all images © Meghan Boyer Photography

Friday, August 23, 2013

Under Where? Under There. Do You Wear Underwear?

I got the shout out from Lil tonight.  From my bedroom.  That the movie was over.  I went up to tuck her and Grady into bed.  Grady was already asleep.  On his back.  Arms above his head, legs spread out in a V.  With a pillow covering his entire body.  I whip the pillow off.  Only to discover he's completely naked.  Not what I was expecting.  But really, I should have expected it.  I think I saw him smirk in his sleep.  Because this is Grady's idea of a 'weally' funny prank.

I did find this weally funny.  And it weally was a welcome change.  From the other side.  The cracked side.

Because you see...I am cracked out.  On butt cracks. 

Grady and Lillian do not wear underwear.  And at an official 32.8 and 42.9 pounds, respectively (their official weight with clothes, not to include underwear) they do not have much junk in their respective trunks.  I blame this on their father.   Because I, however, do have much junk in my trunk.  And I wear underwear.  In case you were wondering.  Their lack of junk has lead to what I will refer to as 'butt crack syndrome'.  Their bottoms fall down and their butt cracks creep out.

When Grady had his 4 year old check up this week, the nurse asked him to remove his shirt and shorts as she was leaving the exam room.  In preparation for the doctor's arrival.  I casually mentioned that he doesn't wear underwear.  She suggested that I ignore her previous suggestion.  I quickly told her that I do wear underwear.  I had to.  To cover my own ass of course.

We spent last week at a lake house in the Adirondacks.  Each morning, a duck family swam up to our dock.  One duck in particular got quite lucky.  The kids liked him.  They fed him the cereal part of their Lucky Charms.  After they ate all of the marshmallows out of it.  They liked him so much, they lovingly named him 'Butt Crack".  Because that's how they roll.  Grandma encouraged them to call him 'Butt Quack'.  They tossed that name aside like a brand new pair of underwear.

When Sean's mother and grandmother came to visit a couple of weeks ago, we got slightly distracted one evening while preparing dinner.  The boys were missing.  Sean found Grady biking his way up the street.  In his underwear. And nothing else. With Dempsey in pursuit.  Perhaps trying to catch him.  To remind him that he was wearing underwear.  And should definitely remove it before biking.  Because what else are brother's for?

Now Grady can be a bit temperamental when it comes to other people not wearing their underwear.

The last time he saw me naked he told me that he still liked me.  Even when I'm naked.  And promised that he wouldn't even laugh.  He would only laugh if I told him something funny.  While I was naked. 

Now Nanny on the other hand.  Well she received a much colder reception when she chose to go commando under her bed time clothes.  When Nanny invited Grady to sit next to her in bed to watch a movie, he told her I don't want to sit next to you because you're not wearin' underwear and I don't want to see your penis. See.  He's a bit confused.  About everything.

Here's what you can take away from all of this.  If it looks like a duck.  And quacks like a duck.  It might just be Butt Crack.

Butt Crack the Duck declined to be photographed for this story.

I will never show my face again.  Only my butt crack.

Uncle Conor and Grady.  All cracked out.

Lil, Uncle Conor, and Grady.  The clothed cracks.

Aw man.  Why are you talkin' about my butt crack again mom?

She refused to give a statement regarding her excessive exposure of butt crack.


Saturday, July 27, 2013

The Marathon.

So here's my deal.  I'm running a marathon.  This fall.  My first time back.  Since having children.

I was too scared to run while pregnant with Lillian and Grady.  I ran throughout my pregnancy with Dempsey.  Never those long runs though.  The ones that I adore.  The kind where you have no idea how far you've run or how far you have left to go.  You're just running.  Away from something?  To something?  I never know.  I just keep running. 

Then breastfeeding got in the way. I've heard stories of women pumping mid-run.  But  I was afraid I might scare someone with my floral hooter hider.  On the side of the road.  With my double negative A's.

I'm really excited.  I've always liked to run.  But it means so much more to me now.  It's just for me.   It's a break for my brain.  Hours at a time, spent on a trail.  Alone.  Running. Thinking.  I rarely hear my own voice.  Or anyone else's.

In my childhood days, running meant playing tag or sports.  In college, it was running for the keg.  But I still ran to it. Really fast.

Now running is just a part of me.  A part that I keep for myself. 

I'm stronger this time around.  I've spent six years pushing a jogging stroller.  And I still do.  Sometimes.  But not on Saturdays.  My day.  The day I do my longest run.

Pushing a stroller has made me stronger.  So has having children.  And being married for eleven years.  Being part of a family for thirty five years.  And a friend for almost as many.  I've beaten things I never thought I'd have to confront.  I've lost at times too.  But I've always had me.  And a body that could run.  I am blessed.

I've committed myself to my kids.  And my husband.  And my family.  And my friends.  I am blessed.  To have those people in my life.

But I'm stealing my blessed self away for a little bit now. And giving myself up to my running addiction.  I'm going to immerse myself in me. 

So I may not be posting as much this summer.  And early fall.  But it's only because I am running. 

For me. 

Friday, July 12, 2013

My Chemical Addiction. To Windex. You Temptress You.

So I thought I had kicked the habit.  I was a believer.  I made the change.  It saved me money and rescued my children from unscrupulous fumes.  I was a new woman for years.  I avoided it.  I invented my own concoctions, patted myself on the back, and went to work.  Cleaning.  With vinegar, water, and a dash of dish detergent.  Until that frightful day.  When she went on sale.

Oh, Windex, how I love you!  I've missed your spellbinding scent.  Your guaranteed, streak free shine.   You are delicious.  At least I would imagine that you would be, if I tasted you.  Not that I have, of course.

I know, I know.  Chemicals are bad, bad, bad.  If only they weren't so, well, intoxicating.  Maybe this relationship wouldn't be so hard to end.

But here I am.  Spraying Windex.  On everything.  She does more than just clean windows.  In case you were wondering.

It started with the first bottle.  On sale.  I used the whole damn thing the first day.  I sprayed everything.  I was skipping from room to room.  Using excessive amounts of paper towels and spraying until my trigger finger screamed for a beer and a bottle opener.  So my thumb could have its exhausting turn.

That fateful day.   When I turned on my computer and logged onto Safeway just for U.  I had no intention of undoing all my hard work.  I clicked on coupons for bananas, and turkey, and green beans.  But then, there she was.  She called my name.  My old friend Windex.  In all her glory.  For nearly half her going rate.  Where have you been?  She quietly asked.  Where did I go wrong?  What did I ever do to you?  You left me.  Just like you left that old, too small, three bedroom home!  You bitch!  She raged.  And rightfully so.  I had left her.  High and wet.

It only got worse.  She got nasty.  I didn't know what to say.  So I invited her back.  Into our new, larger home.  Then things really went awry .  I invited my children to participate.

He had to close his eyes.  She was that good.
I admit, I asked Dempsey to hold the bottle.  He'd never met her before.  Never gazed upon her clear blue liquid.  Or snorted her vapors as they fell to the floor.  I just had to see them together.  Just once.  He couldn't resist her tempestuous ways.  He sprayed me.  And I discovered one more use for her.  She melts away mascara.  Like the goddess that she is.

But alas, that time of night has come.  I must relent and return her to her sleeping spot.  Under my pillow.  I'm off to give the children their Clorox Wipe sponge bath.  And I'll be sure not to forget the nightcap.  Bedtime milk with a shot of Red 40. 

Do not allow your ordinary children to spray Windex in your face with the hope of removing residual eye makeup.  We are professionals.  And my children are very advanced.  I also have a rediscovered love affair with Windex.  She would never blind me.  As long as I purchase her for full price from now on.  Of course.   I suspect she has something going on with Safeway on the side.  Just sayin'.


Sunday, June 23, 2013

The Big Red Flags.

We arrive at the beach.  Sean pushes our double BOB stroller, full of beach gear, while the Triple Threat and I amble behind.  A trail of stares follows us.  We set up two blankets and five towels.  Each child promptly runs to the ocean.  They get their feet wet, run back through the sand and tromp all over the two blankets and five towels.   Then Dempsey takes off.  Down the beach.  And jumps into the water right in between the two gigantic read flags that each picture a swimmer with a big X through it.  I get it that the kid can't read, but come on Demps.  Duh. There are no words.  It's just like a picture book.  Figure it out.  See?  Swimmer.  Big X.  Red flag.  And all this time I thought you were advanced.  Now I see that your sister and brother are way smarter.  You slacker.

Sean was scheduled to fly on a trip last week.  It was an early morning alert so he had to report to the air force base hotel the night before.  We decided to take the kids to a nearby beach that day and spend the night in the hotel with him. 

We've been at the beach for three minutes. 

I have to pee.  The water is very cold.  I carry Dempsey into the ocean with me.  He's my distraction.  I pee in knee deep water.  Hoping no one sees the stream.  It's a very strange feeling.  Being in frigid water with hot pee running down your leg.  I must admit it's quite liberating.  I wish I could do this everywhere. 

The children demand that I find them sand crabs.  I get on my hands and knees and dig furiously every time a wave retreats and air bubbles appear in the sand.

Now Sean is also in the water, with Dempsey, in between the big red flags.  The flags with the swimmer.  The mock swimmer who happens to have an X through him.

Grady throws Lillian's bucket of sand crabs into the ocean.  The crabs wail.  Lillian wails.  She grabs Grady's bucket.  Grady wails. 

Sean and Dempsey wade, illegally, pretending that they don't know us. 

It's now seven minutes after our initial arrival at the beach.

Sean and Dempsey return.  Grady collects shells.  He get knocked over multiple times by waves full of  my pee.  He laughs with his mouth wide open.  Swallowing gallons of  my pee.  Pay backs.

Two minutes later we decide it's time for ice cream on the boardwalk.  The boardwalk.  Where the children excitedly play in the showers used to rinse off the sand.  Because really, why would you want to get wet in the ocean when there's a shower right here? 

After some shower swimming,  Dempsey squeezes through a one inch fence opening and gallops onto the dunes.  Then ones that have signs posted on them.  Reminding people that if you do manage to squeeze your fat ass through the miniscule opening, it only means that you have a squishy butt.  Not that you're actually supposed to be tramping all over the nature preserve.  But eh, Dempsey can't read.  Words or pictures.  We've covered that part already.  Right?  Sean is mortified.  He calls Dempsey back.  But not only does Dempsey not read words or pictures, he doesn't listen either.  Okay, so never mind.  I have no idea why on earth I ever thought he was advanced.  He can, however, karate chop and sword fight.

I'm laughing so hard I have to pee again.  I'm tempted to let that hot stream run down my leg again. Perhaps while I'm standing under the cold squirts of water coming from that super fun shower.  But alas, my earlier distraction is now distracted, running amuck on the dunes.  Lil and Grady are now chasing after him and I can only assume that Sean would be mortified if I held him while I peed on the boardwalk.  

Upon our return to our spot on the beach, we discover that at least only one of our blankets has been swallowed up by the high tide.

The family sitting behind us asks if the kids are all ours and if the boys are twins.   How far apart are they?  How did you do that?  The woman inquires.  Well, I could tell you.  But then I'd have to kill you.  Instead, I'll just have one of them kick some sand on your blanket for not pulling ours up a couple of inches when the tide came in.

We leave.  A trail of stares following us.

We drive to the base.  Sean checks into the hotel.  We take the kids to the pool, to pick up a pizza, and to the playground.  We buy beer.

We return to the hotel.  With the children.  We take two trips up to the third floor.  Both times on the elevator.  The children are loud.  And so is the sound of the alarm button that Dempsey punches each time. 

It is bed time.  They have got to be tired right?   They are not.  There is chaos.  In one room.  In a hotel.  I can't jump out the window.  They don't open.  Damn these hotel windows.

Everyone sleeps.  Eventually.  Four in one bed.  One in a pack and play.  Sean gets alerted very early in the morning.  The children sleep late.  They are tired.  Of course they are.

When it's time to leave, I make three trips down three floors.  With three children.  And three loads of their stuff.  Three elevator excursions.  Three quick hits of the emergency button.  So people know we're coming. 

On the second trip down, Dempsey takes off running down the hallway.  Chucking his pizza crust, from the morning's breakfast, onto the floor.  My hands are full.  Of coolers, a pack and play, and the hair I've pulled out of my head.  A nice man that works for the hotel kindly says he will take care of it.

On the third and final trip, we go to the front desk to check out.

The woman behind the counter looks at me.  Then looks at the Triple Threat.  Her gaze turns back to me.  Did all of those children sleep in the room with you?  Um.  Is this a trick question?  I have only seconds to come up with a response.  I'm speechless.  I quickly think that maybe there's a cut off.  Like you're only allowed to bring two children.  Because if you have more,  you're considered crazy.  And they don't allow crazy people into the hotel.  I tell her the truth.

Children are not allowed in this building.  She finishes.

As we are vacating the child free building, Dempsey dashes back, hurtling himself into the elevator.  He holds the emergency button down for three full seconds. 

You should have put up a sign lady. One on a big red flag.  With my kids' picture on it.  And a big X through their faces.

But eh, we can't read pictures.  And even if we could.  They kids would have stayed anyway.  They're kind of like that.

Lil's attempt to pose her brothers for a picture. 

Huh?  Sign?  What sign?

Lillian, the rule follower, convincing Dempsey to come off the dunes.

Friday, June 14, 2013

Who's Your Daddy?

So Lillian is officially a first grader.  She can read.  She can write.  She knows what lockers are.  When Grady was at school recently, he thought the lockers were cages.  He told me he really liked the cages.   I like cages too Grady.  You wanna get in?

Now Lil will be home every day.  Home for the entire day.  Every day.  Home for approximately seventy, entire days.  Not that I'm counting.  I will have four children at home.  Monday through Friday.  And I'm not counting Sean.  I recently swiped someone else's kid.  His name is Gavin.  He is three.  I'm trying to convince him that he likes cages lockers too.  Gavin is the son of a friend of mine.  She trusts me not to put him in cages. 

Recently, I took Grady, Gavin and Dempsey to Home Depot.  On a Monday morning at 8:30am.  If you are ever in need of a baby daddy, this is the time and place to go.  There are hoards of men.  Everywhere.  However, I have all the baby daddy that I need.  I was on the hunt for Rust-Oleum.  So I could spray paint the kids some random color for whatever holiday is coming up next. 

The St. Patrick's Day painting event.

Dempsey thinks he is hilarious.  He innocently looks at each man he sees at Home Depot and asks, "Daddy?"  Or more definitively roars, "Hi Daddy!".  

Gavin and Grady, who also find themselves to be quite funny, follow Dempsey's lead.  So now I have a cart full of two and three year olds shouting out "DADDY" at random men.  At Home Depot.  At 8:30am.  On a Monday morning.  I could have said, Yes, you are right, you little smart asses  boys,  they all do look like your daddies. Since in fact, the trio did have multiple daddies...but that didn't sound quite right either.

Where the hell are the cages?  Or the duct tape?  Damn you Home Depot.  Or should I now refer to you as Daddy Depot?  You should have duct tape in every aisle. 

I didn't find a new baby daddy at Home Depot.  But I did find other things this week. 

I found Dempsey picking up a piece of poop from the bathroom floor at the pool. 

The day after that, I unearthed a rock from the bottom of the washing machine.  Only to discern that this particular rock was made of poop.  Why of course it was!

Last night, Sean and I fell upon a bigfoot booby trap right in our very own bedroom.

And then of course, after the booby trap was set, my beloveds had to prepare a home for bigfoot.  And his family.  So they could crash at our place.  Maybe bigfoot is a woman after all.  And they are also searching for their baby daddy.

I could barely find my baby daddy in all this mess.  But eventually, I did.  And spared myself another trip to Home Depot.

Happy Father's Day... to my one and only... baby daddy.

Thursday, May 30, 2013

No Underwear

So it wouldn't be right if we didn't at least pop in to say hello to an ER doc over our Memorial Day weekend camping adventure.  We had almost made it to one year after all.  One year.  Without a visit.  To an emergency room.  Or a ride in an ambulance.  Almost.  But not quite.  Sigh Giggle.   We'll try again next year.  Try.  And try again.  Fail more times than we try.  Laugh a lot.  Smack myself in the head often.  Then think about trying again.  I like to think about trying tomorrow.  Just call me Scarlett.

We thought Grady broke his foot.  Again.  Never mind the communicable looking disease that was making it's way up his arm.  When the triage nurse asked why we were there, we pointed to his foot.  Then mentioned his arm.  So which are you here for?  She wanted to know.  Well, the foot.  And while we're here...could you check out the arm?   We were those people.  As always. 

The kid hadn't bathed in nearly four days.  Unless you count creek water.  Which I do.  His diet had consisted of Airheads, Sour Patch Kids, a case of soda, and some orange juice out of a wine glass. 

Grady had to remove his pants for the x-ray.  I cringed.  I knew what was coming.  Surprise!  For them.  Not for me.  No underwear.  Because not one kid in our family wears underwear.  Not one.  Ever.  I made a rule that everyone wears underwear to school.  But I forgot the rule a couple of days after I made it.  Who can remember all these rules anyway.  And alas, it wouldn't have helped.  Preschool graduation was last week.

The foot wasn't broken.  No one knew what the hell the rash was.  Poisoning by sugar is my diagnosis.  But no one ever listens to me.  Because I wear underwear.

The weekend ended with me falling into the lake.  With my camera.  The camera was fine.  Saved by the case.  Which was soaked.  Then I put the camera back into the wet case.  Because I wear underwear.  And suffer from a communicable disease.  Called Dumbassness.   I won't tell you who I caught it from.

Grady did eventually walk on his foot again.  After being carried around for the day by his twelve year old camp girlfriend.  That kid's got game.  And communicable diseases.  But no underwear.  He'll be just fine. 

Origin of the communicable disease.

Saturday, May 18, 2013

My Kids' Favorite Four Letter Word

I've come to the realization that my kids don't know their heads from their asses. 

Dempsey farts and says he burped.  I correct him.  "Oh.  I want to do it again!"

I tell Grady to sit down.  He stands on his head.  And says, "Sit down is my middle name mom."  

Ha.  No one sits in this family.  It's a dirty word around here.  A four letter word.  Ohhhh, he sits.

People sometimes ask me how I do it?   Manage the triple threat. Our neighbor asked me, just this week.  He said he thinks we'd have to be drunk all the time.  I think he sits at his front window.  Analyzing our recycling bin.

Then there's the ice cream truck.   Always in our neighborhood.  It sits.  And waits.  For us to be begged to death and poked at with wooden swords.   Having our money stolen from us by thirty pound members of the official Triple Threat Gang.  

Except for the day when I desperately want it to sit in front of our house.  The day the Triple Threat Gang starts asking at 6am when the truck of frozen treats will be arriving.   

It doesn't show up that day.  Mostly likely it sits.  In another neighborhood.  Avoiding our children.  Because it knows.

Instead, the Edible Arrangements truck arrives.  With flashy pictures plastered on its' side.  To deliver a gift to the neighbors.  For putting up with us.  The picture looks like huge bouquets of ice pops.  And while the truck clearly reads Edible Arrangements, to my illiterate children it clearly states, kill me for ice cream.  Lillian shrieks violently while Dempsey runs directly into the path of the still moving vehicle, screaming "ice cream! ice cream!"  Dempsey is what we refer to as super illiterate.  Kill you...Kill me...same difference.   Grady, armed with a green plastic knife, bikes furiously over to the truck.  "I'm going to kill you!"  He shouts.  And all this time I'm simply trying to have a normal conversation on the phone with my mother-in-law.  She hangs up when she hears, "kill you!"  and "Grady, drop the knife!"  But don't worry, she always calls back.

Okay.  So I know this sounds terribly awesome awful.  A two year old.  Committing ice creamicide.  A homicidal three year old.  With a knife.  Going after some poor guy who's just trying to deliver some fruit on a stick.  To the unfortunate neighbors who have to tolerate these pint sized beasts everyday.  But really, who hasn't had a moment when they would kill for some ice cream?  We've all been there right?

So then there's me.  Holding the green plastic knife.  As the bearer of fruit bouquets scrambles back to safety.

I scream, you scream, who kills sits for ice cream? 

A day in the life.  Of us.  Where no one sits.  Not even for ice cream.

And that is how we offed the Edible Arrangements guy.

Sunday, May 12, 2013

Crabs for Mother's Day

Her first radiation treatment was May 17th, 2012.  Her last wish, before the treatments began, was to eat steamed crabs for Mother's Day.  She ate them.  And so did I.  They were fabulous.  And so was she.  My mom.

She had a sore spot on her throat.  It only bothered her when she ate tomatoes.  Or drank Coors Lite.  She thought it was just an annoyance.  A boo boo that would go away.  It didn't.

It was cancer.  Then came the surgeries.  And the claustrophobic mask fittings.  To ensure the rest of her face wasn't subjected to the harsh rays.  She endured radiation. Hospitalizations.  And months on a feeding tube.  Endless doctor's appointments.   Exhaustion.  The inability to talk on the phone.  A near daily occurrence for us.  Before.

She was unable to work.  Or keep her beloved grandchildren for sleepovers.   It was hard for her to swallow.  Anything.  Even water.  Her mouth was burned.  Her throat was burned.  But she didn't give up. 

Today,  Mother's Day 2013, she ate steamed crabs.  And so did I.  They were fabulous.  And so was she.  My mom.

To my mother on Mother's Day,

I didn't ask to be born.  But boy am I glad I was.  Thank you for creating me.  Thank you for carrying me.  Thank you for giving birth to me.

Thank you for hugging me.  And kissing me.  Thank you for showing me right from wrong.  And to always say 'please' and 'thank you'.  You led by example.

Thank you for teaching me.  Lots of things.  Like the importance of a hand written thank you note.  And how to smile.  At everyone.  Even when you may want to punch a couple of them in the face.

Thank you for always believing that the glass is half full.  I can't imagine life any other way.  But full.  I know that mine is.  Because of you.

Thank you for cursing me.  With multiple children that act exactly like me.  I couldn't live without them.  For they have made me a mother. 

Thank you for telling me to never doubt myself or my beliefs.  That is why I never doubted you.

Thank you for setting rules and curfews.  Making me roll my eyes.  And let's be honest, driving me absolutely crazy.  I guess I can't blame it on the children after all.

Thank you for all of the unsolicited advice.  I didn't want it.  But now I realize, I desperately needed it.  Now I'm glad I held onto it.  In my heart.  Most of it anyway.  I wish I would have written the rest of it down.

Thank you for making me feel okay about driving my own children crazy.  I know they will thank me one day.  Just like I am thanking you.

Thank you mom.  For eating steamed crabs today.  Happy Mother's Day.


Love You More Than All The Tea In China


Friday, May 3, 2013

I'm Old. Blah.

I am old.  I turned 35 exactly 11 days ago.  Not that I'm counting.  The first time that 35 smacked me in the face was at my semi annual dental check up.  I was 35 and 3 days old.  The hygienist hit me up with a periodontal exam. At first I giggled.  "I've never had this test before.  This must be because I'm old right?"  She giggled.  Bitch.

When I was 35 and 8 days old, I discovered a bunion on my foot.  Yes, a bunion.  The world's most disgusting.word.ever.  I can't believe I'm even admitting to it.  I convinced myself that my feet were just getting skinnier.  And the bones were protruding.  When I was 35 and 9 days old, I glared at it.  I did this instead of reading books to the children.  I didn't even feed them.   Eh.  Who can eat when your mom has a bunion anyway?  At the end of 35 and 10 days old, I realized that I will be asking Lillian to rub my bunion.  For a quarter.  A whole quarter!   I'll just call her Rusty.  For this story's sake.  And I'll give Audrey Grady a quarter too.  See, I knew I wasn't wasting my time watching National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation over. and over. and over again.  I can finally put that knowledge to good use.  Now that I'm 35.  And 11 days old.  And know that it's acceptable to ask someone to rub your bunion for a quarter.  Because they do it in the movies.

My children have sucked the life out of my boobs.  And pooped it right out.  My boobs have gone right into the Diaper Genie II.  That bitch.  Some genie you are.

There are spider veins on my thighs.  My thighs and I?  We were just starting to get along.  And spiders?  We've always gotten along!  What have I ever done to you?  But let you live in my home.  And eat my pests.  Children included.  Now?  You suck.  I'm stamping out every single one of you.  From this day forward.  You can mark it in your calendar, 35 years and 11 days old.  Bitches.  I'd be happy to have a mosquito bite me in the boob right about now.  Who needs you Mrs. Spider!

My gray hair is multiplying like our children.  I used to blame it on Sean.  He rubs his head against mine while I'm sleeping at night.  I swear that he does.  Now I blame it on the children.  And my boobs.  And the spiders.  And the fact that I'm 35 and 11 days old.

So what do I love about 35?  I love that I don't care so much about what other people think of me.  I love my family.  I love my kids.  I love my husband.  I love my job.  Even if my bosses are constantly full of shit.  Whose aren't?  I love my home.  I love my life.  And...I love my butt.  Especially since I make an ass out of myself.  But who cares?  I'm 35.  And 11 days old.

Take that 35.

And the butt that I love so much.  Okay, so maybe it's not really mine.  But it's totally awesome right?

Friday, April 26, 2013

One Hundred Boys

Lillian   Mom.  If you had a hundred boys, would you freak out?

Grady   When I'm a grown up and  have one hundred boys, I'll freak out. 

Grady    And if I have one thousand?  My house will pop out!
Yes, boys do make me freak out.  But then, so does a girl. 

Thursday was a rough day for the girl...and the boys. 

Lillian refused to get out of the van.  Again.  When I dropped her off at school.

Grady got sent to the office.  For repeatedly discussing Mr. Potato Head's butt.

And Dempsey got written up for taking flying leaps from the top of the sliding board.

We rolled up to the 'kiss and go' line of Lil's school.  She 'kissed' me.  But didn't 'go'.  Again.  The assistant principal and guidance counselor were called in for back up.  They glanced at the lump of a kindergartner balled up on my minivan floor as my two, make me want to freak out, boys sat clueless.  Possibly discussing Mr. Potato Head's butt. And plots of leaping off of the sliding board at their shared school.  Then they probably moved onto writing their book, The Dummies Guide to Freaking Out Your Mother.

Lillian relented with the carrot of being featured on the video morning announcements. 

Turns out she missed her chance.  The announcements were over by the time she made it inside.  Because she kissed but didn't go.

She was promised the opportunity for the next morning.  Today.  This morning.  Which also happened to be 'Dress for Success Day'.  She was to be the 'Dress for Success' model.

Everyday in our house is 'Dress for Success Day'.  If you're dressed, it's a success.  But Lil's school had something else in mind.   They were supposed to dress as if they were showing up for a job interview.  Lil wanted to wear 'nice jeans'.   I told her it had to be a dress or a skirt.  She compromised.  How about a dress over 'nice jeans'?   That makes mommy want to do a keg stand.  Moving on.

We discuss reasons why she doesn't want to go to school.   She tells us about a mean kid.  For anonymity purposes, I'll refer to him as Ihopehepeeshisbedtonight.  Lil tells us that Ihopehepeeshisbedtonight called her friend 'stupid'.  We tell her to stick up for her friends.  "That's why we chase Ihopehepeeshisbedtonight on the playground mom."  She rocks.  I want to be her friend.

We talk about treating others how you would like to be treated.  Sean points out that mommy and daddy follow this rule and we have many friends.  "You don't have any friends daddy.  Uncle Ryan is your only friend."  Lil retorted.  Okay, so maybe daddy is a bad example.  But mommy has lots of friends!  Think about all those people she talks to everyday!  There's that Fed Ex guy.  Her friend that delivers the mail.  And that person who comes to check the meter!  And don't forget about mommy's special friend, Mr. Beer!  Never mind.  Mommy sucks too.

In the end, Lillian wore a dress to school.  Without the jeans.  Grady kissed Mr. Potato Head's butt and they made up.  And Dempsey promised to never, ever, go to school again.  Mommy and daddy still have no friends.  But there's always beer.

Now that's a butt I'd want to kiss.

Saturday, April 20, 2013

The Things My Kids Bring Home From School

So I'm all about sending our kids to Catholic preschool.  They learn to pray, hang out with Father Jeff, meet a couple of nuns, and get free rosaries.  Grady really loves the free rosaries.  He also loves to pick up random things that don't belong to him.  Like sharp objects, car keys, mail from the neighbors' mailboxes, used chewing gum, and um, this...

This is what I found in Grady's school folder last week.  I slammed that sucker shut so fast the wind of it nearly forced that brochure to flutter to the ground.  In front of all the other mothers.  The one's whose children do not have pornography literature in their backpacks.  I snuck another peek.  Yup.  That's what I thought it said.  I checked again.  Yup.  Still says it.   I'm pretty sure Grady pilfered it from the church's book rack during his class's Mass day.  And stashed it in his backpack.   I think he was pissed that Father Jeff told the kids to stop plucking flowers from the plants that decorate the church.  So instead of plucking flowers, he plucked a pornography brochure.  Take that Father Jeff. 

So all this pornography stuff got me thinking about worms.  It's worm season again.

They're breaking into our home.  All shriveled up.  Dempsey carries them around the house and then tosses them into puddles in the backyard.  To freshen them up a bit.  Then he preserves them in plastic baggies.  Lillian and Grady hook them onto their fishing rod.  And go fishing.  In the beer cooler.

All this time I spend thinking about pornography and worms, got me thinking about erectile dysfunction.  Or maybe it was just that damn commercial that constantly replays on my favorite Sirius radio channel.   The one I listen to repeatedly.  In the van.  With the kids.  Not even noticing that our entertainment is a commentary on dysfunctional penises.  Because I'm too busy daydreaming about worms and pornography.  Until one day Lillian asks, "Mom, what is ED?"  Well sweetie.  It's a story about worms.   And how they Eat Dirt.  Grady will show you the brochure.


Friday, April 5, 2013

A Dose of Reality

If I get called a 'babypoopyhead' one more a baby, poopy head... someone is going down.  And it won't be this 'babypoopyhead'.  I'm sure I've been called worse in the past.  And I'm sure I will be called worse in the future.  But this 'babypoopyhead' thing?  It's driving me to poop.   On my head.  And think it's okay.  Since I am a baby after all.  And because really, most days, what is the difference between my head and a toilet?   Not much.  Both are full of crap.  And scream to be cleaned. 

Boys have super human strengths.  They can snap the blade right off of a ceiling fan. 

And where was I, you might ask?  Pooping. 

They blamed it on this guy.

But I'm pretty sure it was this one.

Or quite possibly this one.

They also have a way with words.  No, you may not go into a public bathroom by yourself.  You are a pain in the butt mom.

And so are you.  We'll call it even.

They can apologize.  Sorry mom, I might have wiped some snot on you when you buckled me in.

They boast about you to their friends.  My mom drives really fast.

They know how to entertain a friend.  When we get home, we can throw my sister's clothes all over the house and then we can pee on the floor!

They are always trying to help out.  I don't help anyone on Sundays.  It's not Sunday.  What?  What day is it?  It's Monday.  I don't help anyone on Mondays

Yeah, me neither.  Let's go throw your sister's clothes all over the house and pee on the floor.

I have visions. Visions of the future.  When they're all grown up.  Married.  And tortured by children of their own.  Then I have Lillian to bring me back to reality.

Mom, can you imagine Dempsey when he's all grown up?  He'll be runnin' all over the place.  No one will want to marry him  Thanks Lillian.   Because what are girls for?  A dose of reality.  And boys?  The reality that you need a lot of doses. 

She can't blame it all on the boys.

Because they learned it from watching her.

Her prodigies.

Friday, March 22, 2013

Camp Twistypants

That first wiggly tooth.  I couldn't help but check.  Before a single tooth was even wiggly.  But then one wiggled.  Finally.  And I got all wiggly inside.

Lil was going to lose her first tooth.  Three weeks after it first wiggled.

Lillian began teething at three months old.  At Camp Twistypants.  An annual camping tradition, with many beloved friends, on Labor Day weekend.  I can't tell you why it's call Camp Twistypants.  I'd have to kill you.  But I can tell you, pants get twisted.  And pants come off.   Lillian was conceived there.  So it was only fitting that her first tooth would erupt in that exact same spot.  On a 370 acre Christmas tree farm.  In a tent.

The night before her tooth fell out, I tried to pull it out.  I was that excited.  And so was she.

She climbed up into the bathroom sink.  "I'll be in charge of pulling out the tooth."  Grady told us.  I put him in charge of the camera instead.  This is what we got...

A big, black ass.

No idea who this guy is.

How does he keep getting back in?

I told her to jiggle it.  Front and back.  Side to side.   I suggested she twist it.   I tried to grasp it with toilet paper.  Clean, of course.  You never know in this house.  I yanked it with tweezers.  I fed her an apple.  I roped it with dental floss.  And pulled.  I squeezed her neck.  Hey, like I said, you never know.   She got mad.  Then I sat my big, black ass down.  And gave up.

The tooth fell out the next day.  At school.  Lil came home with it.  In a tiny, blue treasure chest.  Taped shut.  I warned her.  Do not untape the box.  Do not show it to your brothers.  Hide it.
Grady begged.  "Please tell me where you're going to put it!" 
Lil headed up the stairs.  She turned to me and said, "Mom, he looks like he's thinking of a plan to get it!  Look at his face!"
Grady found it.  Separated the treasure from its' chest.  And lost it.   I found it.  Lillian hid it again.  Dempsey found it.  And took his turn losing the tooth.
My mom, the infamous nanny, texted me that night.
Nanny  And did u have her rinse several times with warm salted water?
Me       No, you nut ball.
Nanny  That is what u r supposed to do...just like I did 4 u when u were little...u nut ball.
Moral of the story?  Pants get twisted.  Pants fall off.  Teeth get twisted.  Teeth fall out.  And without pants and teeth...we're all a little bit nutty.  At least that's what I keep telling myself.