What the Flush?

Well, huh. Apparently, apparently, you actually do NOT want to flush a small fake food item toy type thingie down your toilet. Like something like oh, say....THIS:


I don't know exactly how it was decided that a miniature bag of flour belonged in a toilet, but there you have it. We had a bunch of little friends over for pizza one night, and the next morning out toilet was desperately regurgitating water in a vain attempt to hark up the small rectangular piece of plastic lodged in it's...throat? Esophagus? What do toilets have??

We had the plumber come over to rectify the situation, since Eric's frantic attempts at plunging the little fucker out of there were proving extremely futile. I wasn't downstairs at the time, but apparently, the only way the plumber could get the Toy of Complete Latrine Destruction out of there was to remove the toilet, carry it outside, turn it upside down and go in from the, uh, rear. Basically the toilet got all kinds of violated. Poor thing. But alas, the offending object was removed, photographed for dexterity, and promptly disposed of.

I did hear Eric trying to turn the whole thing into a learning situation with Tate by kindly instructing him that maybe, just maybe, it's not a good thing to flush hard plastic things down the toilet since it results in said toilet being put in several compromising positions. Tate responded by saying:

"Well, Daddy, I don't think it was me that flushed it down the toilet. I think maybe it was Mommy."

Yeah, I think not. Way to try and throw me under the bus, though, kid.

And since we're on this lovely subject, let me just throw a little public service announcement out there to all the little kidlets of the world. Mothers, you can thank me later.

Ahem. When Mommy goes to the toilet, it just stays like a normal toilet. It doesn't start playing music, flashing lights or handing out suckers. You know that, do you? Well then why do you BOTH have to come and watch Mommy go to the toilet? You are missing NOTHING by staying OUTSIDE of the bathroom. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

That is all.

No, No...Don't Get Up

Sometimes McDonalds makes me feel like a total slacker mom. I mean seriously, who in their right mind willingly takes their children into a McDonalds playland? Where all the badly behaved children of the tri-state area hold their daily conferences? Where sending your kid into the climbing apparatus is basically the same as tossing them into a Hallway of Snot? Where said kids eventually come up to you with some unidentifiable food in their hand snatched from God knows what cranny, and then opens their mouth and shows you the other half of the unidentifiable food object that is probably giving them swine flu or tetanus as you speak?

Well, yeah. That was me today. I couldn't help it, people. I had a gift card.

I tell you what, though. I may feel like a slacker for bringing them there, but I always, ALWAYS leave feeling like, hey, maybe I'm not the worst mom in the world after all. Now, we all know that there have been many, many, manymanymanymany times that I have been that mom with that kid. The one who's hitting or pushing or pinching or performing Chinese Water Torture or what have you. But I've honestly always tried to keep on top of Tate, and if he wonks some other kid's head into a wall, well then..I go up and punish him. He gets time out or we leave or whatever. Crazy, I know. But because of all this, I have a pretty high tolerance for sassy little kids. I get it.

However (caution: I am about to step on my soapbox). I have no tolerance for moms who either pretend not to see what their kid is doing or who see it and just can't be bothered to do anything other than sit and yell "Hey! You better stop doing that or yer daddy's gonna whip yer ass!" and then turn around and eat their 400th straight Big Mac. And all these moms seem to live in McDonalds.

This is what one such lady shouted today.

"Zach! Don't push! Zach! Let's go! Zachie! Zach! Get your shoes! Zach! I mean it! Stop pushing other kids off the slide! Zach! Where are you? Let's go! Zach! I want to go! Zach! Don't kick babies! Zach! It's time to go! Zach! Come over and get your coat and help me up! Zach! Zach! Zaaaaaach! Tell all these other parents to stop stuffing dirty socks in my mouth to get me to shut the hell up!!"

Ok, the last sentence didn't really get bellowed, but if you had given me and a couple of the other parents in there about 1 more minute, it may just have. Seriously. This lady could not get her butt out of her chair. She just sat and yelled so hard she jiggled. For 10 MINUTES. And for 10 minutes her kid ran around like Satan's minion trying to become King of The Germ Crusted Slide by hurling any kid in his path out of the way.

So we left, simply because I couldn't handle the yelling anymore, and because I could practically see bacteria and germs festering on my childrens' skin. Those McDonalds fries lure me in every time, though. I can hear them calling to me frantically whenever I pass by. It's always work avoiding fast food. Even though my mind says "This is garbage!", my mouth says "I like garbage! Put a crapload of salt on it and call it a day!"

Mmmm...salt.

The Snow Hates Me

As I sit here typing this, Nora is upstairs loudly protesting the fact that I had the gall to put her in her crib for a nap. This is the second day in a row she is loudly bemoaning the fact that she got stuck with ME as a mother, this bitch who dares to expect her to take a NAP. I'm pretending not to hear her. Although I do wish she would squeal and shriek at a pitch just slightly higher than the one she's using now, because then only the dogs could hear her, and I wouldn't even have to pretend. Problem solved.

When she's not upstairs madly banging her heels against the sides of her crib and bellowing for me to either come get her or die a slow painful death, she is actually quite funny. She's talking a ton these days, mostly whatever she learns from Tate. So we get a lot of "butt!" and "STOP IT!!!" and of course the timeless "nononononNONONONONONONO!!!". Thankfully, she hasn't yet been able to master "Oh, for God's sake", but it's coming. Just give it time, people. Because my children live to embarrass me. It's their forte.

Did you ever notice how many things no one ever tells you about parenting before you have kids? I'm not talking about how you'll never sleep or go pee in peace again. Plenty of people tell you that. No, I'm talking about the little things. For instance, nobody ever told me that I would actually say things like "No, Tate, you're not allowed to stick Buzz Lightyear in the dog's butt." Would've been nice, is all I'm saying. A little advanced warning is always appreciated.

Anyway. Winter is here with a vengeance. There is snow everywhere. I got stuck yesterday, twice. Once in my friend's driveway, because I cannot drive backwards and therefore went straight into a snowbank at the end of the drive. I should not be allowed to drive in reverse. The main argument for that being that at one point I thought I was putting the car in park and instead threw it in reverse, consequently almost flattening my poor friend who was directly behind the car. Last time she ever invites me over, I tell ya what. The other time I got stuck was when I pissed off the plow dude and he shoved a 56 foot ridge of snow in front of my driveway. I tried in vain to shovel it away, but I shouldn't really be allowed to shovel, either. I basically would lift up the snow, look around frantically for somewhere to throw it, and then just kind of toss it in front of me. 9 times out of 10 the snow ended up exactly back where it was. The other 1 time it ended up in my face and down my neck. So I gave up and tried to ram through the ridge of death. Chrysler Town and Country vans are not made for ramming. I made it about 3 centimeters and then got stuck. It was really, really fun.

What really boggles my mind is when people say "I love the snow" or "Winter is my favorite season" or better yet "The cold is so invigorating and refreshing". I find this disturbing. It's like they're saying "I drag 3 inch nails up my arm for fun" or "I enjoy having my toenails ripped out with a pair of rusty pliers." Sick, I tell you. Sick.

And So it Begins

Things have calmed down. The holidays are over. We were away from home for 4603 days. Or 12, whatever. Mexico was fab, seeing family was great, getting home in our own beds was the best thing ever.

Now life has returned to normal, aka chaotic. We're finally making headway on our basement. There is paint on the walls! And yes, every wall that I did myself needs a second coat on it to cover the glaring spots of white that I somehow managed to overlook the first time around, but that's not the point. It looks pretty! Soon there will be walls and a ceiling! We're planning on having a basement warming party and telling people to bring their own beanbags. We don't need furniture. We need walls. Oh, and the kegerator. But we've got that already. Duh.

Nora has started to become her brother's clone. Gone are the days of watching teddy bears and toy cars go catapulting through the air after being released from Tate's paw. No, now baby dolls and sippy cups are being hurtled to their untimely death thanks to Nora the Intimidator. She doesn't like being told "no"? Here comes Baby Alive, whizzing through space. She hates the state of the economy today? There goes a pink plastic dump truck soaring across the room. It's great. I knew it had to happen but there's always that small, pathetic part of yourself going "Oh, no, she'll somehow become immune to her brother's influence and spend life skipping through fields of clover and agreeing to everything Mommy says." That part of me has now slunk away in shame.

What's really fun? Breakfast. Mornings find none of us at our perkiest, especially her. She demands to go straight from crib to highchair, which is no big deal. Then we have the breakfast battle. She howls at the pantry doors to somehow be opened, and I get to point at every sort of breakfast-type food in there in a desperate quest to satisfy the beast. Everything I point to that she deems simply unacceptable earns a "Noooooooooooooooooooo!!" while thrashing her head back and forth madly. Pretty much everything is displeasing the first go-round. Sometimes it takes two or three tries before she grudgingly accepts the paltry offerings. And when I say grudgingly, I mean it. The only way I know that the current offering is suitable is by the almost imperceptible flick of her finger and minuscule jerk of her chin.

Me: "Nora, do you want these yummy waffles?"

Nora: "NOOOOOOOOARRRRRRRRRRRRCGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH"

Me: "Oookay, how about some cereal"

Nora: "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOTTTTTOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL"

Me: "Sure. Is fruit ok?"

Nora: Flick. Jerk.

It's fun times. Not only is breakfast the most important meal of the day, it's also the one that makes me want to crawl under the table and bang my head on the floor and not wake up again til dinnertime.