My Punk

Reasons to love him:

He has a curly mohawk.

He has sweet coconut milk breath.

He is a great back seat driver and likes to remind me that yellow means SLOW DOWN, MOMMY.

He is addicted to playing Memory with his Go-Fish cards and they are falling apart from use.  Sometimes he cheats, so you totally have to watch him.  But other times he feels sorry for you if you're losing and he'll give you the Starfish match.

He can write the letters "A," "B," and can recognize "C," "G," and "S." 

He is a good dancer.

He is a random drive by kisser.

And squeezer.

He enjoys his birthday suit.

He demands cheeseburgers in the bathtub.

He needs someone at night to snuggle.

He has a cow if his blanket isn't on his bed straight.

He wuvs me.

Liam

I have a nephew and you don't!

Well, I guess there's a chance you do actually.  But I have a brand spankin' new nephew and you don't!

Well, I guess you could potentially have one as well.

But mine's cuter than yours is!

And that's not up for debate.

Yes, my rebellious sister had to go and give birth after specifically being told NOT to until I could arrive in Idaho, bag in hand, stepping off the plane to yell,

"But Miz Scarlett, I don't know nuttin' 'bout birthin' no babies!"  Cuz I'm helpful like that and all.  But despite all my childbirthing know-how, she went and did it all on her own.

Selfish...and rawther show-offy...

But I assured her my uterus hurt for her in sympathy even from 2013 miles away.  Really, it did.  I think it has PTSD and severe flashbacks. So do other parts of my anatomy, but this is a G-rated blog so I won't mention the excruciating pain of expelling a bowling ball from your own body or the mind numbing torture of the first few weeks of breastfeeding.  I kinda want more kids. 

I can't hardly wait to hold the little man and sniff his New Baby Scent and dress him in little polka dot bowties and style his hair in a fauxhawk and let him drool in my neck.  I luf baby drool.  It has magical powers and is also very moisturizing.

Hang on, Liam!  Don't cry, little puffalump, Auntie is coming soon!

Laryssa, if you could take care of him for me until I arrive, that'd be great.  Thanks.

Teeth and Victor Hugo

I have a question for you:

Take Gianni yet again, for the squillionenth time, to the dentist to fix the cavities?

OR

Enroll him in the local hockey league and accidentally/on purpose forget to buy him a mouth guard?

Yeah, I thought so.  But I have to rant a bit, so hang on to your bustles.  First of all, I already know I am the world's worst mother in the history of mothers and I've known he's had these cavities for probably eight months now.  By the time we relocated and got settled in, and started health insurance, and changed health insurance, and bagged health insurance and got medicaid, and then made an appointment...well, then I had the joy of confirming my suspicions of evil sugar bugs in my pooky's teeth.  That led to dentist #2.  Of course, that led to a whole new exam.  Which led to more confirmation.  Which led to waiting another month for another appointment.  Which led to Pooky doing excellently for exactly half the appointment, then flipping himself over like a cheese omelet and refusing to open his mouth for the other half.  Which led to a temporary filling which will fall out in approximately sometime in the near future and most likely at the most inopportune time EVER, and will reveal a huge hole in his two front teeth.  So all of this oh-so wonderful experience led to yet another dentist...who guess what?  wants to see him for a regular old exam first because goodness knows they can't take the other TWO dentist's word for it because that would just be SENSIBLE and we wouldn't want to be that.  Well, that's just peachy keen except medicaid has this little bitty problem of having three exams in three months...so they aint paying.  So I am forced to pay out of pocket for a dumb exam that will tell me what everyone in the universe already knows:  the child with the world's worst mother is riddled with cavities.  Oh, and here's another gem in my ranting:  the new dentist who will have to sedate the guy wants me to sign a paper saying, and I quote, if the doctor tells me - the parent - to remove myself, I will do so IMMEDIATELY.

Ummm
whaaaa?

Can you say, no, and HELL NO?

I'm already the world worst mother, I don't particularly see the need to see myself on the five o'clock news being interviewed about why I was out in the waiting room reading Redbook when my sedated toddler was fondled by a crazy child molesting ax murderer posing as a pseudo dentist.

So, I guess I'll just enroll him hockey, help him climb trees, apprentice him to a roofer, sign him up for rugby... I'm taking suggestions at this point.

I know I should shut up and make the appointment and maybe, oh I don't know, homeschool my kids, but I recorded Les Miserables 25th Anniversary concert for Anna and so I've pretty much lost her in all things academic for the next little bit.  Although she probably knows a lot of French Revolution history and could sing it for you, it's unrealistic to get her to do long division when she's daydreaming about her Cosette next to Nick Jonas' Marius.  Nick isn't half bad either, although next to Broadway voices, he's a bit puny.  

Oh, and if you need to make a dental appointment for your own pooky because you're the world's second worst mother, and you need to find one who will sedate the pooky so he won't pull the cheese omelet act, then what you want to say on the phone is, can you anesthetize him?  NOT can you euthanize him?

Two totally different things there, and the wrong wording can make the receptionist put you on hold while she dials CPS.  You are welcome.

My sweet pea angel hooligans and their shennanigans

Conversations with Moose can be strange and wonderful and awful and strangely, wonderfully awful.  Here are a couple recent ones:

While reading The Princess Who Never Laughed, Goofy trips over a "large stone."

'No, no, NOOOOO!'  Gianni waves his hands frantically and practically rips the offensive book out of his mommy's paws, 'It's a ROCK, not a STONE!'

Me:  OK, but a stone is the same thing.

Stares at me sadly and speaks very slowly so that I can understand:  No, Mommy, a STONE is bad.  A STONE is a very...bad...deal.  OK?  So, you say ROCK.'

So, evidently STONES are in the same terrifying group as flashing blue lights, they must be avoided and eliminated at all costs.

Weirdo.

Another thing he's been doing lately is informing me when he wants something or doesn't want something, that his doctor said so.  As in, Gianni, eat your peas.

Looking regal and pious indeed, he answers,

'No, I can't.  The doctor said so.'

Also, he has an imaginary friend.  Her name is Molly, she is three years old and she lives in Idaho.

Not twenty seconds ago, he informed me that he is picking his nose with his hammer.

Also, I am a teensy bit concerned that he may grow up to be a sociopathic serial killer.  Know why?  Cuz those sociopathic serial killers always seem to start out with killing small animals, and my little guy is determined to rid the world of insects.  This may seem small to you, but I always hated it when kids stomped on ants when I was small, and honestly it still bothers me!  I know, call me a pansy then, whatever.  I just think it's mean, and his murderous tendencies worry me to no end.  I mean, is it normal to find a bug, name it Buggy, pet it lovingly and then smoosh it to smithereens, scoop the pieces of it's lifeless, bloody body together, for the express purpose of smooshing it to smithereens again?  Is it a boy thing?  Cuz my sweet angel girls used to collect bugs too, but they would give them rides on their trikes and name them Buggy and knit them sweaters and legwarmers and cry when they ran away or expired from too much lovin'.  Not the same thing.

As far as his big sissy goes, Cora just read a 507 page book in four days.  I kind of heart her very much.

She just climbed her first tree of the season and was for the first time, a little nervous about the height.  Either she's growing up and fearing death, dismemberment, and broken limbs more as a result, or as she told me,
she just doesn't have her tree legs on yet.

Roosky continues to shrink at the same rate all her friends grow.  She is now gnome-like.  She wouldn't find that funny.  She is still looking for someone to purchase her tickets to see Les Miserables, so if you'd like to donate to the Anna Get Thee To Broadway Fund, she'd kiss your knees (as she's too short to kiss your cheek).

It was Schroeder's twelfth birthday yesterday and we bought the city boy a tent, sleeping bag and flashlight.  He was jumping up and down with excitement.

On the inside.

On the outside he was wondering if this was a sick redneck form of joking.  If you'd like to donate to the Schroeder Get Thee To Therapy Because I Live With Hillybillies Fund, he'd kiss your cheek (he's tall).

The Teen Queen is sixteen now and is looking for employment.  She won't do dishes, serve food, interact with the public, be around animals, wash toilets, drive, wash windows, take out trash, make change, or even show up, but if you hear of an opening for Ruler of a Small Country, do I have a girl for you!

As far as updating yours truly goes, nothing much happening in this here brain.  I dreamed last night that my sister gave birth to a boy and she named him Mitchum Channing.  Yeah.  I don't have the foggiest where my subconscience got that, so don't ask.  I just know I shall call him Baby Mitch all my life and he shall be surrounded by baby girls in red Baywatch onesies.  Lifestyles of the rich and famous, my nephew shall live. Sweeeeeeeeeet.

delayed gratification

I'm not that old.

Really, I'm not!  In spite of what my kids think and say.  Case in point:  Anna finding a turkey feather and asking me if that's what I used to write with (i.e. a quill) back when I was a kid.

No, darling, they actually did have pencils and pens back in the '80s, but thanks for the reminder to color my roots and pluck my chin hairs and cover my age spots.

I'm not that old.  But with technology being what it is these days, by crikey, the world is a whole new place.

I remember cameras.  They came with a roll of 24 exposure film.  You had to keep all 24 of the pictures you shot, didn't matter if you accidentally took a picture of the ceiling or your mom's behind or your own finger.  Then you had to either take it in to a place to develop the film or mail it in somewhere and then wait forever for them to get back to you.  Then you'd keep the negatives for approximately the rest of your life in case you wanted to order a duplicate, and all the photos would go into one of those old fashioned things, called a photo album.  Now they get lost in the depths of my computer where I wait anxiously for the day when I realize they've disappeared for all eternity, and no one can go through them in an album on my coffee table.  Nowadays, we take pictures on our phones or our digital cameras and send them through cyberspace at the speed of light (which isn't quick enough).  I miss winding those rolls of film through the little square pegs and getting it all lined up exactly right and then slamming shut the lid quick before the light hit and ruined the whole roll.

I didn't get my first computer until I was married, so computers are still crazy amazing to me.  When I started blogging, Mike freaked.  I barely knew how to turn a computer on, much less navigate the internet so he completely panicked.  I said, "Hey, honey, I started one of those blog thingamajigs!  Wanna see?" and he bowled me over in his attempt to get to his computer, threw himself prostrate on it, and crooned, "Baby, are you OK?  She didn't hurt you, did she?  Speak to me!  Say something!"  He still gets nervous when I'm on the computer and anytime something goes wrong everyone comes looking for me to demand just what I did to ruin the technology world now.  Rude.

Caller I.D. has completely ruined phones.  I remember when you had to answer just to find out who was calling you.  Imagine.  The first couple people I knew who got caller I.D. creeped everyone out because they'd answer the phone with a cheery and mysterious "Hello, So-And-So!" and be met with shocked silence at the other end.  The only boyfriend I ever had besides Mike had it and I didn't know and when I realized he knew exactly how many times I had tried to call him in one day, I just about died of embarrassment.  Now we know precisely who's calling and can decide whether or not to answer; no waiting till the third ring to seem cooler and crossing our fingers for a particular voice, only to be met with some solicitor wanting to sell us aluminum siding.  We also used to have a party line for a while when I was a kid and that was fun.  You'd have to break into someone else's conversation if you wanted to use the phone.  Oh, and of course nothing was cordless so you were attached to the wall when you wanted to talk.  Nowadays we don't bother talking at all, because we're too busy texting.  I resisted texting for a while.  Tawni was the first person to send me a text and ten minutes later when I figured out what my cell was doing and could read it I CALLED her back and chewed her out for acting like a teenager when we were mature 20-somethings.  Now I annoy the heck out of her and anyone else unlucky enough to be in my phone book with my texting.  Hobbes say I text more than anyone else on the planet, which I think is a dumb opinion and one he wouldn't know anyway because he never looks up from the computer keyboard where he is I.M.ing every blasted person he's ever met in all his 17 years, so how the heck would he even know if I'm texting or not?  Yeah.  And I have to stay close to the phone these days, because my morbidly obese sister is 'bout to pop out a small human any second now.  I'm very concerned that I'm going to miss the birth because I'm arriving in Idaho on the night of her exact due date, and she's one of those particularly ornery women who actually give birth ON TIME OR THEREABOUTS.  She doesn't get to that point at ten and a half months pregnant where her face splits open to reveal a fiery skull when some innocent bystander asks 'haven't you had that baby yet?' like I do.  This memory is what my loving husband calls 'birth control.'  Anyway, with her other two smallfry, I got to be there and got to be the one to tell what gender they were (they were both girls).  But I asked very politely, and really I don't think it's too much to ask, that if she were to accidentally have that kid in spite of crossing her legs, avoiding bumpy roads and sneezing, could she please wrap it up in swaddling clothes just like baby Jesus and not peek until I get there?  Then I can unwrap the little smurf and yell,

'It's a _______!!!!!'  And then I can hug it and kiss it and refuse to let it's mommy hold it and name it George.  Or Georgette.  Or Melyssa Jr.

Speaking of child birth, even that has gotten faster!  I don't think this is a good thing, but that's my personal opinion.  As I have said before in my disclaimer, I am not a medical doctor, I just play one on blogger.com.  But I PERSONALLY think this nutty business of inducing labor or scheduling it is just redonkulous.  Babies are darn stubborn and they don't appreciate being told when to make an appearance.  I do appreciate however, medical doctors and the unbelievable things they can do these days though.  Case in point, my Facebook friend, blog follower, and fellow homeschool mom who gave birth to twins at 26 weeks.  You can see the flat out insane (insane as in insanely beautiful) photos and stories here on her blog.

I'm sure there are other things that have gotten faster in recent years, the speed of Cheezits making it to my hips being one of many.  DVDs are probably faster than VHS tapes, but I really miss the tapes.  I hate, more than life itself, the stoopid menus on the beginning of DVDs.  Seriously, I want to eat someones face when the manufacturer somehow makes it so that you are not allowed under any circumstances (I have to pee, I have seen this particular DVD 436.234 times and therefore DO NOT NEED TO SEE THE COMMERCIALS ONE MORE BLEEPIN TIME, etc) to fast forward.  And the menus with those loooooooooong lead in times?  It's like an entire animated short movie just before you can click enter on the ever lovin' Play icon.  Pop a VHS tape in and voila!  Like magic, it starts immediately and you can walk away and go pee or whatever it is you're going to go do when the television babysits your offspring little darlings watch an educational documentary.  Like magic, I tells you!  Why did we ever change over to those blasted round discs that get scratched and then don't play correctly?  Do you, oh muckity mucks of the entertainment industry, have toddlers?  Do they start yelling frantically at you,  'Mommmmmmmy, my movie is going UH-UH-Uh-UH!!!!!!!!'  which in toddler-speak is the sound a skipping DVD makes?  And yes, I know you have to rewind the old fashioned tapes, but actually if you just let them play until they hit the end, it stops all by itself and rewinds.  By itself.  Like magic. 

I miss tapes.

Not cassette tapes though.  Those were a pain. 

OK, I might miss my old Bryan Adams Waking Up the Neighbors but that's it. 

What do you miss now that the world has gotten faster?

A Tree Grows - I mean, dies - in Brooklyn - I mean, Michigan.

Remember when George Bailey gets a little snockered and drives his car into the old man's tree in It's A Wonderful Life?

                                                                 At least George

                                 had the decency

                                                               to stop.


Ruuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuude.

Years Ago

Two years ago I was living in windy Wyoming in a cute rental house across from Hobby Lobby.  The girl's best friend lived next door, and we spent a lot of time with the Kohlers.  Gianni couldn't keep from stripping and streaking constantly and so for about three months he wore backwards pajamas with the feet cut off.  These were the only thing he couldn't unzip, unbutton, and go all Full Monty with.
 

Four years ago I was largely pregnant and I wasn't sure what the heck I was going to do with a man child.  I had short hair and a puffy face and Kary was a little whippersnapper and tried to eat my jewels.

Five years ago my ten year old was half the age she is now.  Whimper.

Six years ago I lived in a duplex in the north end of Boise.  Everyday I'd hitch up our dog, Molly, to the wagon, plop the girls inside and we'd walk to Sunset Park.  We had neighbors who were all male, and every weekend they'd have a yard sale and the only thing they'd sell was women's shoes.  Hundreds - OK maybe dozens - of women's shoes all laid out on the lawn.  It was creeptaculous.

Seven years ago Anna rocked the mullet and talked nonstop.  Cora was obsessed with horses and wouldn't play with anything else.  As you can see, she practically became one.  HAHAHHAHAHA!

Eight years ago we lived in an apartment across from the Boise cemetery.  We had strange neighbors there too.  They had a very obese baby who only ever wore a diaper and drank chocolate milk and soda out of a bottle.  The mom was pregnant and smoked.  They would bring homeless people home with them and charge them rent to sleep on their couch.  They thought people were tunneling under the apartments to break in and steal stuff.  To this day, I wonder about that family, but not fondly.

Nine years ago we had baby Cora who said "yeth" to everything.  I was carrying Anna and craved roast beef sandwiches.

Ten years ago Cora was our one and only.

Eleven years ago I was throwing up on our first anniversary.

Twelve years ago we were married in a Christmas ceremony.  Mike planned the whole thing.  I picked out a dress and showed up.  I had wanted to elope and he didn't, so as punishment he got to plan the shindig.  Don't let him tell you how awful the receiving line was.  Sheesh.  It wasn't THAT bad, he exaggerates grossly.

Thirteen years ago I weighed 115 pounds.  Nostalgic sigh.

Fourteen years ago I got to vote.  Sarah Culver, are you reading this?  Your mom came over to my house and educated me on why, how, where, when to vote, the candidates, and their positions.  I will forever be grateful.

Fifteen years ago I  performed with the Idaho Shakespeare Company and Idaho Dance Theater.  I worked as a barista at Moxie Java.  I drove a battered up, multi colored Subaru with no radio, air, and a few working parts.

Sixteen years ago this country mouse became a city mouse.  I rode the bus for the first time and practically worked myself into a tizzy.  I didn't know how to make it stop and when my destination came and went I walked up to the driver and whispered, 'can I get off now, please?'  I worked at BSU in the catering department and had to be to work as early as 4 am.  I made David Copperfield chicken noodle soup and The Eagles coffee with filtered bottled water.  I walked to dance classes everyday and tried to fit in with college kids who were 3-6 years older than I was.  It worked about as well as you would think.

Seventeen years ago I lived in Baker City, Oregon.  I remember babysitting my nephew who was about three at the time and we didn't have any apple juice.  He really wanted apple juice.  Badly.  My sister and I bundled him up and walked him into town to the nearest restaurant.  It was winter in Oregon.  It was dark.  Three year olds don't do walks in the dark, especially ones that are longer than 1/4 of a block or so.  This was a lot farther.  We had to carry him.  My back still hurts.  By the time we got back with the apple juice he no longer wanted, he was red faced, snotty nosed and screaming like a banshee.  We put him in a hot bath and hoped we didn't cause him a horrible death.  We expected his frost bitten digits to fall off and float around the bubbles.  I don't think we ever told his parents.  Ahem.

Nineteen years ago I lived in a log house in the Oregon country, nestled under a mountain.  We had chickens, a horse named Cherokee, a horse named Thunder, dogs, Kammie, Dodge and Princess, and there may have been a cat in there somewhere.  Oh yes, a cat named Sergeant Tibbs.  We had a homemade swing big enough for two.  My best friend Aerie, and her sister Tan, lived a mile or two down the road.  We rode bikes a lot.  We had a strange neighbor (why do I always have strange neighbors??) who built speed bumps in our shared driveway out of the gravel and shot my dog with his BB gun.  Somebody, but I swear not us, kept putting a For Sale sign in front of his house which was a little bit hilarious.

Twenty years ago I went off to summer camp for the first time, and saw my first scary movie.  It had the lady from Who's The Boss:  I think she played a ghost.  Anybody remember this movie?  We were obsessed with Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, and we danced around to Tiffany's I Think We're Alone Now.  It's possible that song came out a couple years before, but this was middle of nowhere Oregon and we were always a few years behind the times...we still had claw bangs and banana clips too.  I remember panicking in a dressing room because I had tried on a pair of stonewashed jeans that were so tight at the ankle - right by the stonewashed bow - that I couldn't get them off...makes me laugh because that's how they're making them nowadays once again.  Yes, I did buy a pair of jeggings!!!  I am loving the big baggy tops again!  Bring on the leg warmers!  Amen!

Twenty-one years ago...

I was born!

HAHAHAHAHAHA!

Sorry.  Seriously now.  Twenty-one years ago we lived in Elgin, Oregon, a tiny little logging town.  I made homemade bread every week and delivered it to my loyal customers in a laundry basket for $1 a loaf.  I saved up enough to purchase Cherokee.  I had read every Nancy Drew twice.  My favorite memories of this time period was packing a lunch and going outside of town a little to a campground and doing our school work there, riding bikes and fishing and playing with our Breyer horses in the streams and meadows.  My other favorite is watching old Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers musicals with my mom and sister while eating a big platter of cheese, crackers, pickles, olives, and apples.  It was probably my mom's answer to a very tight grocery budget, but to this day, it's a favorite lunch or dinner of mine.  We lived in an old house that was adorable after my mom finished sprucing it up.  All the curtains were sewn by her and the pillows and probably the dust covers for any and all kitchen appliances because my mother is seriously obsessed with them.  It's like a game show in her kitchen.  What's under Dust Cover #1??  It's a brand new toaster!!  But anyway - love you, Mommy, even though you need help - last time I drove by this house, the Strawberry Shortcake curtains were still blowing cheerfully in the upstairs bedroom window.  I love that house.  I've loved all our houses.  I had my one and only ghostly, supernatural experience in that house, but I don't want to shiver your timbers so I won't mention it.

OK, enough about me.  Why don't you talk about me for a while?

My Curling Iron Judges Me

I know I've been bad about posting photos lately, but The Teen Queen keeps stealing my camera for her teen-y purposes: posting a squillion photos on Facebook, per week.

Still winter here in Michigan.  We are busy searching for that dang groundhog so we can tar and feather him properly.  I wasn't really expecting spring to have sprung yet, but I was trying to be optimistic.

Moose had his second ENT appointment today, for his punctured eardrum.  It's healing nicely.  Next comes the filling of his cavities - oh joy and rapture.  He has been his usual goofy self, offering gum to strangers and calling me either "My love," or even stranger, "Mr Smee."  The child needs to be weaned off all electronics.  I'm thinking of dropping him off at an Amish house; we have quite a few 'round these parts.  It's embarrassing enough when he brings up Battlefront in front of the pastor, but it's even worse when he plays Battlefront with the pastor and the pastor comes away saying,
'Dude....that kid is freaky good for a toddler.'

Watched The Oscars last night.  Is it weird that my favorite part is always the In Memoriam section?  Does that make me morbid? Other than that it was a pretty dull show.  Cate Blanchett looked like she was wearing a paper doll dress and I kept wanting to fold down the flaps.  Jude Law needs a toupee.

Know what I recently discovered?  The red Skittles are not cherry flavored.  They're strawberry.  I thought they were that disgusting cherry flavor just like Starburst, but no, no, no!  How many years have I wasted picking out the red Skittles for no reason?  How many?  It saddens me.

My curling iron judges me.  I turn it on and it heats up in a handy dandy 30 seconds, but it shuts itself off if I don't use it soon enough.  This is a problem for me because rarely do I have the patience to sit there and wait 30 seconds and then use it right then and there.  I am woman, see me multi-task.  I can make a phone call, grade a paper, chop onions, drive to the store, and nurse a babe all at once (sorta).  I am not going to just stand there at my bathroom mirror and contemplate my appearance when I could be reheating my coffee or checking my emails.  The problem arises when whatever I am doing to fill my 30 seconds takes longer than 30 seconds and I get distracted by something shiny and forget to come back.  Then the darn things shuts off.  What's the problem, you say?  Turn it back on, you say?  Cuz it only takes 30 seconds, you say?  Are you not paying attention??  If I turn it back on then I'll remember something else I need to do for those 30 seconds and I wander off to do it and then I come back half an hour later and - I hope you see my point.  My appointment with my curling iron is never punctual.  And I am pretty sure it judges me.

My  psyche  suffers.
My hair suffers.

Lastly, I feel bad for saying Jude Law needs a toupee.  He can do whatever he wants.  Actually, it's refreshing to see a flawed celebrity if you think about it.  Rock that receding hairline, Jude!  Be proud!  You can borrow my curling iron for what little hair you have left!  I'm sure he'll be thrilled to know some thirty-something soccer mom in Michigan judges his hair the same way my beauty apparatus' judge me.