The Goatee

I have received quite a few questions related to the origin of the infamous goatee picture on my profile.

Perhaps this will clarify things a bit:

1). NO - I do not have a goatee in real life. But if I did, it would be dyed red to match my hair.

2). Yes - I LOVE goatees. On men. Duh.

3). In my attempt to remain 'anonymous', I opted to use the goatee picture, since so much of my life (and that of my family's!) is splattered all over the blogosphere.

4). I am not the creator of that picture - a much-loved family member decided to 'alter' my appearance as a practical joke. I thought it was hilarious and decided to embrace my faux-beard rather than reject it.

Any other questions?

Oh, and yes, I have heard that I am known around the blogosphere as 'The Bearded Poop Lady".

I'm okay with that. I've been called much worse!

~

Veterinary Medicine

Why does my ELEVEN pound dog snore louder, longer, and harder than my TWO HUNDRED POUND burly-hunk-of-a-man husband?

The Songs of Morning

Millions and millions of years ago, when I was in the fifth grade, my Language Arts teacher, Mr. McKeown introduced me to the phrase "Songs of Morning". I remember that he talked about the sound his daughter's spoon made against the cereal bowl, the dog barking to get out, the splat of the newspaper against his driveway. I have never heard nor read that phrase again in my life, but this morning, I have a passage of my own.

I was on the couch because I had a 'rough' night. Sigh.

I was awake, but my world was just starting to rise.

The traffic of cars along my street increased as people began their morning trek.

The alarm went off in the bedroom.

Billy Two Swords began to emerge from his peaceful slumber.

For many years now, a little quirk of his has unnerved me. When he wakes up, he sighs and yawns very loudly, for fifteen minutes or so, whether I am awake or not. This behavior reminds me of a grizzly bear emerging from hibernation. He stretches and rolls over and yawns and sighs and stretches again. And then he gets up. Inevitably, I get up as well, since he is so DARN loud about it.

Anyway......on this particular morning, for the very first time in our marriage, I actually found this measure of my morning song to be endearing.

I thought it was cute today.

And then it happened.

Billy Two Swords 'let' one.

You know what I mean.

Yes you do.

It was about four seconds long.

"PFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT"

I heard it through the walls.

My morning song was ruined.

Thank God all I smelled was the coffee.

Parent-Teacher Conference

Captain Jake Sparrow's preschool teacher, the VERY lovely Ms. West, shared with us the following incident. I am certain this will ring a bell with my loyal followers.


Captain Jake Sparrow had to poop.

While he was pooping, he wanted to talk to Ms. West.

He told her, "You know what, Ms. West?"

"What, Jake?"

Sparrow: "My dad's pee-pee has hair on it."

Ms West (thank God she was a nurse and a mom before she was a teacher, and thank God she knows how to handle the Captain): Yeah, I know.

Sparrow: "How do you know?"

Ms. West: "Cuz someday Jake, your pee-pee will have hair on it too."

Sparrow (with shaft in one hand and head bowed toward the netherregions): "NO IT WON'T!"

Ms West (smiling): "Yes. It will."

Sparrow: "EWWWWWWWWWWWWWW. That's DISGUSTING!"

Yep. Perhaps now he is getting the picture.

Humbled, Honored, Tickled to Death

Today is the 26th day since my entrance into the Blogosphere.

And today, I was humbly honored with my first blog award.

Thank you so much

Here is what is said about the Premio-Dardas Award:

"This award 'acknowledges the values that every Blogger displays in their effort to transmit cultural, ethical, literary, and personal values with each message they write.' Awards like this have been created with the intention of promoting community among Bloggers. It's a way to show appreciation and gratitude for work that adds value to the Web."

I know that as a condition of this award, that I must honor those who came before me by advancing those who wait behind me.

But, allow me a just a few hours to savor this moment please! And....to come up with 15 great blogs to honor as well.

My cup runneth over.

Graciously yours,

Heather

I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me - Philippians 4:13

Thank you to http://liveandlearnthehardway15.blogspot.com/2009/01/premio-dardos-award.html

I am so new at this, I don't even know how to appropriately link the website of the person who honored me! I am sorry! I am still learning!

Not Me Monday courtesy of MckMama!

I did NOT attend college on a brain bowl scholarship.

I did NOT graduate summa cum laude.

I am NOT a member of MENSA.

And I absolutely, unequivocally, unquestionably, did NOT attend the 2009 Monster Jam in Orlando, Florida on Saturday night at which I did NOT encourage my six year old daughter to be as redneck as possible, because "guys dig it".

Nope.

Not me.

No way.

Can U Tell Me Y?

Besides the obvious, which is that I have poop in my pocket....

Can anybody, ANYbody, ANYBODY, tell me why I have to do laundry each and every single day?

Why?

Why?

Why?

The Popcorn Hobbit

I heard a rustling of sorts in the kitchen pantry. Followed by a loud, 'UGH!'.

And then a slamming of doors.

From far in the distance, I hollered, "What say you?"

The Hobbit replied, "Where is the popcorn?"

I, the Most Beautiful of all Elven Witches responded, "The last of the popcorn was consumed a fortnight ago."

The Hobbit responded, "Impossible."

The Most Beautiful of all Elven Witches insisted, "Sire. You are mistaken. Popcorn, alas, is no more."

And the Hobbit began to twit and twitter and tweet whilst exclaiming, "But a Hobbit cannot possibly be expected to watch a movie without POPCORN!"

And the Most Beautiful of all Elven Witches suggested, "Perhaps a snack of Elven Loaded Baked Potato Pringles would satisfy your Hobbit cravings?"

And the Hobbit frustratingly emerged from the pantry and aghastly uttered a word that would endure for eons of generations to come:

"WHAT-ever"

Catapults and Orgs and TVs - Oh My

Captain Jake Sparrow just threw a ball at the 61" HDTV.

It was a soft ball, but a ball nonetheless.

So I asked the obvious question.

"Jake? Why did you just throw a ball at the TV?"

Captain Jake Sparrow furrowed his brow in annoyance and responded:

"Because Fred wants to play catch."

Yeah, that's a GREAT reason.

If you're FOUR.

And pretending to be an Org from the Lord of The Rings whilst you have made a catapult out of your belt and attached it to your arm.

Laughter Lives!

This post is part of "Laughter Lives! Tuesday" on the Riggs Family Blog. Check our their blog to read everyone else's "Laughter Lives!" posts.


Just another conversation between mother and son while one of the two is 'taking care of business':

"Mama?"

"Yes, Jake?"

"Why do you sit down to pee?"

"Because that's how girls pee"

"But why?"

"Ummmm......errrrr.....ummmm........because."

"Mama, do you have a pee-pee?"

"No, Jake, girls don't have pee-pees, just boys."

"Mama?"

"Yes, Jake?"

"Then we need to go to Wal-mart and buy you one."

MMM

Meet My Munchkins

By popular demand.....meet my muses.....Reilly the Red and Captain Jake Sparrow.

Not Me Monday courtesy of MckMama!

Not Me

Nope

Not Ever

I have never, ever, ever eaten cookies, pie, cake, brownies or chocolate eclairs out of a trash can.

Not me

Question of the Millennium

Reilly the Red: "Mommy, are you pregnant?"

Aghast Mommy: "Are you asking me that because you think I'm fat?"

Reilly the Red: (eyes rolling uncomfortably as she tries to avoid eye contact with me) "No, I don't think you look fat. You just look pregnant fat."

Aghast Mommy: "I'm not pregnant."

Reilly the Red: (big sigh) "I was just wondering."

Clover

For whatever reason, my little man, Captain Jake Sparrow, loves to talk to me while I am, shall we say, ‘using the facilities’.

He continues to disrespect a closed bathroom door.

He is drawn to it like a kid to a bakery that offers free cookies with sprinkles.

Today was just another in our anthology of interesting talks while I am ‘taking care of business’.

By the way, I really can’t explain why so much of this blog revolves around poop, but it just does. You keep coming back to the blog, which clearly has ‘poop’ in the title, so SUCK IT UP.

So I’m sitting there, minding my own business, with the bathroom door closed as always, when I hear the little munchkin say, “MOMMY!”.

I tried to ignore him.

I didn’t think he was bleeding or drowning or on fire.

Then I heard it again, this time accompanied with “I NEED YOUR HELP!”

I still wasn’t biting.

He was supposed to be putting his jammies on.

I continued to attempt to ignore him.

Then he opened the bathroom door and made his grand entrance.

As seems to be customary around our house, Jake was naked.

Butt naked.

Naked as a jaybird.

I said, “Yes? Can I help you?”

“I can’t find my Superman jammie shorts.”

I told him that I would help him after I was done.

He asked me, “Are you pooping?”

I said, “Yes.”

He said, “Oh”.

I said, “Can you leave now?”

He said, “Um, Mommy?”

I said, “Yeah?”

He said, “Um, can we go to that Backyardigans show?”

I continued to bite. If, for no other reason, than I had a few minutes to spare, if you know what I mean.

I said, “What Backyardigans show?”

He said, “That one. That one over there.”

I said, “Jake, WHERE is the Backyardigans show?”

He said, “Across our lake.”

I said, “Across our lake, WHERE?”

He said, “Across our lake, next to Dunkin Donuts.”

NOTE TO READER: There are a thousand lakes where we live, but only one Dunkin Donuts. I assure you, the one Dunkin Donuts that we are privy to is nowhere near any lake, and it damn sure is not ACROSS our lake.

I said, “Next to Dunkin Donuts, WHERE?”

And he recapped it for me as follows: “The Backyardigans show is across OUR lake, next to Dunkin Donuts, in Clover. Can we go to it?”

“Jake, where is Clover?”

“Across OUR lake, next to Dunkin Donuts at that Backyardigans show. Can we go there?”

Again, I have absoutley no idea what he is talking about, and since I believe there is a fine line to being the greatest Mom in the history of the universe, and being legitimately locked up by the Department of Children and Families, I replied, “Sure.”

Later, I told this crazy jibberjabber of a story to my husband and daughter.

They didn’t believe me.

As most people who encounter my retelling of Jake stories, they are quite skeptical.

However I was redeemed several minutes later when Jake said, “Actually Mommy, the Backyardigans show isn’t in Clover. It’s in New Jersey.”

I asked Jake if he knew where New Jersey was.

Response: “Nope. Can I have another fruit snack?”

Balls

As usual, this Thursday morning began like any other.

Reilly woke up grumpy, toting her blanket as an homage to Linus.

She struggled with getting dressed, argued about eating breakfast, balked at brushing her teeth.

You get the drift.

She’s five.

Mornings are tough for anybody, we all know that.

And then there is Jake.

If there could be an eighth dwarf called “Morning Midget”, it would be him.

He jumps out of bed every morning, as wide eyed and bushytailed as when he went to sleep.

So we’re about 15 minutes into our routine of one kid being typically ornery, and the other acting as if he has consumed three cappuccinos.

Again, a very mundane morning.

And then I hear the following:

UGH! Mommy!

I just want to cut my pee-pee off! UGH!”

(Deep breath, Mommy…remember whatever you say will somehow come back to become your fault when he endures a bout of erectile dysfunction at some point late in his life).


“Jake. You do not want to cut your pee-pee off.”

‘UGH! Yes I do! It’s bothering me.”

Perhaps I should mention that lately Jake has, shall we say, ‘noticed’ his pee-pee.

He doesn’t stroke it or play with it or derive pleasure from it, but he definitely is aware of its presence.

And, of course, this presence is more noticeable in the mornings.

I believe it is casually referred to as “Morning Wood”?

So I take another deep breath and tell Jake that if he leaves his pee-pee alone, it will go back to sleep.

He doesn’t like my answer, and continues with his “UGH”!

I rubbed his forehead and told him to go potty, and get dressed, and then we could have breakfast.

Off he trots to his room.

I begin to switch gears by assisting my angst-ridden five year old with her “my hair is a MESS” problem.

Jake returns to the kitchen, wearing nothing but a t-shirt.

As an interesting sidenote, the t-shirt said “All-Star”, and had embossed pictures of all kinds of sports balls: soccer balls, basketballs, footballs, baseballs, tennis balls.

Balls, balls, balls.

A most apropos attire for the day’s conversation, but quite coincidental, I assure you.

I asked Jake why he wasn’t wearing any wonderwears.

He walks over to me, and he is kind of hunched over.

He is holding his pee-pee with his left hand, very tightly, and his right hand is somewhere in his netheregions.

He has the most inquisitive look on his face that I have ever seen.

He is completely perplexed.

It is as if he has made a monumental discovery in the world of genetic research and has just realized that he will be winning the Nobel Prize for how to cure stupid.

And then Jake said, (with one hand on the shaft, and the other hand on the package), “What ARE these? LITTLE…..TINY……BALLS?”



To which I responded in the only way that I knew how that would hopefully not damage his fragile three year old sexual psyche: “Yes, Jake they are little tiny balls, and your father will be talking to you about them this evening.”


That seemed to appease him enough to shut up and go away and get dressed.

After dropping Jake off at preschool, I called my husband and told him it was necessary for him to have a little bit of show and tell with his son this evening.

He rebutted with, “I don’t know what to say! You’re the psychologist!”

I casually reminded him that not only was I not a psychologist, but I also did not have a Y chromosome nor a penis, no matter how badly I know that I should have, and this very well may have been the only mistake God has ever made.

Later that evening, the two guys in my life mowed the yard together. Afterward, they took a shower together. I don’t know what transpired behind that curtain, nor do I want to know. But I can tell you this. After they were finished showering, Billy was shaving his head in front of the bathroom mirror, wearing his boxers. I heard a little tiny voice on the floor of the bathroom.

The voice said, “This, Dad? THIS is the gonads?”

I nearly peed myself.

Billy responded without even looking away from the mirror, “Yes”.

“THIS, Dad? Or THESE? THIS or THESE is the gonads?”

“Yes.”

“Hey Dad? Can I see yours again?”

To which my dear husband replied, “No.”

After I had gone outside and laughed until I cried, I came back and asked Billy, “Gonads? That’s the word you used? Gonads?”

He replied, “I was under a lot of pressure! It’s the only word I could think of!”

Which is probably why they don’t make t-shirts for little boys that have “Gonads” on them. Balls seems to suffice in my opinion.

Not Me

Not Me.

I have never picked my children's boogers in public.

Not Me.

Not Ever.

Nope.

Henrietta Thumbsucker

Everybody has a bad habit or a vice.

Or several of each.

Reilly the Red sucks her thumb.

This isn’t something that we’re happy about.

It’s a disgusting habit, and I’m tired of getting pictures developed that show my beautiful daughter with her thumb in her mouth.

We have tried talking to her, embarrassing her, shaming her, punishing her.

We tried the Dr. Phil (do nothing) approach, the ridiculous ‘drink applesauce out of a straw before going to bed’ approach, even started calling her Henrietta Thumbsucker – all for nothing.

Admittedly, the time spent sucking the thumb has reduced with age.

And we don’t let her get away with sucking her thumb while she is awake.

But I draw the line at setting my alarm for 1230 am and getting up in the middle of the night to yank her thumb out of her mouth like her dentist told me I had “an obligation to do”.

Yeah right.

Several months ago, I decided to sit down and have a heart to heart with my daughter about the thumb sucking.

Reilly was upset with the whole conversation.

She didn’t want to talk about her thumb.

After much prodding, I asked her very plainly, “Why do you suck your thumb?”

She simply shrugged her soldiers.

I decided to rephrase the question, “Why can’t you STOP sucking your thumb?”

I was expecting another shoulder shrug or an “I don’t know, Mommy.”

Instead, Reilly told me, “Mommy, my thumb talks to me.”

Once again, I realized that my psychology degree continues to pay for itself, each and every day that I am a mother.

I decided to engage further questioning.

I asked Reilly, “What does your thumb say when it talks to you?”

The very serious response was, “It says, Suck Me, Reilly, Suck Me.”

SIGH


Yeah, there is no conditioned response to this statement in any published psychology book ANYwhere.

Alas, the thumbsucking continues.

OOPS. He did it again.

Fred - the Anal-Retentive, Constipated Dog

Meet Fred.

A Jack Russell terrier, Cocker Spaniel mix.

Which means he's a hyperactive schizoid. Or so the vet in Washington DC told me.

We rescued him. From a horribly yucky house. He needed us. And we wanted him.

We were told he was wonderful and that he was great with kids and that he liked to play ball and that he was house trained.

Yeah.

Almost all of that is true.

Oh he is great with kids.

And he likes to play ball. Just ask Mr. Frodo.

But wonderful? Yeah, only if he were house-trained.

A little history....

We have always crate-trained our dogs. Always. Why should this little eleven pound mutt be any different?

And then there was the day we tried to crate him.

I'll just tell you how it ended - with a half-digested steel crate, golf ball sized holes in the living room wall, dog poop (yeah, that again) and dog pee and dog puke everywhere, and four stitches in MY left leg.

Even though we have AFLAC, I didn't want to go to the E/R with another dog-related injury, so we gave up on the crating.

Fred can be left alone now. He's much better at that.

HOWEVER (COMMA):

Is there anyone out there who can tell me why this dog of mine can not or will not POOP while on a leash?

Or when he's not on a leash, why he can not or will not POOP outside?

Or why is it that he will be walked for a freaking hour, be left alone in the house for FIVE MINUTES and THEN poop?

Anyone?

Anyone?

Bueller?

Yeah, this isn't our first dog.

We know how to put his inside poop in a designated place outside and lead him to it in the hopes that he'll find it like any self-respecting Southern woman would a Racetrack toilet on I-75 in Brunswick, Georgia.

We know to feed him and walk him the same time every day.

We know.

We know.

We know.

And yet, the inside-only-when-I'm-by-myself-and-only-on-the-world-famous-red-circle-rug-from-IKEA-which-just-happens-to-be-in-the-living-room pooping continues.

I welcome any and all suggestions or advice you may have, friends.

Particularly if the suggestions include the use of a taser.

Not Touching It

Actual transcript from 14 seconds ago:

Captain Jake Sparrow: "I need somebody to come wipe my butt. I am not touching it. There is poop all over the place."

Billy Two Swords: "What makes you think anybody else wants to touch it."

Captain Jake Sparrow: "I don't care. It's disgusting and I am not touching it. I need Mommy to wipe it."

Friends, Mommy has yet to leave the couch. FYI.

Note: Mr. Frodo DID paint the bathroom a nice sea green. I am too nervous to go in there for fear of what lies in wait.

Fresh Coat of Paint

Our home is in a continual state of renovation.

Thankfully, Billy Two Swords is quite the handyman/fixer-upper/can-handle-just-about-anything-that-breaks-guy as long as it does not involve plumbing or electric. Although he has finally figured out how to fix the dishwasher and the washing machine. It took him eleventy tries, but I have to give him his props. I'm definitely not smart enough to fix either.

So......I have requested that we re-paint the kids' bathroom. It was the first room we remodeled, in 2000, and it is in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint. So tomorrow, Billy Two Swords and his counterpart, Mr. Frodo, will be painting the bathroom.

When Reilly the Red found out that their bathroom was getting painted, she was very curious about the color choice. She is quite creative, artistic, and very 'into' fashion. I am constantly inspired by her ideas of what matches and what doesn't.

So she asked Mr. Frodo: "What color are you painting the bathroom?"

Mr. Frodo: "Poop color."

Reilly the Red: "What the heck are you talking about?"

Mr. Frodo: "We're painting the bathroom a browny poopy color."

Reilly the Red: "WHY are you doing THAT? That will be UGLY! That won't MATCH the stuff that's in there!"

Mr. Frodo: "Yeah, but the next time Jake wipes his poop on the wall, he won't get in trouble, 'cuz nobody will notice."

Yes, friends, POOP is my life.

Why????? 'Cuz That's What Boys Do, Mama

He did it again.

He peed in the grass.

But this time, instead of just peeing in the grass, he dropped trowel as usual, exposing not only his 'unit', but his red Fruit of the Loom boxer briefs.

His perfect parabola of urine soaked my Home Security sign. So technically, he did not pee in the grass, he washed the sign with urine. Ugh. You'll be hearing that from me a lot....UGH. Sometimes it's all I can say. UGH. Or, help me GOD. They are said in the same breath of desperation. I promise you.

But today, rather than just peeing in the grass, or on the sign, he had to do it in the FRONT yard, while there were PEOPLE in our driveway, while there were CARS driving down our street in the middle of the dinner hour. And thankfully, one of the people in our driveway was a woman, a mother, who had the common decency to 'look away', whilst the other 'cool' dudes just laughed their rotten butts off.

But I had to ask the quintessentially dumb question, once again:

"JAKE! Why are you peeing in the grass?"

"Cuz that's what boys do, Mama."

And he pulled up his little man boxer briefs, and went on his merry way.

My day was going so smoothly today, for a tiny moment in time, I thought I would struggle with posting a blog today. Nope. Not in this house. Not with this spawn I am half responsible for creating.

Not Me

Not me!

I have never peed in a litter box because someone else was in the bathroom and it was too cold to go outside.

Not me!

Not ever!

Piehole

If running your piehole were an Olympic sport, then Captain Jake Sparrow would be the Michael Phelps of motormouth.

The kid does not shut up from the moment he wakes up until he crashes back to sleep.

He actually has some interesting and funny things to say, but my goodness, his vocal chords must be made of steel.

And though most of the time his ranting is ridiculously entertaining, he can be most annoying as well.

Like the first day of Kindergarten. I think Jake was more nervous for Reilly the Red than Reilly was.

“Reilly? Do you think they will have books there?”

“Yes, Jake.”

“Reilly? Do you think you will have snacks there?”

“Yes, Jake.”

“Reilly? Do you think you will have friends there?”

“Yes, Jake.” (By this time, she is squirming in her seat and gritting her teeth as she hadn’t been worried about ANY of this until Motormouth started his intense line of questioning).

“Reilly? Do you think your teacher will like you?”

She was enraged at this point.

He had crossed the line.

She had been really worried whether her teacher would like her.

She’s quite sensitive about performing to other people’s expectations (most likely because her mother is a whackjob of a perfectionist).

But Motormouth didn’t let up. He asked the question again, this time with more emphasis.

“REILLY?! I SAID, Do you think your teacher will like you?”

And she let out an exasperated growl, made two fists and screamed at the top of her lungs,

“JAKE! SHUT YOUR DAMN PIEHOLE!”

I had to hide my face, I was laughing so hard.

How could I correct her behavior when I totally agreed with her stance, felt her pain, and couldn’t have said it better myself?

Motormouth wouldn’t let it die.

“Mommy! Reilly told me to shut YOUR damn piehole!”

“Jake, I think that might be a good idea. Reilly’s a little nervous about starting kindergarten today.”

“But Mommy, I’m nervous too!”

“Well, maybe if you stopped talking about it you wouldn’t be so nervous.”

“But she’s my SISTER!”

I knew he meant well, but his World Champion Motormouth reputation had preceded him.

He finally settled down after we got to the school.

We escorted Reilly to her new room, and to her new desk that was ready for her with her name on it and all of her crayons were stacked in a row in her brand new pencil box.

She breathed a big sigh of relief.

Her teacher remembered her from last week’s “Meet the Teacher” night, and she started to smile.

As I escorted Motormouth out of the classroom, I could sense her muscles start to relax as Reilly’s entire posture changed.

I kissed her on the forehead and told her I loved her and knew she would have a great day, and that me and Daddy would be so excited to hear about the first day of Kindergarten.

She told me, “Don’t worry about me Mommy, I’ll be okay.”

I knew that she would. I didn’t worry so much about Reilly. It was, and continues to be, her brother that we fret over.

But when we got in the car, Jake simplified it all. His latest barrage went something like this:

“Mommy, someday I will be in kindergarten and I will have crayons and I will have a desk and Miss Meyer will be my teacher and she will like me and I will have lunch and I will have lots of friends and I will have snacks and do you think I will have goldfish snacks or fruit snacks and do they have peanut butter in Kindergarten and Mommy did you know that Sarah is allergic to peanut butter and when we have cookies that have peanut butter in them she can’t have any and Mommy what am I having for lunch today maybe it will be peanut butter and Mommy for snack maybe I could have Spiderman fruit snacks and Mommy is Daddy moving dirt at his workjob today or maybe he is having snack and Mommy did you know that sharks can bite you?”

I so badly wanted to aptly quote my daughter and tell him to SHUT HIS DAMN PIEHOLE.

But thankfully, we arrived at preschool, and his Motormouth became someone else’s joy for the next six hours.

Skeelz

We went to Sea World to use up our Annual Fun Passes that expired on 12/31. It was a spontaneous thing, decided late at night. It was a fine day. No one got injured, sick, arrested, etc. Afterwards, we went out to lunch. Everyone was tired, hungry, cranky, as usual. A perfectly typical response to a theme park day. Little Miss Sassy was running her antagonistic piehole as usual.  I told her that I had just decided what she was going to be when she grew up - a lawyer. And Billy Two Swords agreed with me. And she said, "How do you know I'm going to be a lawyer?" And we both responded, "Because we said so." And then she was asking what kind of skills a lawyer had. So we ticked off the following: smart, mouthy, great taste in shoes, pretty, not afraid of boys, great hair, likes to read, likes school, popular, sassy, uses big words, good at arguing.... And she said, "Okay. I'll be a lawyer." Captain Jake, who had been listening intently while dumping pizza sauce in his lemonade and 'pretend' drawing on the seat booth with the marinara cocktail, offered the following summation: "I got NO skeelz. None. Not one."

Rascal's Party

When a new baby is introduced to a sibling, all sorts of rivalry issues pop up. Jealousy, insecurity, selfishness – to name a few. When the arrival of Jake made us a foursome, Reilly’s 2-½ year old imagination came into full bloom.

Rather than endure the expense of day care, we decided to keep Reilly home with me while I was on maternity leave for Jake. As a career-minded woman, the stay-at-home gig posed a bit of a challenge. Juggling a newborn’s feeding and sleeping schedule while attempting to provide a precocious two-year-old with constant stimulation proved to be difficult. But Reilly made it interesting, if not taxing.

One day, when Jake was about two weeks old, Reilly became very quiet while playing alone in her room. As a google of mothers before me had discovered, toddlers are only silent when they are sleeping. Or conniving. This determination is usually made after discovering baby powder poured out all over the carpet, or lipstick scribbles drawn on walls and mirrors.

After about fifteen minutes, Reilly emerged from her room, dressed to the nines. Her getup consisted of the following: red, Dale Earnhardt, Jr. pajamas; black patent leather shoes; black sunglasses tinted pink and rimmed with pastel-colored peonies; a gold, gemstone-studded tiara; a wooden crucifix on a black ribbon; and a purple embroidered, ‘What Would Jesus Do’ bracelet. Instinctively, I grabbed my camera.

I stalked her for a while. She was mumbling to herself. Finally, my curiosity got the better of me.

I asked her, “Whatcha doin’?”

She replied, “I’m going to Rascal’s Party.”

Okay. Beyond my daughter being called ‘little rascal’ by some relative at some obscure moment in time, I have no idea where ‘Rascal’ came from. But I was going to ride this train into the station.

There was much laughter in my head, but I composed myself enough to continue to engage her.

I asked, “Who’s Rascal?”

“He’s my friend,” she replied.

I asked where she had met him.

At my school, was her answer.

When I reminded Reilly that she didn’t yet attend school, she furrowed her brow in annoyance.

I decided to retreat and observe from a distance.

She continued to mumble to herself. I turned off the washing machine and the television so that I could listen more intently. She was play-acting the role of party-planner for ‘Rascal’. Her conversation involved purchasing balloons, inviting the rest of ‘their’ friends, getting presents. She asked me for some stickers, and I obliged, providing her with some personalized address labels that showed up uninvited in the mailbox one day, courtesy of some charitable organization. A few minutes later, I noticed the stickers were placed on the wall of my dining room. When I asked Reilly why she put stickers on the wall, when obviously stickers do not belong on walls, they belong on paper, I was told, “Rascal told me to.”

Clearly, Rascal and I were fixin’ to come to blows.

I suggested that she tell Rascal I wanted to talk to him.

I was not at all prepared for the following response:

“That would be great, Mom. I need to call him anyway so that I can get directions to his house.”

2009 Musings

Scariest Reality Show Ever: Renovation Realities on DIY Network.

Renovating your own home with your construction superintendent of a spouse is scary enough.

Watching Mr. Investment Banker and His Wife fumble their way through the demolition of load bearing walls causes me great anxiety.

It makes me want to give a shout-out to our friend Mr. Bill who helped us determine that our house wouldn't collapse if we tore down the two walls we absolutely 'had' to in order to realize our HGTV-induced 'vision'.

Thanks again Mr. Bill!

Greatest Idea of the New Year:

Every time that Reilly the Red says the word "So????" with the hair-tossing, newly ear-pierced, I-think-I'm-24-but-really-I'm-only-6, attitude, she has to do 5 push-ups.

For every second that she delays, she has to do another.

She just did her first 8 push-ups of 2009!

She'll have Bend-It-Like-Beckham abs before she's NINE!

If only I could figure out a way to use this idea to motivate Billy Two Swords? Not that he needs motivating....but just in case.....

Poopin' Machine

How is it possible that I have been at this blogging thing for a whole hour and 35 minutes, and I already have ANOTHER poop story?

In the words of Captain Jake Sparrow, this is 'reedikiless'.

I just caught the 4 year old monster in the bathroom, butt naked, as usual. But this time, he was also caught poop-handed.

Apparently, he had to 'poop' (I promise you, I have stories that aren't related to poop, so please hang on....), but there was no toilet paper.

So rather than asking someone to bring him toilet paper, he decided to wipe himself with his hand.

And rather than wash his hand, he decided to wipe off the poop on the bathroom wall.

And this is when I found him.

I went nuts, of course. I told him to go wash his hands and get dressed.
`
After I cleaned up the newly poop-painted wall, I found him butt-naked (Still!) in his room, rubbing a prescription tube of Bactroban on his feet and legs.

When I asked (rather violently), "What ARE you DOING????", he replied, "I'm putting lotion on my legs."

"WHYYYYYY are you putting 'lotion' on your legs?"

"Because they NEEDED it."

Ugh.

New

Happy New Year.

Or should it be HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!!??

I am completely new to this blogging thing. But as I have been very ambitious this bright, shiny, New Year morning by cleaning and laundering and de-cluttering and making my family very nervous with my sprightliness, a thought occurred to me.

I have been working on this 'book', entitled "I've Got Poop In My Pocket" for quite some time now. But I don't know a darn thing about publishing a book. All I know how to do is write little snippets at a time, as they happen (multiple times a day, if you have children like mine). And since I've been following a select few blogs on a daily basis, I decided, 'HECKFIRE! Why can't I just be a blogger?'

So here it goes. My attempt at blogging or publishing or just brightening your day with the often hilarious, occasionally dramatic, always uplifting tidbits of my life.

I’ve Got Poop In My Pocket

Most employers think that they have heard every excuse in the book as to why an employee is late. I am certain that I was the only person at my particular place of employment who had ever offered, “I’ve got poop in my pocket”, as a tardiness defense.

It was a sunny, Friday morning. I had buckled my 8-month-old daughter, Reilly, in her car seat, packed the day’s necessities, and headed for the babysitter’s house. Half way towards our 10-mile journey, I smelled it.

Poop.

You just can’t mistake the smell of formula-laced baby poop.

Yummy.

Once we arrived at Barbara’s house, I got Reilly out of her seat, picked up the diaper bag, and walked to Barbara’s front door. Barbara noticed the stench as soon as she opened the door, and casually mentioned, “Reilly, you brought me a present!”

We both laughed, and I handed Reilly over.

As I turned to walk away, I noticed a smear of poop on Reilly’s shorts. This wasn’t your average, everyday, baby bowel movement. This was green, mushy poop, the consistency of finger paint. For a millisecond I wondered how my beautiful baby girl with the stunning blue eyes could produce such vile waste.

It was then that Barbara shrieked, “Ahhhhhhh! Your shirt!”

Not only was poop smeared all over my shirt and my arm, poop covered my pants, almost to the knee.

And yes, there was poop in my pocket.

Lots and lots of it.

And that is how I ended up calling my boss to tell him I would be late because, “I’ve got poop in my pocket.”