I smell a 'how to' post brewing

Every so often, in a cold night sweat, I am awakened and panicked by the thought that there are two little human beings in the house that I am completely and totally responsible for bringing up (which normally doesn't frighten me quite as much).

I mentally do a checklist of what I'm doing okay with. Shelter: check. Food: check. Dancetime: check. Patience: oh come on let me go back to sleep, but not before I get up and check on those two little human beings just to make sure there are no spiders on their pillows. I chanced to meet a pillow spider once as a child and I believe it to be the main cause of my easily irritable nature. Spiders on pillows are never good for the young psyche and I would like to shelter my children from such a fate if at all possible.* There is, however, nothing I can do about the spiders that crawl down their throats while they sleep. That happens to everyone and is basically undetectable therefore not mentally damaging.

I mention this occasional nighttime fret of mine because today I've been delving deep in the shiny perfect cabinets of Pinterest and I'm pretty positive I'm going to have one of those sudden wake-ups tonight (instead of dreaming about being Rainbow Brite like I should be doing) because a mother can only see so many people making Easter bunnies out of ANYTHING and turning doors into bookcases which are also secret passage ways into toy rooms (!) before she begins to question her own status as a good caretaker and provider and all around cool person. I have never had the desire to make bunny cupcakes nor do I still, but sometimes it appears that I should, have this desire.

But really what I'm wondering is if these people who spend so much time making such creative things that their children may or may not appreciate, are these people checking their child's pillow for spiders at night? Because that seems like a way better investment of time and a much clearer barometer of love and devotion if you ask me.

*I don't blame you mother for my own horror. There are just so many spiders in this world. So many.

Doofus is the word of the day

My son has fallen down and hurt himself many a time, and more often than not he "toots" upon impact. That's just how it is. And heck if I now if that's a sign he's in gastric distress. All I know is that as an immature grown woman, this trend of his is very hard on me, especially if the sound resembles a nose cracking.

I feel so many emotions all at once. Fear, unstoppable smiling, pain, worry, rage, nervousness, giggling, sympathy, guilt, tee-hee,  "I told you to stop running," shame, a glimmer of suppressed laughter in my eyes, nausea.

And how am I supposed to feel all these things at the same time and not look like a complete doofus, what with all the conflicting facial expressions? Deranged doofus I tell you. Well obviously looking like a sane mother is simply not an option for me, at least not until I grow up or my son stops falling and/or passing the gas. Whichever comes first.

Speaking of doofus, this dead rosemary plant is a huge doofus and I said so OUT LOUD yesterday. I had big plans for you bud, mostly to do with potatoes. Now look what you've done to me. I'm blogging about herbs!

Over and out.

Note: No noses were cracked.

Schooled

I’ll admit it. There’s only so much fighting betwixt my sons over trucks, tracks, dinosaurs, trains, blocks, and tools that this mother (that’s me) can handle.

I’m more accustomed to siblings fighting over clothes. That’s the sort of thing I can understand and rally for/against. But that is currently not my lot in life. No. I am now more of the hammer monitor, the Thomas divvy-upper, the block Godzilla catcher, and the truck sharer/snatch preventer.

So yes, on occasion, after hours of fulfilling all the above titles, I have been known to yell, “You boys are driving me nuts!” Probably with more exclamation points.

But the last time I used this exclamation, my smart stinker but-oh-so-cute son Bosco replied politely and matter-of-factly, “Oh Mommy, that’s what boys do. That’s why we’re here. We’re supposed to make you nuts,” and went right back to sawing the couch in half.

Now at first I laughed because this is coming from a boy who has also just recently said that the last thing he needs to do to become a grown-up is to pee standing up.

But try as I might, I can’t find any flaws in his logic.

A picture does last longer.

Timeouts don't happen that often around our house. Maybe once a day is all (actually it's more like once a week but I don't want to jinx it so shhhhhhh). However, last week was timeout central, timeout party, timeout bonanza. Everyone had cause multiple times each day to cool their jets. Who knows why. I think maybe it was because the wind was blowing from the northwest.

Anyway, at one point the Bubba was reflecting in his high chair after his lunch ended up on my feet. Bosco was sitting on the couch contemplating why it's important to share and not hit his brother with hard things. And I was in my room listening to Thriller to calm my nerves.

When I came back to the scene of the crimes to clean up the mess, put the youngest down for his nap, and have the eldest apologize to injured parties, I noticed something had been secretly sketched on the chalkboard.

I noticed because pre-timeout the face looked like this, obviously penned during happier times :

Lucky for me I had snapped a photo while it lasted.

I guess you could say Mondays are hard for me.

If I had the DNA of June Clever, the motivation of hundreds, the energy of thousands, and if unrealistic expectations were actually realistic, this is how a typical Monday would go:

6:00 AM Wake up feeling refreshed after five hours of sleep. Shower. Fix myself up to look real nice.

7:00 AM Awaken the Husband with a good morning kiss. Iron his clothes for him and make lunch for him to take to work.

7:30 AM Cook wholesome delicious breakfast for the husband and boys. Read a few pages from a novel whilst doing so.

8:00 AM Kids wake-up and rush into the kitchen showering me with love. I dress them in clean clothes and comb their hair.

8:15 AM We all fill our bellies with the hearty breakfast I made and we smile at each other repeatedly. Some of the children's food ends up on the floor but no matter! That's what a broom is for. I quickly clean it up, do the dishes, and say goodbye to the husband as he heads off to work.

9:00 AM I call school into session and teach the boys a riveting lesson about different world cultures, followed by a thorough run through of the alphabet in English and French.

10:00 AM Educational playtime. This includes nature walks, reading while running, and marbles while doing squats. If weather permits, we put on our helmets, knees pads, elbow pads, and teeth guard and take a bike ride around the neighborhood.

11:00 AM Run errands while the kids behave excellently in the car and in the stores. They are rewarded with a trip to the P-A-R-K where they use up their last reserves of energy.

12:00 PM Lunchtime. I make a homemade meal from scratch and the children wait patiently in the kitchen while I prepare it. We eat and talk and laugh. Again some of their food ends up on the floor, but I bring out my ever faithful broom again. No problem.

1:00 PM Naptime. The children nap soundly. While they do so, I write thank you notes to anyone who did something nice for me the previous week. I do any prep work necessary for dinner. Then I take care of any cleaning that can be done quietly, i.e. dusting, watering plants, sorting mail, arranging/ fluffing pillows. If time permits I check email, read worthwhile blogs, leave a comment on each one, write up a fantastic blog post of my own. Then I paint my toenails.

3:00 PM Children awaken bright eyed and cheery. They play together nicely while I exercise in the living room. Then we all do some sit-ups together just for good measure.

3:30 PM Dance time. I turn on some lively classical numbers and we dance around the room. This serves the purpose of exercise, coordination, music appreciation, and bonding.

4:00 PM Reading time. First I read to them, then they read to me. Even the 20 month old does this because I've devoted hours to teaching him. My devotion has paid off.

5:00 PM Cook dinner while the kids clean up their toys and their bedrooms.

6:00 PM Husband arrives home right on time. Dinner is served. We talk about how productive the day was, and how wonderful the meal is. Unavoidably some food ends up on the floor, but I have my trusty broom ready. Do dishes.

7:00 PM Family time. Activities include a rousing game of guess who, 20 questions, and duck, duck goose.

8:00 PM Bath time for the children if necessary. Usually it is.

8:30 PM Bedtime for the children. Bedtime stories, hugs and kisses. Done.

9:00 PM The Husband and I discuss world news, our retirement funds, and any upcoming vacation plans. He rubs my back because I humbly admit that it is sore.

10:30 PM Husband goes to bed while I stay up and catch up on random interests such as writing and illustrating a children's book, editing photographs, and tweezing. Publish blog post after editing it.

12:00 AM Write a list of what needs to be done tomorrow. Complete daily skin care ritual. Brush AND floss teeth. Make sure nothing has been left out that a four year old or a two year old can get into the next morning, just in case.

1:00 AM Check on the children. Go to bed.

Now, what a Monday in my household is REALLY like:

8:00 AM Husband is getting ready ready for work. Children wake up. I am not awake.

8:30 AM Husband says goodbye to me. I just groan in response. Get out of bed, and get the kids breakfast. Cereal and fruit. Lay down on the couch and sort of fall asleep again.

9:00 AM Realize there is a mess of food all over the floor. Tell the kids to pick up after themselves.

10:00 AM Eat breakfast myself, then get the kids dressed.

11:00 AM Attempt to teach Bosco how to write more letters and numbers. Bubba throws blocks around in the other room.

12:00 PM Try to get them to pick stuff up.

12:30 PM Lunch for the kids. Peanut butter sandwiches it is. Food on the floor. Decide not to waste my time sweeping because dinnertime will be the same story.

1:30 PM Naptime for the kids! Or attempted naptime, since the weekend has thrown them off schedule.

2:00 PM Eat my own lunch in peace. Take a nap or blog depending on which seems more entertaining at the time and if the kids are cooperating.

3:30 PM Kids wake each other up. I am not awake.

4:00 PM Play something or go outside. Probably won't go outside though because I'm still in my pajamas.

5:00 PM Try to get the kids to pick stuff up. Attempt to make something edible for dinner. Kids fight. Both end up in time outs crying.

6:00 PM Headache of the century. Husband gets home. Dinner is served. Kids won't eat it. "Five bites and you can be done." Sweep up most of it off the floor. Dishes can wait until tomorrow.

7:00 PM Family time. I and the Husband can barely keep our eyes open during a session of blocks and legos. Postpone bath to tomorrow.

8:00 PM Bedtime for the kiddies.

8:30 PM Still attempting bedtime.

9:00 PM Veg on the couch, appearing lifeless. Apparently still attempting bedtime for the kids.

10:00 PM Catch my second wind. Shower and change into a fresh pair of pajamas.

11:00 PM Bedtime for the Husband. Adios. Think about doing a lot of worthwhile things. Instead stay up and watch TV and/or read blogs and eat popcorn (okay, chocolate too). 

1:30 AM Throw some water on my face and brush my teeth. Even lazy people brush their teeth.

2:00 AM Walk aimlessly through the house forgetting what I was going to do. Decide to go to bed.

Apparently not only do I lack June Clever genes, but I barely have the motivation of one person and hardly the energy of half a person. On Mondays anyway. I think the rest of the week is slightly better. Slightly.

If only I had a shell, I might look a little more put together today.

He said he just really wanted to be a turtle that day.

I guess this is as good time as any to confess my own inclination toward turtle-esque behavior, and that these urges crop up on a near daily basis. Except in my mind I'm not sprawled out on a goldfishcracker-laden floor, with an empty Lego bucket on my back. No. This is what I do: go in my room which is void of noise and clutter and boys, shut the door (maybe lock it), crawl in bed, and throw the covers over me until I get too claustrophobic to breath. So probably about two minutes.

But rather than looking cute, I'm positive this would look immature and negligent on my part. That's probably why I've yet to actually do it. Maybe I'll have to give Bosco's interpretation a whirl instead. At least then it could be considered Entertaining the Kids.

Let's talk about how I'm a monkey mom

At the risk of sounding too serious for a Thursday, this motherhood thing is getting hard you guys! Just when I think I've got my fine little groove thang going on, and I am rockin' it as a mom, or as Oprah would call it, a Warrior Mom! Hey-O!, things just up and change.

Enter:

The wiping of multiple butts, of multiple noses

Broken things, including, but not limited to, my back

Nightmares

Screaming

"Shut up!"s

Disharmony

The whining! Oh the whining!

Increasing noise levels

Brawling

A new bulging vein in my forehead. I'm not kidding.

Problem is I just thought I had more time to become a better person so I would be fully equipped to handle all this poop! Literally and metaphorically.  Give me the innocence and simplicity of baby poop any day over the complexities and foulness of toddler poop. Again literally and metaphorically.

What I'm trying to say is I thought I'd have more time to develop the patience of a mongoose, the tenacity of a walrus, and the creativity of a liger before these kids of mine sniffed out a dumbfounded mom in their midst.

But now, instead of being prepared and perfect like I originally planned, I've got to wrangle the task of raising these two boys while being more like a monkey mother who just makes it up as she goes, and hits herself in the head with a stick along the way while other monkeys throw bananas at her. The beginnings of insanity are already apparent.

Tip me over and pour.me.out.

The equivalent to 1.21 gigawatts

Today was a rough day in Mommyland, AND in Humanland. I make a distinction between the two lands because sometimes as a mother (particularly a stay-at-home mother) I just don’t feel human or connected to a general population of people. This is not a complaint, just an observation.

My house is ripe with retaliation right now. There are chairs being pulled up to kitchen counters and knives being wielded. There are pounds of strawberries being consumed by one three year-old in the span of five minutes.

There is a baby brother being pushed down all in the name of toy claiming. There are nap strikers. There is a boy who hates diaper changes to an insane degree, resulting in the most tiring poop covered ten minutes of my life. There is the throwing of the food which I think might be similar to the running of the bulls if those bulls looked like goldfish crackers or bananas. There are flailing of arms, stomping of feet, clenching of teeth, and testing of scream shrieking capabilities. And who could forget the kicking of the crotch, mine to be precise.

So yes, today is a day that I would prefer not to be my Groundhog Day.

Turns out though that mothers are human despite the robotic tendencies they may find themselves exhibiting. And these mothers (I can only speak for myself though) do not have the super hero ability to just suck it up all day, everyday.

Because sometimes if you heat leftover macaroni and cheese too long in the microwave it will explode, which is a shame because macaroni and cheese is good and comforting you know? Having to clean that up off the walls would be sad and messy.

I'll give you a hint. I am not the microwave in this metaphor.

So yes, I admit that I lost it in front of Bosco, meaning I cried, sobbed was more like it. I don’t normally like to blame my emotions on womanhood, but I’m almost positive I was PMSing or at the very least ovulating from the right side. It was the perfect storm type of day. A lesser man would have freaked from all the emotions and drama in the air and sent him running because apparently that just doesn’t work with some people.

But you know who it does work for? My oldest son. He saw me in this deplorable state and immediately, like a bolt of lightning had just hit him, stopped acting like a fiend and tried to make me feel better. Maybe that is a testament to the fact that my son is awesome. And maybe it's also a testament to the power of snot and tears. 

Now, of course I feel a little silly for crying in front of my son but sometimes these matters cannot be helped. I wouldn’t purposefully do this again. But I am intrigued to know that when I am at my lowest, sniveling in front of my offspring, I have the strongest effect. 

Yes, but I must be very careful with this power that my tears apparently wield. Only to be used in states of emergency, or when chocolate faileth to deliver relief.

A revival of sorts

I’m sort of getting into the Halloween spirit (is that what you would call it? spirit?) more than usual this year. Maybe it’s because I have a darker outlook on life? I mean have you ever tried dark chocolate?

Maybe it’s because I’m loving the fact that I can just ignore the cobwebs in my entry way that require a ladder to get. Yeah those. I can just leave those be and voila! I’ve decorated for Halloween, just by being lazy and short.

Maybe it’s because I decided my one year old should be a garden gnome this year. Best decision the Husband and I have ever agreed upon. The minute I put the trousers and hat on Bubba I couldn’t stop giggling out loud. And when that became awkward, I giggled on the inside for the rest of the day with the occasional escape of a guffaw.

Maybe it’s because Bosco the Giraffe decided to attack Bubba the Garden Gnome Baby, even though that little garden gnome baby has just recently learned to walk, and his gnomey brown pants were constricting adequate movement of his gnomey legs.

Oh the hilarity of people who take advantage of unstable walkers. (Okay fine. The giraffe was actually trying to keep the gnome from falling down. But that's not funny. It's cute).

Maybe it’s because for a few days out of the year a widow's peak is actually in style. You best trust I inherited a nice one. And let’s not forget my vampiric whiteness. No dress-up required.

But most assuredly it is not because my pumpkins have snow caps. That is just too ghoulish, even for Halloween to handle.

Have a great weekend my little gobliny goobery goopsie poopsies.

So fresh and so clean, clean

Today Bosco sweetly said to me, “Mommy, this place is kind of a mess. We should probably clean it up.” And that’s when you know you have other things to do besides blog and eat potato chips and daydream about how many throw pillows you would buy if you had a million dollars.

Well I guess the dear boy was right. Right as rain (what does that saying even mean?) Our house was a mess.

Being the kind and gracious mother that I am, I decided it best not to mention that most of the mess was his fault in one way or another. Obviously the whole million-toys-on the-floor scenario wouldn’t exist without him. I prefer to play with money, not toys. Then there’s that whole thing about my inability to bend over and pick things up. Well that all came about when I carried Bosco in my womb for 10 months, leaving my sciatic nerve a big horrendous mess. Then there’s the occasional headache that forces (yes forces!) me to close my eyes, blinding me from the ever present dust particles. Well those headaches no doubt are caused by Bosco’s loud, although funny, antics. And how could I forget, the tiredness that plagues my body, preventing me from having the necessary motivation to scrub toilets. Well that weariness is a direct result of someone’s 7:30 wake up call. And of course there’s the onset of laziness caused from knowing the house will just be messy again in 20-30 minutes. Well we all know a clean floor is like unto Disneyland to a three-year old. So much room to just get all crazy and lose one’s mind from pure happiness.

But I would be remiss if I didn’t also point the finger at another major contributor to the pit that is our house of late.

Duh. Of course his shirt says Mr. Mischief.

I have to give little Bubba some credit though. That basket of coupons, junk, flyers, junk, paper, and junk was getting out of control. I hate how I the Redhead the Husband just throws things in there and expects it to magically be picked up and sorted through. Like how many unused coupons to Arby's, Papa Murphy’s, and Pizza Hut does one need? I mean really coupon hoarder, how many? (The answer to this is at least eight and a half of each. Just in case. You never know. You might suddenly NEED to save $2. And you might suddenly remember that you were saving those coupons for just such an occasion.)

So with gentle nudging and minimal help from my eldest son, our house is coming along quite nicely. And it will be chaos again by the time I post this. C'est la vie. Now all I have to do is sit back and wonder what kind of person these evil, evil hands of mine are irreversibly molding my son into becoming. A clean one, that’s for sure.

You should be dancin', yeah

I wasn’t going to blog today because I’m a lazy blob and because I didn’t particularly feel like trying to be funny. Come on! I can’t always be in the mood, no matter how much you want me to be. Truer words have ne'er been spoken.

Never fear though. Something totally hilarious/depressing ended up occurring today that went along so well with the post I did yesterday about my aging body, I couldn’t not post about it. It's kismet really.

So practically everyday I dance around the house with my boys like a complete lunatic. Music is a necessity round these parts. It offers exercise, bonding, coordination skills, instrument and tone awareness, and passage of time. Hence we do it everyday because I’m a good mother and such.

Anyway, Bosco thought it would be fun to do an impression of the way everyone was dancing. So we did The Bubba and nodded our heads to the beat while flinging our arms from side to side. Then we did The Bosco and ran around like a headless chicken while sticking our tongues out. Then it was time to do The Mommy. Interested in how Bosco would interpret my dance skills, I sat back and watched. This is what he did.

He bent down and grabbed his ankle and said, “Oh my gosh. Ow. Ouch. Oh my gosh. Ooooo.” Then he hopped around on one leg while still bent over clutching his ankle.

I must give him credit. I did do this. He was very observant and his reenactment was spot on. But it’s a pity that my son is confusing my aging and klutz-like tendencies with dancing. Pity indeed.

Baby steppin' it

The other morning I hollered at Bosco to come get dressed for the day. His response was, “Hold on! I’m doing something dangerous!” Obviously this isn’t something I want to hear early in the morning when half of my brain is still plopped down on the pillow. Actually, this isn’t something I want to hear my child say ever. He has also been known to say, on numerous occasions, “I’m doing dangerous tings (things). Because I’m a dangerous guy,” like he’s willing it to be so.

But whenever he declares himself as such, the Husband and I usually laugh because, in reality, Bosco is a very cautious little boy. Sometimes he unintentionally gets himself into scrapes, but real (and sometimes unreal) dangerous situations intimidate him. And I liked it this way, for awhile, because I worried less which meant less chance of ulcers, and heart attacks, and pimple outbreaks.

But there comes a point where I know my boy has got to face his fears and overcome them, even if it makes me or him nervous (okay maybe me mostly). This is me trying to be a good parent. Don’t you just want to hug me right now for my efforts?

Water, playground slides, public toilets. These are all on the conquer list. And this weekend Bosco took a huge step, literally, towards overcoming one of those.

During our little stroller trek in the mountains this weekend, we stopped by a waterfall that had shallow water at the base. Crazies were hiking up the falls, and the more stable minded people were playing around near the bottom. The Husband somehow convinced Bosco to be carried to the other side where other children were. This in itself was shocking to me. He hates water. He hates baths. He hates water getting in his ears, eyes, or nose. I don’t know why he hates it. He just does. Just like some people hate pickles or the letter 'X'.

So imagine my surprise when the Husband then convinced him to stand in the freezing water. Not just in the water, but on the water. See I can prove it. My son walks on water.

Then, THEN, he walked through the water back to the other side. Monumental of monumentals folks. He didn’t even cry. Hello! No tears, plus he said he wanted to do it again.

And now he’s got that danger glimmer in his eye. Like he’s a rabid dog on the search for blood. So I suppose from hence forth, when he announces he’s doing something dangerous, instead of thinking he’s probably just sitting in a box, I’m going to have to high-tail it upstairs and take a look-see.

Swimming lessons are on the horizon I think, as are the stress knots in the back of my neck. And I’m okay with that. Just don't ask me to take him on a roller coaster that goes upside down anytime soon. I need more time.

Doesn't fall far from the tree

I’d like to think that I’m teaching my children good things, creating a sure solid foundation upon which they can thrive and become worthwhile members of society. Hopefully this means they will never graffiti male anatomy on fences, never call their elders boogers, never set off fireworks at one o’clock in the morning to scare the hoo-ha out of the neighbors, and most definitely never wear male skinny jeans (If they inherit their father’s very thick muscular bicycle thighs, this fashion will not suit them). So far, I think I’m doing a good job because neither Bosco nor Bubba have done the above mentioned things. It helps that one of them cannot walk or talk yet.

However, I’m starting to sense that things are about to get much harder, even with Bubba in all his innocent baby glory. When I tried to put him to sleep for his nap today, he just flung his arms and legs wildly and kicked me in the trachea. I was pretty sure I was going to die. Then, as I tried to change his diaper, he turned ninja on me and escaped all of my tried and true mommy maneuvers. His mischievous giggles are the only thing that kept me somewhat of a softie during the ten minute ordeal. He’s also been super ornery from the heat. The Husband was quick to point out, “Like mother, like son.”

And I fear he may be right. Heat makes me very agitated, as do socks, cats, and car alarms. Both of my kids are showing redhead tendencies . . . without having red hair. That’s not something you want to mess around with. My oldest son, he whose name is on the naughty list at the moment, seems to be picking up on all the less desirable aspects of my personality. Some of it probably isn’t even under his control because it’s just part of his gene pool.

Like yesterday morning when I left Bosco unattended, eating his cereal, I came back to realize the heinous scenario I had unintentionally set before my three year old (don't be distracted by the only living plant in my house. Look more in the vicinity of the open milk jug . . . and the salt).

Perhaps with another boy his age this would not have been a problem. But with my son, who has a mommy who does things like THIS, salt left near anything should be a red flag of fear. He didn’t even have knowledge of the previous salt prank fiasco. He just followed his gut. It was pure telepathy. A kismet connection between one childish mother’s brain to one very genius son’s brain. Luckily I caught him in the act and narrowly escaped sodium posioning.

But I must admit it has become a little worrisome now that he’s started talking like me too, albeit with a few unfortunate pronunciation/wording errors.

Let's play a little game shall we? I’ll tell you some of the things Bosco has said in the last week. And because the dear boy doesn’t always get it exactly right, you will need to guess the correction translation (I’ll include the answers at the bottom). Here we go.

1. You scared me in the poo!
2. You’re my breast friend.
3. Crack!
4. You’re boring.
5. That’s riduckulife
6. This is degutting
7. That’s totally cow!
8. Be quiet

Translations:
1. You scared the poop out of me!
2. You’re my best friend
3. Crap!
4. You’re old.
5. That’s ridiculous
6. This is disgusting
7. That’s totally cool!
8. no translation, that one’s spot on

Well? How many did you get right? Obviously I need to pay more attention to the people I let him hang around. I don’t have the foggiest idea where he comes up with such stuff.

And what about you reader? What is your child learning from some mystery person (aka: you)?

Scared and scarred

Bosco loves to read books. Well, I guess I should say he loves for us to read him books while he memorizes the story line, then gets irritated if we mess it up in any way. Every week or so we go to the library and grab a stack of picture books that look entertaining. I’d say roughly about fifteen pounds worth, enough to give your biceps a good burn. 

I have to admit that it warms my nerdy little heart to have a child who likes books. Once upon a time, I had aspirations to write children’s books. I even wrote and illustrated one for my senior project in high school. Let’s just say the illustrations left much to be desired, but the story itself was okay. Children’s books are much harder to write, and write well, than I think most people realize, me being an expert and all. So when I find a book that Bosco likes I make a mental note, maybe for some future endeavor of mine.

I’m also taking notes on what not to write about. For example, I picked up a book of bedtime stories, thinking it would be perfect to read before putting Bosco and Bubba to sleep. I don’t usually screen the picture books I pick up because they’re kids books. How bad could they be? Well, I can’t place blame on the author. I really should have skimmed through the book myself before reading it to Bosco, but I’m afraid his little innocent mind has been damaged beyond repair. Word of advice, don’t read stories about kids who are afraid of nighttime things if your child doesn’t already have that fear. Like, if your child isn’t scared of the dark, don’t read a story to him/her about a boy who is scared of the dark. This will only result in a child who is now scared of the dark. Duh mommy (and daddy)!

But now imagine the maternal bonding I felt when I heard Bosco making up his own story today. Too bad it was about being scared and poo and quite possibly LOST. He’s obviously getting inspiration from a variety of sources. Can you guess what they are?

I knew you readers would enjoy it so I feverishly jotted down the lines verbatim as I snooped in on Bosco telling Bubba this story. Enjoy.

Once upon a time, there was Grover. He was scared. And there was Abby. And there was Doggie and he was scared of Elmo. And there was Pig who was scared of his food. There was an island stuck in the poo water, and it left. And there was a Super Reader princess, and another princess, and a king. And they left. And then upon this time there was a mommy and a daddy and all of thems kids. And they left. There was another doggie stuck in the poo and he was so sad. He had a telephone. Then he woke up and had a bowl full of mush and Cheerios that a spider pooped on. THE END

Man I love that little guy. Too bad I’ve obviously scarred him for life in more ways than one.

Gators don't sweat

I’m going to be honest. I devoted the time I usually spend writing this blog to watching hours of LOST finale specials instead. It sort of made the perfectionist in me feel guilty. And since it would drive me crazy to miss a post, here’s some more stuff that made me feel guilty today:

That ice cream I devoured around midnight. Okay and the potato chips too.

Cursing under my breath after I turned on a light and the bulb busted and burned out, scaring the hoo-ha out of me

Giving Bosco some “be quiet chocolate” so I could talk to a few people on the phone

Used the special Stamp Out Hunger bag my friendly postman left me, and filled it with Bubba’s dirty diapers instead of non-perishable food

Dancing and singing along to Gangster’s Paradise with Bosco . . . and really enjoying it

Holding my pee for two hours when a toilet was only ten steps away

Continuing to buy bags of grapes even though we never finish them before the grapes get all shriveled.

Telling Bosco to stop whining like a baby, then realizing he had a temperature of 101.

Not having a suitable picture to go along with this post

How about a baby picture . . . of me, to warm your heart. Because babies don’t feel guilt, and gators don’t sweat.

I will seriously give $5 to the first person who can tell me where I got the title from. It’s one of my favorite quotes of all time.

Bad mommy

This is what I see when I look outside my kitchen window. It’s much lovelier than the view I had a couple weeks ago of dead gray earth. Spring is my favorite time of the year with the sunshine, warmer weather, and occasional thunderstorm. However, this year I seem to have developed some allergies to the wonderful nature that is awakening outside. Is it possible to suddenly be allergic to something? That’s a silly question because of course it is. I’m living proof. I’m sneezy, phlegmy, and agitated. It appears that even my skin is sensitive to the season because I’m itchy and I’m having a cold sore outbreak. Plain and simple, cold sores make me grumpy. They are my top nemesis, second only to soggy cereal. So I’ve been trying to stage a full on war, with help from my trusty Abreva, which usually calms the attacks. But I’m also seriously lacking in the sleep department which I’m sure is not helping my cause. This tiredness is partly due to my own stupidity, but also because Bubba’s been waking up a lot during the night with a stuffy nose. Poor little chap sounds like a tiny Lauren Bacall. If he knew how to speak, I’m sure he’d be able to say, “You know how to whistle don’t you?” spot on.

Well, my sleep deprivation became totally apparent today as I did a “bad mommy” thing. When it’s time to feed Bubba and put him down for his mid-morning nap, I usually leave Bosco in his own room while he plays who knows what. Generally he likes to have some alone time too and doesn’t argue with this arrangement. Then I escape to Bubba’s nursery for a more peaceful environment. It generally takes all of ten to fifteen minutes to feed Bubba and put him to sleep. But today I let my mind wonder a little too much while I rocked in the chair until I found myself in dream land. I woke up frantically, disoriented. Bubba was sleeping soundly in my arms so I hurried and placed him in the crib. I had only been passed out for ten minutes but it felt like forever. Upon entering Bosco’s room, I found him snuggled up in his bed, sucking his thumb (arrrggh), listening to the radio, pretending to be asleep. I felt guilty, but also very grateful that this guy is so patient with his wacko mommy.

So although I love that I’m seeing green and a ton of other vibrant colors outside, I’m a little bit miserable with my snotty, sore lipped, guilt-ridden self. I’ll be using this weekend to recharge, rinse, and repeat.

On a happier note, I still have plenty of my Cadbury Mini Eggs stash left.