Monday, December 9, 2013

Mommy Martial Law (Pinterest Parenting Fail #2)

The excitement of the holiday season can bring smiles, laughter, joy and moments you want to remember forever.

The change in routine, however, can also turn your adorable little toddlers into screaming little dictators with a short man syndrome more contagious than yawing.

Holy snot buckets, y'all.  They may all 3 weigh less, combined, than my left boob, but when they gang up on you, it means war.  Okay, maybe not my left boob (sorry Thelma).  If my left boob weighed 80 lbs, it would  be dragging on the ground - OMG the visual - and that would be weird and people would notice. Andmyboobsaresymtricalthankyouverymuch.

Anyway.

After the tree debacle of 2012, I was determined that this year wouldn't be a repeat.  So, after perusing Pinterest for baby safe tree decorating ideas, I stocked up on soft and shatterproof ornaments, cool touch led lights, and ribbons to use instead of hooks.   Because Christmas is to be experienced, damn it!

This was the end result.
Eat your heart out, Martha

You see that broken curtain rod?  Yeah, that.  It came down, permanently, with the third (of 4 times total) time that itty bitty curly headed princess in the background yanked off yet another ornament.  There is a picture outfit hanging off the remaining piece of the rod holder thingy because The Firefighter likes to hang things off of every available hanging whatchamacallit he can find.  Except hangers, you know, in the closet. Because apparently that would be more effort than walking around the house looking spots to hang shit.

Ahem.  Anyways.

Not but moments after I snapped this handy dandy iPhone pic (maybe someday I will get a real camera -though I'm not holding my breathe seeing as how I'm married to broke ass fireman!), Miss Chatterbox took her new found scissor skills to the beaded garland to divide it up for her and her sisters to play with.

OMG.  While I appreciate the sharing sentiment and problem solving skills.... IwillnotraisebratsIwillnotraisebratsIwillnotraisebrats.

We are currently operating under Mommy Martial Law.  Their little hineys are wearing out the Timeout Mat because they are some stubborn little beans.  Though truthfully, they are mostly wearing me out.  Two days in and they are showing no signs of surrender!  These are the no fun, stinky, OMG-is-it-bedtime-yet moments of parenting, were you have to hold your ground, when it would be so much easier, and a few decibels quieter, to go with the whole "pick your battles" philosophy and ignore minor infractions.  But every now and then, they must be reminded that you are the parent, you are the boss, and they must listen to and respect you or it will completely suck for them.  

Oh yeah, and the idea floating around Pinterest that Mr. Jolly Jingle Butt (our daily renamed elf on the shelf) can help with discipline....Ha ha, yeah, not with the 4 and under crowd.  PSA, people, don't waste your time!!




I'm going to leave you with a very blurry picture of the Fireball Whiskey Firetruck from last nights parade.  It's like two parts of my life smushed into one!  Can you imagine the 911 calls if firetrucks delivered fireball?  Hello, hello operator, I have an emergency.  I'm too sober.  Send the fireball truck immediately!  

Happy Monday, Y'all!







Wednesday, December 4, 2013

12 Days of Pinterest Fails - Day 1

Last night, The Firefighter and I took the kids to the Festival of Lights.  We saw the lights, rode the carousel, met Santa and roasted marshmallows.

It was freaking funtabulicous!  (Lovely word, isn't it?  It's going to be the next *amazing!* Let's make it happen, y'all!) Seriously.  I just adore how magical Christmas is for the kids.

Miss Chatterbox was in awe of the Big Guy in Red. In fact, she was practically speechless.  Though, only for the duration of her visit with him. The Bun was a little unsure, but warmed up and Jellybean thought he was the bees knees.  I loved all the pictures so much, I ponied up the extra money to get the flash drive with ALL the pictures.

Here is one of my favs.

Baby Jazz Hands!


This is my other favorite!  This Santa is the shit. 

She farted on me.  I can't believe it.  Can I give her back, yet?  

My kids wore out Santa in less than 5 minutes.  Pictures don't lie, y'all.   That must be a record or something.  

Anywho, I noticed something while waiting in line. All the parents, with more than 1 kid, had either matching or coordinating Christmas outfits.  Seriously?  I did not get this memo. I would say who does that, but, apparently, all of Pinterest ALREADY KNEW.  There are whole board dedicated to family coordinating Santa's lap pictures.  I need a rule book for this shit!  I thought I was doing well just to keep them in individual outfits that actually weren't stained and went together.  You should see the getups they wear regularly!  This was an outdoor festival at a county park, people, not pictures at a photography studio! 

Bah humbug. 

Next, we roasted marshmallows.  Except Miss Chatterbox didn't like, "all the burnined parts, momma, will you eat that part right there for me? And that part too?  You missed a part, momma."  

I am now adding *burnt layer marshmallow eater* to my resume.  It's right below *my shirt is a snot rag* and *ABC food throw awayer.*  It's a tough life, y'all.  

Then there was this moment...
Screecher Creature


That is Jellybean throwing a colossal fit on the dirt below the picnic table we were eating our marshmallows at.  She was unhappy that I wouldn't let her eat the apple slice she just drug around in the gravel.  Oh the horror, right!  So, I did what any good parent would.  I took a picture, then ignored her completely, much to the dismay of nearby spectators.  Momma don't play this game and I will cut a mean side eye to anyone who tries to interfere.  Holla. 

In the few moments I was dealing with Little Miss Crabby Patty, The Firefighter managed to convince Miss Chatterbox and The Bun to go talk to the some minor league Hockey Players who were there signing autographs.  Except The Firefighter found it amusing to get Miss Chatterbox to ask a player's girlfriend (who was sitting at the autograph table) what position she plays...

MC - Hi!  What position do you play?

GF - Oh, I don't play.  He does. 

MC - (disinterested glance at boy) Why not?  You don't like boys?  

The Firefighter - (laughcoughsnortchucklecough) 

Boys are so juvenile. 



Happy Wednesday and Ho Ho Ho!









Tuesday, December 3, 2013

Pinterest, You Suck.

You know, our parents had it so easy at Christmas time when we were little!  All they had to do was slap up a tree, decorated some cookies, and voila, Christmas.

Now, in the age of Pinterest parenting, there's felt toddler trees, elaborate gingerbread mansions,  snowflake chains,  magazine worthy decorations, Elf on the Shelf and if you're not doing all these things you're doing it wrong.  

Well, Bah Humbug, ya Martha Stewart wannabes.   Do you have any idea how hard it is to decorate when everything must be at least 4 feet off the floor or it will be destroyed and you have not a crafty bone in your body?  No, you wouldn't ya stinking crafty people.  

And the only toddler friendly solutions I found on all the internets was to block the tree and keep the kids out of it.  

Really?  That misses the point, entirely.  Christmas is an experience, not a picture.  So, no, I will not be gating off my tree, despite my vivid memories of the great tree collapse of 2012, because every kid should know what it's like to get caught sneaking candy canes off the upper branches because they brought it crashing to the ground, damn it. 

Instead, I will be present you with a series of posts called - The Half-Assed Guide to Christmas.  I will include the exploits of Mr. Jolly Toots (our Elf on the Shelf), as well as our Charlie Brown tree and redneck gingerbread tepee's and a couple of other Pinterest fails.   I guarantee it will make you laugh and feel better about your own Christmas skillz. 

Mr. Jolly Toots's grand re-entry. 

Happy Tuesday, y'all. 









Monday, December 2, 2013

Real Men Watch Soap Operas...or So He Says

The Firefighter and I cut the cord on cable about 4 years ago and never looked back.  We aren't big TV people.  We watch, maybe, 4 hours a week, combined.  And that's being generous.

Don't get me wrong.  We aren't anti-TV.  In fact, there is nothing better than a mind numbing action flick when I need to find some zoned out zen after a tough day in the toddler potty training trenches.  Nothing removes the poo stench from my brain like killing some zombies.  You know what I mean?

Now, The Firefighter and I have similar tastes in TV and movies.  My particular favs this season are Sleepy Hollow and the Blacklist.  I LOVE James Spader.  I particularly like that I can't predict his next move, and OMG, wouldn't it be exciting to have a criminal mastermind for a daddy, that I don't know is my daddy, who fast tracks my career and let's me travel the world in his personal jet?  No? Okay, maybe not for realz, but you get my drift.

While The Firefighter likes Blacklist, he's not as crazy about it as I am.  Instead, he has discovered
McLeod's Daughters.


I would not expect you to be familiar with this show.  Why not?  Think Days of our Lives, but on an Australian Ranch in the outback and that ranch is run by a bunch of catty women.

That's right.  Mister Macho Run Into Burning Building On the Regular has become seriously infatuated with an Australian daytime soap opera.   Like watch at least one episode a night kind of obsessed.

Seriously.  I shit you not.  Mah Boo, who made me sit though The Hangover, Balls of Steel, and Pacific Rim is in LOVE with this show.

I hate it.  It's STOOPID. I can't stand catty bitches in real life, I'm certainly not going to go out of my way to watch them on TV.

Want to know the worst part?  This show ran for 9 seasons.  9!!  And the Aussies don't mess around, y'all.  There are 30, 55 minute episodes PER season.   So basically, I'm stuck watching this ridiculousness for at least 11 months.  

Sigh.  Good thing he's cute.

Happy Monday, y'all!





 

Saturday, November 30, 2013

Soap Scum, Ewww

So, I have a problem.   One that has been annoying the bejezus out of me.

Soap scum.  Black nasty soap scum, to be specific.  Ugh.  Nothing makes me feel more like a crappy housekeeper than a dirty bathtub.

For the last 8 weeks, The Firefighter had been temporarily reassigned to the FD shop.  He would come home covered in yucky black grease and immediately go and take a shower.  Thereby covering the shower in nasty black watery grease.  Despite cleaning the shower weekly and using that daily spray shit (aka - haha-sucker-you-spent-$5-on-watery-smelly-shit-that-doesn't-clean-anything), it still looked dirty.

The Firefighter finally returned to shift yesterday, so I decided today was the day I was gonna make the dirty tub mah bitch.  I pulled out the big guns - bleach, rubber gloves, and scrub brush.

20 minutes of scrubbing and some very very clear sinuses later, you wouldn't know I even touched it.

After a few minutes of cussing that would have made a sailor blush, I took it old school and brought out the Comet.  I was hoping to channel June Cleaver and harness some of her old fashioned scrubbing power.

Didn't make a difference. My bathtub was still dirty looking, yet so sanitary you could eat of it.  Not that you would want to do that.  Unless your Miss Chatterbox.  Don't ask.

Y'all, I tried everything.  Scrubbing bubbles, Magic Eraser, baking soda and vinegar, even CLR.  Not a single one of those made a dent in the nastiest most stubborn soap scum ever.  Out of desperation, I asked Mah Boo if he had any idea on what would get rid of this mess.  He said he would, "take a peek."

I stepped away for maybe 2 minutes, y'all.  I should have known better than to leave that man of mine unattended.  When I came back, he was using carborater cleaner ON THE BATHTUB.  OMG, the smell, y'all.  What was he thinking??  We could still smell it this morning!  Hello.  Redneck much?  Geez.

But you want to know the real kicker?  The bathtub looks great.  No, better than that. It looks like new, showroom new.  Like so new I don't want to take a bath and mess it up new.

Seriously.

I'll be damned if I admit it to him, though.  I'm a stubborn brat like that.

Anyone else know of some off the wall, off label uses for thing?















Tuesday, November 26, 2013

The Elephant in the Petting Zoo.

There are some topics, as a parent, you know you will have to talk about sooner or later with your kids, like drugs, or the birds and the bees.

There's also the crap you hope you never have to discuss with your children.

But did you know there's a third category?  Yeah, it's called "shit I never imagined I would ever have a need to discuss with my 4 year old at the fair."  Wanna know what's in this category?

Elephant Penis.

For real, Y'all.  More specifically, a loud running commentary by Miss Chatterbox on the size of an elephants dick during an erection.  Let me share a little bit of this discussion with you.

Me:  Hey, look.  There's the petting zoo.  Who wants to look at the animals?  I see an elephant.  Let's take a closer look.

(We saunter over to the elephant ride enclosure)

Miss Chatterbox:  MOMMA!!!  LOOK AT THE ELEPANTS PEEPEE-ER! IT'S HUGE.  IT'S HUMONGOUS.

Me: Shhhhhhh, baby.  Don't look that close.  Not so loud.

Miss Chatterbox:  LOOK! It's getting even bigger!!!

Me: *pointed look at The Firefighter that says "A little help here?!"*

The Firefighter: *laughing so hard he's snorting*  That's what she said.

(If looks could kill, Y'all, I'd be locked up right now!)

Me:  Hey Babygirl, here's some quarters.  Let's go feed the goats.

Miss Chatterbox:  Ya, good idea, Mommy!  I wanna catch one.  Can I catch one, mommy?  Can I take it home?  It can live in my toy box.  I would be a good goat mommy.  Sissy, let's go catch a goat.

I totally dodged the learning moment there.  AND I'm totally happy about that. Truthfully, I'm not sure who was more traumatized, myself, or the lady with her young son, who was ON the elephant during this exchange.   Talk about awkward.

Have you had to discuss anything unpleasant with your children when they were small?














Friday, October 11, 2013

003 Agent Mom

My children have a thing for utensils. It's driving me crazy!  They are worse than a tiny army of leprechauns with a spoon fetish on St. Patty's Eve.  For realz, Y'all.  If I invite you over for soup...bring your own spoons.

Now, I encourage my rascals to think outside the box.  Which is all great and fun until it's time to flip a grilled cheese and no spatulas are to be found.  I'm sure I no longer have fingerprints on my index finger and thumb.  Does that qualify me to become a spy? 

 I can see it now, OO3-Agent Mom reporting for duty!

My mission, should I choose to accept it, is to find the missing kitchen utensils. 





Three possible suspects are Miss Chatterbox, The Bun, and Jellybean wanted for crimes against cooking.  Last seen in Charleston, SC.  It is unknown whether they are working together or individually.


We look so innocent!

The evidence acquired thus far. 

1. Miss Chatterbox has been caught on film with one of the missing and repeatedly visiting the scene of the crime. 
Exhibit A ( I like how it's tucked in)

2. Jellybean has been pictured eschewing all use of silverware and is vertically challenged.  Most likely to be employed as lookout. 
Exhibit B. (Silverware is for suckers.)

3.  The Bun has been seen scaling great heights with no fear.  Unlike Miss Chatterbox, she is sneaky and unlikely to be pictured with one of the missing. 
Exhibit C. Part Monkey


I will use whatever technology necessary to RECOVER those utensils!

Anywho.

Spying and motherhood are a basically the same thing, right?  


Happy Friday, Ya'll!





Friday, September 27, 2013

The FireWife Life

While I write mostly about my experiences as a mom here, a big part of my identity is being a firewife.  Which sometimes can be rather lonely.  Not anymore! Courtesy of Facebook, I've virtually met an entire community of women, from all over the world, who are fire wives, just like me!  They are the sisters I never had.  They totally get it. We even have virtual drinking parties.  How much more awesome does it get?!

The Firefighter and our babies


AND

As if I wasn't busy enough, I've recently taken on being an intern for the lovely Val of  wifebehindthefire.com and I'm being featured under Meet the Firewife and the newest weekly feature The Kitchen Table, were we will discuss various issues that affect us in the fire service. 

So come pour a drink, pull up a chair and stay awhile!


Wednesday, September 18, 2013

Birthing and Balls

I had a hilarious conversation with a coworker the other day about the crazy things women say while in labor.  Birth stories are a totally normal conversation to have behind the bar, right?  I'm going blame the booze.  We all know alcohol has been the cause of oversharing since forever.

Anyway. Women, we are crazy.

Reasonably so, birthing babies ain't for wusses.

I never really shared my birth experiences here, because they sucked big, red, bubbly, baboon ass.  If a couple of near death experiences don't make you crazy, I don't know what will.  Some women are made for birthing babies.  I am not one of them, but, apparently, I am a glutton for punishment since I did it 3 times.

The beauty of these terrible experiences is that they left me with 3 amazing daughters and some really great war stories.  Which I, the queen of overshare, will now bequeath to you.

I labored for 48+ hours with Miss Chatterbox and actively pushed for 4 more.  With a near death experience thrown in the middle, just for shits and giggles.  You really don't want to know what 4 HOURS of bearing down can do to your lady bits.  No, seriously.  It's temporary, but it's really unpleasant.

Only 2 hours after having Miss Chatterbox, the nurse came in to get me up and into the bathtub. The Firefighter was on one side of me and the nurse had the other, since I was still a little unsteady from the epidural.  And as walked to the bathroom,  I looked at Mah Boo and said, "I feel sorry for you."

Looking at me like I'd lost my marbles he asked, "Why?"
"Because it really must suck ass to have balls," I replied.
He was silent for a moment as he contemplated whether it was wise to laugh or not.
"How would you know?" he said.
"Have you seen my cooter?  It's not like you could miss it.  It was the star of the show not to long ago and it feels like it's practically inside out.  Like balls sized out.  So, I think I'm as close to an authority on this subject as a woman can get without actually having real ones."

Yeah.  That's right, classy is my middle name.  Kinda like this AC/DC song.



  All together!  I've got big balls.  You've got big balls.  We've got the biggest balls of them all!

Haha


Do you have a funny birthing war story?  Let us hear it in the comments!


Thursday, September 12, 2013

Stranger Danger

Miss Chatterbox never meets a stranger.  She's friendly.  Way too friendly for this momma's comfort.

And that friendliness forces me to interact more frequently with people that I would rather not.  Like that crazy old bat two doors down, who likes to tell me things like, "Your kids are filled with the devil."  And, "How do you like being the other woman?"  Though my personal favorite is, "Your grass is filled with weeds and your tree is dead, just like your soul.  You need to make Jesus your landscaper."   

She's Cuckoo, Y'all.  Certifiable.  

Anyway.

Miss Chatterbox also loves to flings the door wide open for the UPS man and hold a lengthy conversation with him.  She also chooses to do this when I'm in my ancient mickey mouse nightie, with the twins flying free, and yesterdays hair and makeup because I haven't had a shower yet.  Never mind that it's almost noon.  And I have to do that awkward little arm cross where I try to cover up the fact I'm braless whilst simultaneously holding up my boobs and taking a package and signing.  Except it never works because my boobs are too big for that shit.  I know y'all know what I'm talking about.  Even if you won't admit it.  

But I digress. 

Given Miss Chatterbox's level of friendliness, I decided it was time to enact Operation Stranger Danger.  Which, if I'm honest, should actually be called, Operation Quit Putting Mommy in Awkward Situations. 

The Firefighter and I have often explained to her that we don't talk to everyone. We don't get in cars with people we don't know.  We don't let people touch us in our private spots.  

But clearly I wasn't getting through to her.  So I amped it up a little.  I bought books like these. 

www.amazon.com

www.amazon.com

I even got a video.  

www.amazon.com

It went well.  She seemed to understand and not be frightened at the same time.  Which was my goal.  So I breathed a sigh of relief and went on about my business.  

A couple of days later, though Miss Chatterbox is fully potty trained and independent in the bathroom most of the time, she called me for help cleaning up.  No biggie.  She's a preschooler.  It happens. 

Later that day, we went to the grocery store and while checking out, Miss Chatterbox starts chatting up the cashier.  I am just about to swipe my debit card when I hear, "Momma touched me in my private parts."

Y'all!  I don't think I've ever been so mortified in all my life.  Or so I thought. 

With my face as red as the spaghetti sauce I was buying, I quickly explained that Miss Chatterbox, like all preschoolers, sometimes needed help cleaning up after pottying and that we just had had the stranger danger discussion.  

When we get in the car, I explained that we don't tell everybody those kind of things.  She smiled and nodded and said, "Ok, Momma." 

We get through the next store, and are at the checkout when I hear, "Momma touched me in my no no  parts all the time, but we are not supposed to talk about it."  

OMFG.  Mortified doesn't even begin to describe it.  I am so sure my picture is on some Mothering Wall of Shame in a Target backroom somewhere.  Seriously.  I just wanted to melt into the ground and disappear.  AND this little gem is on the heels of an EPIC tantrum Jellybean threw last week in Target, that involved eagle screeches so loud, management came to see what was wrong...but that's a post for another day. 

What's the most embarrassing thing your kids have ever done?  










Wednesday, September 11, 2013

9/11

I don't often use my blog as a sounding board for my opinions.  I tend to stick to the glitter farting fluffy bunnies of life.  But I have opinions, strong ones, that are frequently unpopular.  This post is about one of them.

September 11, 2001.  It sucked ass.  Complete and total ass suckage.  There is no way around it.  And we all know this.   Thousands of souls, who can never be replaced died.  If that doesn't suck ass, I don't know what does.

However, in the 12 years since, we have grown, and learned many hard lessons as a society as a direct result of that day.  History is only doomed to repeat itself if we don't learn from it.  And we haven't forgotten.  It lives on indelibly etched in the minds of all Americans alive that day.  In the same way that Pearl Harbor can't be forgotten by those that lived it.

The experience and feelings and emotions of such a tragedy is not something that can be transmitted to the next generation.  Only when a generation experiences a massive tragedy of there own can they then personally relate to tragedies of years past.

I also believe that the heroes that died that day and as a result of that day (in war and otherwise), did so readily, that we may continue to live the American life as we know it.  This sacrifice commands respect.  A respect I will willingly give every year in the form of a moment of silence.

Of course I understand that everyone grieves differently.

But, I don't believe that memorials, endless replaying of footage and broadcasts, the "what were you doing that day" game, or conspiracy theory discussions are useful, helpful, or healthy.  And, dare I say it?  I think they are unnecessarily dramatic.

At what point do we allow the dead to rest in peace, and allow the survivors to heal?  How long will we parade widows around and ring bells and, and, and?  What do we gain from this?  Do we learn anything new or helpful or useful?

I think this day is particularly hard for first responders.   Even more so for those with PTSD.  EVEN MORE so for those who lived it first hand.  Those who were there when it all was happening do not need a memorial to remember it.  They don't need endless footage on TV.  They don't need to be forced to memorials while on duty.  They see it happening in their own brains every.single.time they close their eyes.  The reels they run in their minds would never be approved for TV viewing.

The way I see it, we are harming those who helped us the most.

Can we let the dead rest in peace, paying our respects in a simpler manner?  I think so.

















Tuesday, August 27, 2013

Jesus is at the Station

Sometimes, I wonder how much my children really understand about The Firefighter's job.  Of course they've see the shiny trucks, and the gear, but do they really get it?  I've never been sure until the other day.

Now, I'm not a fan of surprise knocks on the door.  Miss Chatterbox, on the other hand, never meets a stranger.

So when we had a surprise knock on the door a few days ago, Miss Chatterbox ran to it and yanked it wide open, before I could holler at her not to.  Nevermind that we were all in a PJs still at 12pm.  Ahem.

It was a God Squad member of an unidentified branch.   Before I got all the way to the door, the following conversation had already started to unfold.


GodSquad- Have you found Jesus?

MissChatterbox- Why?  Did you lose him?

Me: *laughcoughsnickersnortlaughcough

GS- Do you know who Jesus is?  He saves people.

MC-OH!  You at the wrong place, silly.  He's at the fire station with all the other fireman who save people.


Out of the mouths of babes.




And here is a giraffe.  Because Miss Chatterbox deems it absolutely necessary.

Disclaimer - No religious disrespect is meant by this post.  







Wednesday, August 21, 2013

Rockwell

I favorite part of the day with my kids, is evening.  I love snuggling with the sweetly smelling, freshly bathed and relaxed version of them.  I love telling them silly bedtime stories and singing the same calming songs my mom sang to me.  Then covering them up and kissing their heads and turning on dream machines.

It's like a Rockwell picture, People.  Pure and sweet.

Now, it doesn't always go this way.  Some days are more, "Go the Fuck to Sleep,"  than  "Goodnight, Moon".

But yesterday was a picture perfect day.

After checking on them a couple hours later, I go and get ready for bed myself, still basking in the glow of how absofreakinlutely adorable my spawn are.

And as I'm laying down on my side, I slowly stretch out my arm under my pillow........

 and it runs right smack dab into an ENORMOUS pile of wet spaghetti.

LOL.

I guess picture perfect isn't our style!




Happy Hump Day, my lovelies!!




Wednesday, June 26, 2013

Apples and Phones

Yesterday, a neighbor child, whom I will call Apple, came over to play with Ms. Chatterbox and brought her iPhone AND iPad in her name brand purse.  She's 5.   5!  

Seriously.  I shit you not. 

Can you imagine if all toddlers and preschoolers had phones?  Parenting as we know it wouldn't exist!  It would be anarchy and chaos.   
 
Let's imagine a conversation between two preschoolers on their iPhones.  I think it would go something like this:

ImaginaryPreschoolChild1: Aljdlkasohgnoaisdtiuasdnl   xyz. 

IPC2: JSDHOIDSHGISNGKSDGHLKAFOIDAJN

*Ring Ring*

IPC1: Yo

IPC2: Sup? So, since I can't, you know, read, even though that momma lady is always going on about that alphabet thing and these letters climbing up some tree.  I mean who does she think she's fooling.  Letters don't walk. And who cares anyway? We can talk, can't we?  Reading. Pssshaww. Ain't nobody got time for dat!  Anyways, Boo.  Can you tell me what your text said.

IPC1:  Yo, Shorty, I was just asking you if you was cleaning up.  You see, I was just minding my own biz, with my sippy, watching Thomas-

IPC2: Love that Thomas, yo!

IPC1: I know, right.  I feel ya.  So there I was, watching Thomas and drinking my juice, and momma  comes in says it time to clean up.  AND get this.  She starts singing this song, yo.  It goes, "clean up, clean up, everybody, everywhere."  Sos, I got to thinking.  Is everybody, everywhere really cleaning up? 

IPC2:  It's a scam, yo.  You got to know how to work it to your advantage though.  You see, you don't clean up every time.  Then when you do, momma goes all nuts clapping and give you candy or treats.  Work the system, yo.  Work the system!



We would lose all control, y'all!  It would be total toddler dictatorship!

Anywho, what are your thoughts on little kids with phones?  Necessary or unnecessary? 









 

Friday, May 17, 2013

Life's a Booger

Boogers.  I'm going to go on the record and say that I hate boogers.  Watching someone pick boogers is like five consecutive rounds riding in the Gravitron, getoutofmywayI'mreadytoralph kind of gross.

Which makes me think I may not be cut out for mommy hood.  There are lots of boogers in momville.  Springtime?  Psshhhaw.  They ought to rename it Boogertime.

Remember this little ditty?

You can pick your friends
You can pick you nose
But you can't pick your friend's nose

I'm pretty sure that wasn't written by a parent.  Because sometimes you just gotta pick your kid's nose.   If you don't, then they wipe it haphazardly and next thing you know there's that gleaming trail of snot and booger across their cute little cheeks.  Or there's just the snot.  AND then you have to wonder....where is the BOOGER?

That's just when they are really little.  I thought that was nasty enough.  Then they get a old enough to pick their own boogers.

And you end up with the wall o' boogers.  OMG.  There is nothing nastier than scraping hardened boogers off the wall.

Except, perhaps, WHEN THEY EAT THEM.

I might just have thrown up a little in my mouth.

I don't get it.  How does this thought process work?  "Oh look! Here is a tiny yellowy brownish gooey substance that came out of my left nostril.  It must be yummy and oh so satisfying.  I'm going to eat it."

BLECH.  

Miss Chatterbox, in particular, LOVES to taunt me.  She'll waggle her finger at me and say, "look at what's on my finger, Momma.  I'm going to eat it!!"

She totally gets that from The Firefighter.   Gross is in his DNA, not mine.

Anyway.

So, I was just surfing the 'net the other day, minding my own earwax, when I discovered that now YOU can eat your kids' boogers.

www.amazon.com/nosefrida

Can you believe people buy this thing?  I'm scarred for life here, people.  OH the germs!  Seriously.  You might as well lick a dumpster because either way you will end up S.I.C.K.  

BUT at the very moment I thought that civilized society as lost it's ever-loving, clean freaky mind, the heavens parted, the angels sang and I discovered...

THIS

My friends, meet the battery powered snot sucker.  Or Snot Mop, as I like to call him.

Ain't he a beaut?

I no longer have to touch the nasty nasal secretions of my rascally spawn.  It's a wonderful thing.


Happy Friday!