise.  It's called 'life getting you up the butt' and it's all about the element of surprise.

There is nobody- nobody- who knew more about raising kids than me.  Before I had kids, of course. Then when you have them you realize that parenting books don't prepare you for much of anything.  I mean, they'll help you keep a baby alive, but actually turning them into productive adults?  That is a crapshoot.   And the best I can do, my friends, is tell you good luck with that!

Saturday, October 6, 2012

Everything I know about marriage...

So, remember a long, long time ago when I told you that I know loads of shit about marriage?  Well, get ready dear friends.  I'm about to impart some wisdom.

  •   One of you is going to be an asshole at all times. Make sure that you are an asshole fewer times than your spouse.

  • Try to not be an asshole, always.

  • The 50/50 rule is bullshit.  Are you comfortable with giving 80% and your partner giving 20%?  Cool.  You're ready to get married.

  •  Give 85%, always.

  •  I promise you than at some point in your marriage, you will contemplate divorce, murder and/or running away.

  •  Don't file for a divorce, kill your spouse or run away and join the circus no matter how tempting a trapeze career appears.  Always.

  • If you're a guy:  Give your spouse attention.  Make her feel special.  Show her that you think about her when you're not together.  Tell her she's beautiful.  Tell her she's brilliant.  Recite poetry.  Write songs.  Make her feel like she's the only woman alive.  The occasional blue box from Tiffany's won't hurt and when is the last time you took her out for a nice dinner or bought her a little gift for no reason you selfish jerk?  Rub her feet.  Tell her she's beautiful again.

  • If you're a girl:  Blowjobs.  And when he doesn't want a blowjob?  Feed him.

Wednesday, October 3, 2012

About Lucid Dreaming...

You guys know I'm sorta obsessed with anti aging stuff, right?  (if you didn't, now you do.  Friends?  I'd like to introduce you to Christine's obsession with anti aging.  Obsession?  These are my friends.) Anyway, I recently started taking a couple of supplements that are supposed to combat the effects of aging- and they share the same side effect-  vivid, lucid dreams.  Woooohoooooo!!

Ok- just in case you're curious, they're Acetyl L-Carnitine and Lipoic Acid (recommended by Dr. Oz for memory...if I remember correctly) and something called DMAE (recommended by Dr. Perricone, the skin genius, for skin anti aging benefits).  Technically, I have no idea what they do or even what they do in combination.  All I know is that the nighttime hours just got a whole lot freakier. 

At first it sounds great, right?  Lucid dreaming means that you are aware you're dreaming and that you have some control over what you do while you're spending the night in dreamland, right?  Sorta.  It means that all of your dreams, the good and the bad, are VIVID.  And controlling them?  Yeah, you can IF you have a lot of control over how your brain works to start with.  Hush up.  I can totally hear you laughing.

Honestly, even the really, really horrible nightmares are funny (I know that's weird and I'm sorry.  Actually, I'm not sorry at all, but I'm sorry about THAT.) And yeah, I've been able to do a little of the stuff where you can decide what to dream and then actually dream it, but that stuff has gone horribly wrong.  It's sorta like watching a movie in slow motion in which you're the star.  My problem is that when it veers in the direction of 'ohhhh!  I'm getting ready to enter a forest full of vampires' instead of running away like a normal person, I run neck first into the forest yelling 'yooohooo vampires!  I'm over here!!  And I'm probably delicious!'  Anyway, the lucid dreaming stuff is apparently very, very temporary.  But until it's over?  I'm going to enjoy every creepy, freaky, bitey second of it.  And of course, I'll tell you all about it...

Saturday, September 29, 2012

How my 7 year old son tricked me into buying him a car

This probably doesn't come as a shock to you, but I enjoy taking care of people.  Including and especially sick people.  Tonight, Colin has the stomach flu.  In between fetching him Ginger Ale (no ice, purple straw) and water (crushed, not cubed ice, blue straw)  I came to the realization that when I'm taking care of my kids like this, I'm almost...happy?

Please don't call Child Protective Services or throw around phrases like 'Munchausen by Proxy'.  It's not like that at all.  I just feel really, really super duper useful when my kids are sick.  They're outgrowing their need for me minute by minute.  I've changed my last diaper, bathed my last baby and sooner or later, I'll never struggle to match a sippy cup with a lid again. I hate that shit.  So why am I so sad about it?

I guess what brought this on was Facebook.  Not Facebook, Facebook, but the Facebook that lets you look at all the videos you've posted over the last 5 years or so and get a good look at what your life looked like then.  I found a video of the biggest Baby C when he was a little over 2 years old.  He's 7 now.  Five years doesn't seem like a lot, does it?

In grown up years, 5 years is practically nothing. But in littles years?  5 years is long enough to forget what the landscape of my life looked like on a certain spring morning when Baby C and I discovered a little tree frog hopping around our porch.  I had forgotten the way his eyes lit up when he got excited. How he smiled from the inside out.  (I swear that kid sparkled.  In the best possible way)  I had forgotten his voice.  That sweet, soft voice that I heard so much I actually hoped and prayed for laryngitis.  The way he loved to perform- singing, dancing- anything- that made me laugh. 

And of course, I also forgot the way he would pretend to fall asleep beside me during nap time and then wreak havoc on my bedroom with a sharpie.  How he meticulously lined up all my pots and pans so he could pee in them.  The time he hit me in the head with a boot the day I tried to stop cussing.  I guess that's one of the beautiful things about parenting- the good things fade a little, but then again, so do the shitty things.

I was talking to Stacy tonight and I told her that I thought the best part of parenting happens when there are no bad things happening.  That all that is required for good times to prevail is the absence of bad things.  And that's totally true.  But also?

Tonight as I was fetching the Ginger Ale and water, rearranging the covers, fluffing the pillow, kissing the warm cheek, Colin looked up at me and said 'Mommy?  You're the best mom ever because I can always count on you.  You ALWAYS take such good care of me. Thanks for that.'  Damn.  He totally knows how to work me. He's getting a car tomorrow.

Monday, September 17, 2012

Cussing like a 4 year old...

The babiest Baby C could best be described as a curmudgeon-  he's a surly, grumpy little guy disguised as a charming little guy with wild curly hair, dimples, and the bluest of blue eyes (at my house, they're referred to as 'Connery Blue').  When he's not busy being charming, he's busy as hell being a demon.  Seriously.  Sometimes I think his sole purpose in life is to fuck with me.

Last week, as I was driving Corbin to preschool I pissed him off by refusing his request for a trip to Chick Fil A to eat breakfast (all he really wanted to do was play in that germ infested play area or as I've been known to call it, hepatitis with a ball pit).  He gave me the stink eye, mouth in a grim, determined line and growled 'FINE!  Then I'm gonna...say a BAD WORD!' 

I braced myself.  I cuss like a sailor.  A sailor who never has any intention of kissing his momma with that mouth.  My kids are familiar with the f, s, a, b, and d words.  And if there isn't a swear word to fit the occassion, sometimes, I make them up.  Not that my kids have heard any heard any of that shit directly from me- Frank needs his mouth washed out with soap.  Anyway, I looked at him and said "go ahead.  If it will make you feel better, let it rip."

"Chicken.  Chicken fat.  Chicken butt.  Chicken butt fat chocolate ding dong.  Chocolate ding dong fat butt crack.  Chocolate...butt crack HOLE!"  This was followed by a very quiet, almost whispered "chocolate ding dong...tea bagging!"  He glared at me.. 

I tried my best to act offended.  I didn't laugh and I'm incredibly proud because inside I went straight to the ugly, noiseless laugh that makes me pee.  Inside, I was dying.  But outside?  I was the picture of horrified motherly composure. I appeared to be mortified and contrite.  He was, of course, thrilled.

I dropped him off at preschool (Christian preschool- pretty sure they would frown at my creative manipulation of the English language) feeling satisfied and a little, I'll admit, like I had won this battle.  Of course, my friends, this means I've yet to fight the war...

Friday, August 31, 2012

Book Review...of lady porn

So you probably already know that 'lady porn' has become a huge deal lately- everybody and their grandmother is reading '50 Shades' (yawn) and since wrapping up that naughty trilogy, we've all moved on to other similarly scintillating reading material. 

First, I wanna say that women have been reading dirty books forever-  have you seen rows upon rows of 'heaving bosom' novels at Target?  Yeah, me too but I quit reading those in junior high, as did most of my friends.  Since then we've moved on to bigger and better reading material.  (side note:  have you ever noticed how, whilst discussing lady porn, everything becomes dirty??  Bigger and better?  Get it?  Oh, fuck...never mind.)

I love Megan Hart's books, so if you're looking for post 50 Shades stuff, I suggest you start there.  They're well written and they get to the dirty stuff pretty quickly.  'Deeper' was my favorite so far and she has a couple of new books coming out in September.

I'm finishing 'Bared to You' right now and, although I will definitely finish it, it's just barely.  The guy in the book comes off like a creepy stalker and his dirty talk is AWFUL.  So now, of course, I'm making a list of things you can't say in a dirty book.  Here's the first part:

**Hang on - this reminds me of a conversation Stacy and I had many years ago about talking dirty where we both decided on a number of words that are just...forbidden.  Ding dong (any ding derivative like 'ding a ling',) hiney, and most euphemisms for vagina. I could go on for days, but you get the point, right?**

Anyway, the following is a list of words and phrases I took directly from 'Bared to You'- I would like to remove these from all forms of dirty talk, forever:

  • Fisted (relax you pervs- this refers to hands being fisted in someone's hair.  It's still gross)
  • Quivering (makes me think you're cold and slightly afraid)
  • Spasming (sounds like it hurts plus they make medication for that)
  • Needy (just never attractive on anyone)
  • Sex (a vagina can't be referred to as a 'sex'- it confuses me)
  • Arousal (can imagine my 7th grade health teacher saying it)
  • Making love or any request to 'Hold me"(I'm still laughing- it's lady porn for Christ's sake- we'll have none of that)
  • Buttocks and/or butt (unsexy as fuck)
  • Chafed (ouch)
  • Panties (Oh God, please stop referring to women's underwear as panties.  Please.)
  • Throbbing, Pulsing, Clenching, Tender, and Aching (Ewww, icky and ouch.)
  • Oral skills (really??  That's what you're gonna call it??  Now methinks you don't have any.)
  • Strained at the confines (makes me thing you're popping the buttons on your pants after eating Thanksgiving dinner)
  • Torso (What. The. Fuck.  Reminds me of the movie '13 Ghosts'.  Remember?  When one of the ghosts was called 'the torso'??  Remember?!? It happened, I swear.)
  • Big, beautiful penis (Hahahamotherfuckinghahaha!!!!  Oh, God- I needed to laugh like that!)
  • Spurting hotly (Gross.  If you're 'spurting hotly' all over a girl, you need to go to the doctor for a shot of penicillin. Or so I've heard.)
  • Convulsive (No. Reminds me of a grand mal seizure- not even a little bit sexy)
  • Stroke (Billy Squier.  Not sexy.)
  • Semen (Gag.  I shouldn't have to add this one, but...)
  • Crown (Of what??  A king??  A baby crowning??  Not sexy in the slightest.  Plus, it makes me giggle.)
  • Anus (I'm already giggling.  And dear God never mention it in the same sentence as the word 'pucker'. Page 234- I'm not joking.)
  • Anal Play (now I'll never stop giggling)
  • Rimmed, Tissues, Underskirts, Mounted (what is this, 1857?!?!)
  • Screwing like minks (sounds like something someone would say when they aren't having sex...ever)
  • Pantyless (barf.  Stop with the 'panties' already!)
Honestly, I have notes in the margin all the way through this book- it made me laugh too much for it to be sexy at all.