Big: *waves an imaginary magic wand over Little* Bippity Boppity Boo! You're a friggin reindeer!
Me: Did you just say she was a friggin reindeer???
Big: Yeah.
Me: Oh...uhh...OK. Just checking.
Big: *smiles*
Me: *horrified*
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Lady Wha? Wha?
I happened to be driving in the car this past Sunday when the American Top 40 Countdown reached the number 1 song. Usually, I find this a rare, but fortunate occurrence...usually. The number 1 song in the whole entire country last week was this one. Really America? I mean, it didn't make my ears bleed or anything, but I was under the impression that a song needed to contain actual singing...call me old fashioned.
And while I'm at it, why does this song get so much damn airplay? I can plug my nose and sing "oh babah, babah" a few dozen times if that's all it takes to make a million! And that fake laughing part? Makes me want to take a pencil and poke. out. my. eardrums. Seriously.
And I realize that everyone is different. Maybe these songs give you some sort of urge to shake your booty...I've never been one to frequent the dance clubs so my booty pretty much doesn't get that urge...not in public anyway. The only urge they give me is the urge to change. the. station. Fast. And yell "lalalalalalalalalalalalalala" until they're gone.
I'm getting old aren't I? Next thing you know I'll be shouting things like "Turn down that racket!" and calling people whippersnappers. Lovely.
And while I'm at it, why does this song get so much damn airplay? I can plug my nose and sing "oh babah, babah" a few dozen times if that's all it takes to make a million! And that fake laughing part? Makes me want to take a pencil and poke. out. my. eardrums. Seriously.
And I realize that everyone is different. Maybe these songs give you some sort of urge to shake your booty...I've never been one to frequent the dance clubs so my booty pretty much doesn't get that urge...not in public anyway. The only urge they give me is the urge to change. the. station. Fast. And yell "lalalalalalalalalalalalalala" until they're gone.
I'm getting old aren't I? Next thing you know I'll be shouting things like "Turn down that racket!" and calling people whippersnappers. Lovely.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Beware...the fog!
If I've learned one thing through becoming a parent, it's that you should never expect things to go as planned. Ever. Everevereverever. If at some point you actually find yourself on schedule, it is at that very point that you should stop what you're doing and take a mental survey of the scene around you...because you know that at some point very soon...the shit is going to hit the fan. For example...say it's a regular Monday evening...a bath night. Your children are squealing with glee at the idea of said upcoming bath, and you actually find yourself with plenty of time to complete the pre-bedtime to-do list that you've mentally layed out for yourself. Too good to be true, right? Indeed. And so I discovered the other night...
Everything was going well...pretty much as described above. The girls were in the bath together...bath time rituals were well in progress...shampoo in Big's hair...rubrubrub...rinserinserinse...whinewhinewhine...a little soap in the eyes, and little water in the mouth, rinse and repeat. You know, the usual, and then it was Little's turn...and here's where my "on schedule" evening went incredibly astray.
I had no sooner dunked Little's wash cloth in the bath water and turned to grab her shampoo, when I turned back to see a strange fog of darkness, and field of buoyant debris suddenly surrounding her. "Oh, dear God" I thought, and I knew immediately what it was. It was that which I had been dreading since deciding that giving the girls baths together was a good idea. It was poo fog. Without thinking, I gathered as much breath in my lungs as I could muster and screamed "SHIIIIIIT!!! Hubbbbyyyyyyyy!" and then moved into action as fast as I could to try to minimize the collateral damage. I grabbed a stunned Big under the arms and tried to lift her out of the tub as fast as I could, before the fog made it's way over to her side of the bath water. Not yet sure what was going on, she initially resisted my efforts at being removed, and it was at that point that the emergency mode switch flipped inside my head and the urgency in my voice became apparent to her. She looked up at me questioningly and, without thinking, I looked straight into my 3 year-old's face and yelled "Get out! Get out! It's pooooooooooooooo!!" which got her moving just a little bit faster. Heh. (Desperate times, you know??) Hubby then came running into the room to see what was wrong (As I don't normally scream expletives in front of our children. Really.) and upon entering the room, stopped on a dime and joined me in my utter sense of horror as, for a moment, we paused and stood in solidarity at the edge of the tub...looking on in awe and disgust while our smallest family member smiled and cooed up at us from a bathtub full of dietary disaster. Disaster, indeed.
What happened next is sort of a blur. I know that I wrapped Little in a towel and handed her to Hubby to quarantine her while I searched my soul for a way to somehow, someway clean up the mess. Taking a deep breath, I reached my hand into the toilet, I mean bath, water and pulled the drain plug...watching as the frighteningly identifiable floaty pieces of filth made their way down the drain. Big wrapped herself in a towel and sat in a crumpled pile at my feet on the bathroom rug, repeatedly bringing various parts of her body to her nose and sniffing them, while begging me for reassurance. *sniffsniff* "Mama, do my feet smell like poo?" she said. *sniffsniff* "Mama, my legs smell like poo." *sniffsniff* "Mama do I have poo on my hands?" I held back my giggles as best as I could, while reassuring her that she, in fact, did not smell like poo and was going to get a shower really really soon..."Just as soon as I find a way to remove this bathtub, destroy it, and bring in a new, clean tub that has never been violated to the likes that I witnessed this evening" I thought. But in the end, that just wasn't practical...so I cleaned it up...which went something like this: rinserinserinse, bleachbleachbleach, gaggaggag, rinserinserinse, and repeat...and after about 10 minutes, we were back in business.
So back into the tub Big went for a shower, while Little (rather joyfully and obliviously) waited, covered in her own filth, for her turn to be de-germified. Big was a champ, Little would prove to be more difficult.
You'd think the story would end here, really, in that "isn't that bad enough??" kind of way...but such was not our luck. It seems that all that silly waiting around stuff had taken it's toll on our Littlest girl's mood, and by the time we were able to get her into her second round of bathwater, she had had it up to here *points to eyebrows* with this whole fiasco. As her bath chair had been violated minutes earlier in poo-gate 2009, it was no longer an option for me to use to keep her from having a tantrum and drowning herself, as she was threatening to do in her own "I can't talk yet, but you know exactly what I'm saying" baby way...so I called in the big guns. I asked Hubby to come in and help me. Sensing my desperation and Little's quickly deteriorating mood, Hubby cut to the chase and decided to forgo the whole trying to hold the slippery baby under the arms routine and instead rolled up the legs of his jeans and bravely climbed in to stand in the tub next to Little. His mission: to get a firm hold on Little while I suds'd her up and rinsed her off as fast as I could so we could get her crabby, tired little baby buns to bed. Easy enough, right? And then he saw it...
Hubby: What's that?
Me: (in a dismissive tone) What? *scrubscrubscrub*
Hubby: THAT! *points emphatically to a teeny tiny, but quite obviously present poo flake floating ever-closer to him as he stood, ankle deep, in the bathwater. Every move he made to thwart it, instead brought it that much closer.*
Me: *Trying not to lose my poker face* Uhh...that's poo residue! *shudder*
Hubby: (grimacing and visibly dying a little bit inside.) Oh, sonofabitch!!!
And it was at that point that I actually started to laugh. REALLY LAUGH. And Hubby did too, really! Because in a crappy (excuse the pun) situation like this...you have two choices...you can either get all crazy frustrated and cry about it, or you can find someway to laugh about it. We choose to laugh. Because really? The day we lose our sense of humor is that day you may as well call up the insane asylum and tell 'em to reserve a couple of beds and a game of checkers for Hubby and I. There's just no other way to survive this parenting gig in our household.
And by the end of the night everything had eventually worked itself out anyway...everyone was clean, the girls were in bed asleep (albeit an hour later than we had planned), toys and bath seat had been restored to pristine poo-free condition, and we found that we had a brilliant new song to sing to crack each other up...made up by my fabulous composer of a Hubby and sung to the tune of "Stuck on You" by Lionel Richie, it goes...
"I'm Stuck on You
I'm a little piece of doody that came out of your poo
Yeah I'm ooooooon your leg
It's been a nasty day."
Yep, still makes me laugh. Thank God.
Everything was going well...pretty much as described above. The girls were in the bath together...bath time rituals were well in progress...shampoo in Big's hair...rubrubrub...rinserinserinse...whinewhinewhine...a little soap in the eyes, and little water in the mouth, rinse and repeat. You know, the usual, and then it was Little's turn...and here's where my "on schedule" evening went incredibly astray.
I had no sooner dunked Little's wash cloth in the bath water and turned to grab her shampoo, when I turned back to see a strange fog of darkness, and field of buoyant debris suddenly surrounding her. "Oh, dear God" I thought, and I knew immediately what it was. It was that which I had been dreading since deciding that giving the girls baths together was a good idea. It was poo fog. Without thinking, I gathered as much breath in my lungs as I could muster and screamed "SHIIIIIIT!!! Hubbbbyyyyyyyy!" and then moved into action as fast as I could to try to minimize the collateral damage. I grabbed a stunned Big under the arms and tried to lift her out of the tub as fast as I could, before the fog made it's way over to her side of the bath water. Not yet sure what was going on, she initially resisted my efforts at being removed, and it was at that point that the emergency mode switch flipped inside my head and the urgency in my voice became apparent to her. She looked up at me questioningly and, without thinking, I looked straight into my 3 year-old's face and yelled "Get out! Get out! It's pooooooooooooooo!!" which got her moving just a little bit faster. Heh. (Desperate times, you know??) Hubby then came running into the room to see what was wrong (As I don't normally scream expletives in front of our children. Really.) and upon entering the room, stopped on a dime and joined me in my utter sense of horror as, for a moment, we paused and stood in solidarity at the edge of the tub...looking on in awe and disgust while our smallest family member smiled and cooed up at us from a bathtub full of dietary disaster. Disaster, indeed.
What happened next is sort of a blur. I know that I wrapped Little in a towel and handed her to Hubby to quarantine her while I searched my soul for a way to somehow, someway clean up the mess. Taking a deep breath, I reached my hand into the toilet, I mean bath, water and pulled the drain plug...watching as the frighteningly identifiable floaty pieces of filth made their way down the drain. Big wrapped herself in a towel and sat in a crumpled pile at my feet on the bathroom rug, repeatedly bringing various parts of her body to her nose and sniffing them, while begging me for reassurance. *sniffsniff* "Mama, do my feet smell like poo?" she said. *sniffsniff* "Mama, my legs smell like poo." *sniffsniff* "Mama do I have poo on my hands?" I held back my giggles as best as I could, while reassuring her that she, in fact, did not smell like poo and was going to get a shower really really soon..."Just as soon as I find a way to remove this bathtub, destroy it, and bring in a new, clean tub that has never been violated to the likes that I witnessed this evening" I thought. But in the end, that just wasn't practical...so I cleaned it up...which went something like this: rinserinserinse, bleachbleachbleach, gaggaggag, rinserinserinse, and repeat...and after about 10 minutes, we were back in business.
So back into the tub Big went for a shower, while Little (rather joyfully and obliviously) waited, covered in her own filth, for her turn to be de-germified. Big was a champ, Little would prove to be more difficult.
You'd think the story would end here, really, in that "isn't that bad enough??" kind of way...but such was not our luck. It seems that all that silly waiting around stuff had taken it's toll on our Littlest girl's mood, and by the time we were able to get her into her second round of bathwater, she had had it up to here *points to eyebrows* with this whole fiasco. As her bath chair had been violated minutes earlier in poo-gate 2009, it was no longer an option for me to use to keep her from having a tantrum and drowning herself, as she was threatening to do in her own "I can't talk yet, but you know exactly what I'm saying" baby way...so I called in the big guns. I asked Hubby to come in and help me. Sensing my desperation and Little's quickly deteriorating mood, Hubby cut to the chase and decided to forgo the whole trying to hold the slippery baby under the arms routine and instead rolled up the legs of his jeans and bravely climbed in to stand in the tub next to Little. His mission: to get a firm hold on Little while I suds'd her up and rinsed her off as fast as I could so we could get her crabby, tired little baby buns to bed. Easy enough, right? And then he saw it...
Hubby: What's that?
Me: (in a dismissive tone) What? *scrubscrubscrub*
Hubby: THAT! *points emphatically to a teeny tiny, but quite obviously present poo flake floating ever-closer to him as he stood, ankle deep, in the bathwater. Every move he made to thwart it, instead brought it that much closer.*
Me: *Trying not to lose my poker face* Uhh...that's poo residue! *shudder*
Hubby: (grimacing and visibly dying a little bit inside.) Oh, sonofabitch!!!
And it was at that point that I actually started to laugh. REALLY LAUGH. And Hubby did too, really! Because in a crappy (excuse the pun) situation like this...you have two choices...you can either get all crazy frustrated and cry about it, or you can find someway to laugh about it. We choose to laugh. Because really? The day we lose our sense of humor is that day you may as well call up the insane asylum and tell 'em to reserve a couple of beds and a game of checkers for Hubby and I. There's just no other way to survive this parenting gig in our household.
And by the end of the night everything had eventually worked itself out anyway...everyone was clean, the girls were in bed asleep (albeit an hour later than we had planned), toys and bath seat had been restored to pristine poo-free condition, and we found that we had a brilliant new song to sing to crack each other up...made up by my fabulous composer of a Hubby and sung to the tune of "Stuck on You" by Lionel Richie, it goes...
"I'm Stuck on You
I'm a little piece of doody that came out of your poo
Yeah I'm ooooooon your leg
It's been a nasty day."
Yep, still makes me laugh. Thank God.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Sister Love
My girls really love each other. Sure, they're 2 years apart, at a time in their lives when 2 years makes a world of difference...but they really do love each other. How do I know? It's the little things that make it obvious to me...like the way Big does everything she possibly can to make passive aggressive quiet/loud noises in our bedroom during morning snuggle time (AKA, Big is a super early riser and neither Hubby nor I have the energy to peel ourselves out of bed at that ungodly hour, so she climbs in with us until we're alive) to wake Little up...quiet enough to not get in trouble for making noise but loud enough to maybe, possibly wake Little...or the way she sits straight up in our bed each and every time Little breathes loudly or makes little body noises as she's turning over...hoping upon hope that it's a sign of her wakefulness. That's love. There's also the way Little cries big, salty, pitiful tears every. single. time. Big walks out the door into the vast outdoors and leaves her for any reason and any period of time, regardless...and then the smile that tears across her face as she endlessly bounces and squeals with glee upon Big's return. That's love. Or the way Big asks to have Little ride in the same car as her in the rare instance that Hubby and I need to take 2 separate cars somewhere...and then tries to hold Little's hand in the backseat when we're on our way to said destination. Love. But the most recent evidence I have of this, obvious, all consuming, makes a Mommy thankful to be alive sisterly love, is the way that Big leaned over to Little this morning in the living room, and planted a big red lipstick-y kiss smack dab on Little's rosy cheek...leaving the evidence of her love right there, in the open, where Hubby and I could both admire it. Now that's love. How on Earth did we get so lucky?
Friday, April 24, 2009
Spring Cleaning?
What is this urge to "spring clean" that everyone is talking about? I don't recall ever getting one...ever. No, really...E.V.E.R. I get the urge to spring shop for new clothes and fun flippity floppity sandals. I get the urge to spring play outside with the girls. I get the urge to spring start projects around the house that I'll get halfway through and then curse myself for starting them. And I totally get the urge to spring drive with my windows down and sing at the top of my lungs. Lots of other spring urges going on here...just no urge to clean. I guess I just didn't get that gene. I feel slighted...so does my house...and most of all, so does my husband. Damn you Mother Nature!!
Thursday, April 23, 2009
The hiatus
I know...it's been a while. OK, more like forever in bloggy years, where you're supposed to update your blog everyday in order to keep an audience, or whatever the standard is that's been set by the serious blogger people who, like, do it for a living. But you know what? That's just too much work for me...and pressure. And really? That sucks. So as I came to this realization a few months ago, I kind of did a symbolic kick to the curb motion and abandoned my blog in a sort of figurative "eff that!" kind of thing. *ahem* (sorry blog) But during my latest blog hiatus I've come to the realization that I was maybe a bit too harsh with my decision making, and I'm just coming back to say that I've reconsidered my tone, and I'd like to resume my previous position of editor and author of this blog...if the internet will have me. **bats eyelashes** I mean, really...in the vastness that is the internet, what is this one blog? Nothing. Probably just one of a million mommy blogs, nothing that's going to impact the way the world turns...but whatever. It's my teeny tiny, insignificant blog opportunity. And I'm taking it. So I'm back...love me, hate me...resent me for taking a hiatus (but please don't)...I'm back.
XOXO,
Jenny
XOXO,
Jenny
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