the *real* Story of Creation

Being out numbered three to one by males in my house I am quite sensitive to gender issues.  This is a nice way of saying that I am situationally bombarded with farts (which I mind), football (which I don't mind), and I find myself swearing at the Mars/Venus author a lot.

So when on Wednesday night Thing 1 said that his throat was bugging him a bit and his head was hurting I began bracing for the worst.  Sigh, the Man Cold was about to invade.

While the invasion is in full swing, however, it has led to a religious epiphany on my part.  Whilst reciting my version of the Serenity Prayer, I realized the Almighty's motivation in something.  I, of course, felt very blessed to have been gifted such an amazing bit of holy insight and had to share it here, with you.

Despite popular and biblical belief, God did not create Eve from Adam's rib following the realization that the poor guy was one lonely dude.  Rather, God looked down from heaven and saw that Adam was slowly starving to death and completely unaware of what the eff to do without someone there to hold his silly little male hand.  And it was then God realized once that poor fool got sick he'd just whither away and die.  Realizing that He could not allow his most prized creation to just die due to his overwhelming sense of self pity, God created Eve.

Then Eve went and served up some forbidden apples and they were cast out of Paradise ... and God, then and only then, created the Man Cold so as to punish woman kind for Eve's mistake.

Gee, thanks.

evidence that my child is a horrendous dictator in the making

Following a title like that I am sure you are either thinking "oh my gawd, she's horrible" or "Ha! Preach on sistah, I have one of those kids too!"  Your response of course entirely depends on your being a parent or not being a parent.  Or maybe you are a parent without a sense of humor ... good lord, how do you survive?!

Anyway, my child is only 7 months old and I am pretty sure he has all the makings of a horrendous, terrifying dictator in the making.  I already shudder to think about how the history books will portray his sheer mad brilliance, and I hope history doesn't look down upon me too harshly because, as you are about to see, his path was set long before I started to pretend I had control over this.

{Editors Note: I still pretended I had control of him as a human being from the moment the little line on the pee-stick formed right up until about a few weeks before my due date, when I realized I had truly zero control over anything having to do with this kid beyond incubating him.}

With no further adieu, the Top 5 Reasons My Kid Will Someday Be a Terrifying Dictator:

1. His nickname in the womb was Voldabean.  As in a morph of Jellybean and Voldemort.  Yeah.  At 13 weeks I had my first ultrasound, and it looked like a jellybean with a heartbeat.  I thought it was cute -- this kid hadn't given me any morning sickness or unpleasant preggo symptoms as of yet so I started calling the little gender-less blob my Jellybean.  Fast forward to the Jellybean turning into a Sasquatch sized member of Cirque de Soleil in my tummy who left me with horrendous heartburn, back pain, early onset of contractions, and thought his "due date" was merely a laughable suggestion of date he should avoid arriving on at all costs... I started saying I was going to give birth to Voldemort.  Voldabean was the compromise.

2. His little baby hands can out-do any Chinese Water Torture trial.  Oh. My. Gawd.  I don't care how short I trim those nails, they are daggers.  Maybe he is like Wolverine and can retract them, I don't know.  To add to this he has this adorable habit of squeezing his hands open and closed right as he falls asleep.  So right as he drifts off he starts slowly, delicately, gouging four small trenches in your arm and all you can do is put up with it, or wake him up.  Yes, I have scars.

3. He has a sick sense of humor.  Not all dictators have this, in fact many don't thus why they are so uptight and horrible.  But my kid?  He has already learned to apply his gasp of the ironic in order to manipulate me. Example: I am with this child nearly 24/7.  I am the focal point of his world, and nearly always there trying to teach him and help him.  Who did he roll over for first?  My mom.  When he learned to do the much harder back to belly roll over, who did he do that for first?  St. Paul of Bunyan.  After days of working with his slowly emerging and adorable ability to clap I was gone from his side maybe a couple hours only to return and find him perched on St Paul's knee clapping furiously.  When I excitedly said "he's clapping!" St. Paul replied, "oh he's been doing that for like an hour now."  Don't even get me started on how the little traitor babbles "Dadadada" constantly.

4. His sense of timing is flawless.  Timing is everything, everyone knows this.  And so does my baby.  Case in point: child holds off on a blow-out until just the right moment.  Like the I am running late wearing my favorite shirt and only clean jeans in the house, go to pick him up and put him on my hip and ... I'll spare you the visual.

5. He is so stinkin' cute and perfect he could convince you to do anything.  It has been said that the greatest, most horrible dictators of our time were, for all their tyrannical cruelty, still very good leaders.  This is how they were able to convince so many to follow them, no matter what.  I assure you, Thing 2 could make you do anything.  Anything.  Between his perfect little round-bald-baby-head, big blue eyes framed with perfect dark, curly eyelashes, and adorably chubby cheeks ... my kid could kick the Gerber kid's ass.  He sneezed yams into my eye the other day, and I am the world's biggest sissy with eye stuff.  The word "contacts" makes me shiver just at the thought of touching an eyeball, but there I was with globs of grainy yam in my eye sockets and he laughed, and I was okay with it.  That gummy little smile could melt Satan's heart.  This child can already convince you to do anything, so I can only assume that this skill will be honed and of greater threat once he practices some more.

So let the record show, someday when my child is trying to overtake a small country or is working at the Motor Vehicle Division, that I saw the signs and tried to intervene.  But then he gave me that cute little gummy smile and used sign language to either sign "mama" or "bitch" (they look really similar) and I know whichever it is, it refers to me, and I just melted.  Sorry world.

a hybrid like no other

Imagine a little halo hovering above its wand ...

Siting and typing this post out right now is not logical, but it is needed.  This makes exploding Smurfs look like nothing in terms of "you know its a bad day when..."

I have one of those Bissell Little Green miracles.  Two dogs, two kids, a husband ... a worthwhile investment.  Yesterday I lent it to my mother, who's beagle decided to pretend one of her large area rugs was a potty.

Given the atrocities I apparently committed in a previous life the karma fairy came by the house this morning.  To spare you the nastiest of the details I will give the circumstances to you via the text message conversation on my phone.  Before I do, please note the following: St Paul of Bunyan is a wonderful human being who can do a great many things including be a wonderful dad and make a fire using only string and draino while camping int he Arctic circle.  He is however a huge wussypants when it comes to vomit.  The man has the stomach of a 6-week-pregnant-woman.

Me:  Oh. My. God. I am so f***ing glad you are not home right now.

SPB: Why?

SPB: That's rude!

Me: {Insert dog's name here} just vomited a whole, completely intact, really smelly shit on the WHITE couch.  It was so gross that *I* got sick.  Can't f***ing imagine the mess if you had been home.

Me: Did I mention its on the white couch?

Me: Did I mention it still looked like a f***ing turd?!

Me: Did I mention the house smells like shit now?

SPB: Oh good   <-- we will return to this comment momentarily

SPB: What an ass

Me: Did I mention that my mom has my f***ing Bissell and I can't do anything to get rid of the stink?!

SPB: Oh hell, go get it

Allow me to take a moment to answer the most pressing question on your mind right now: WTF, you have a white couch?!  Um, yes, but not on purpose.  And really its not very white, more of a dingy grey now, but I am sure it was manufactured to be a white one.  It came with the house.

I can also assure you that St Paul and I will be having a little heart to heart about appropriate responses because he doesn't seem to have any.  "Oh good?"  Good?  What part of dog ralphing poop that can somehow simultaneously look and smell like both poop and puke is good?!  The part where you weren't home for it?  Yes, true. I agree because I would have been cleaning up after your puke too and been a lot madder, and really who wouldn't be grateful to have missed out on this fun?  But to say it?  Out loud?  Okay he didn't say it, but he had to type it.  At some point there should have been some attempt at filtering that could have happened.  I am imagining the robot with sirens blaring saying "danger Will Robertson!" only he says St Paul of Bunyan's name instead.

So, in order to get appropriate, make-me-feel-better responses, I spoke with my mom.

Me: OMG my dog just spewed.  On my couch. It was poop.  A poop vomit hybrid.  Can I please swing by your house and borrow my Bissell back for an hour?

Mom: OMG, no! You poor thing, I will bring it to you!

When you want to hear an appropriate response, ask a woman.

the Definition of Motherhood is ...

I saw something on facebook the other day that said something to the effect of motherhood = free labor and while I fully agree with this sentiment, it stuck with me and made me think.

The next time it crossed my mind was on my most recent 2 and a half hour flight.  You see St Paul and Thing 1 got up to pee twice each during the flight.  We had not followed the no fluids prior to the flight rule, I guess, because I had to go wicked bad too.  But did I go?  No.  Why not, you ask?  Well its simple: I was holding a sleeping baby.

You know, the sleeping baby everyone evil eyed while we walked down the aisle to our seats.  The baby that everyone prayed would sit very, very far away from them.  The baby that looked too young to bribe with fruit snacks or promises of presents once we landed.  That baby.  And he was sleeping.  We got on that plane, walked the four miles down that aisle with the tentative evil eyers and story tellers ("oh we flew once with my son at that age and never again, it was awful" -- really lady, gee thanks for that anecdote!) paying too much attention to us while some jackhole 50 people in front of us took forever to stow their carry-ons.  Once we finally poured our four selves, three backpacks, camera bag and jackets into those impossibly snug, funny smelling three seats I immediately set to work.  Got him as tired and hungry as possible and began feeding him so that he slept/ate through take off and beyond.

So while St Paul and Thing 1 got up for round two of the potty dance and my bladder was reaching the critical point, I looked down at the most angelic little sleeping baby in my arms and knew, just knew, that if I got up and handed Thing 2 off to St Paul there was a snowball's chance that he'd stay asleep.  Between my own waning sanity and the silent prayers of those around us I figured my bladder would just have to hold it.

And that my friends is the definition of motherhood:

Motherhood is holding it when you really gotta go -- even though your children ruined your ability to hold it to begin with -- because if you just wait and keep that kiddo sleeping then your family won't be material for everyone else's gripes on the drive home from the airport.  

"How was your flight?" 

"Oh there was this baby ..."

when life hands you a broken door knob

You know the phrase "when life hands you lemons ..."?  I prefer the ever more practical variant which mentions salt and tequila because when did lemonade ever make anyone feel better?  But I found a new application for this phrase over the weekend.

For the last couple of weeks both of my bathroom door knobs have been biting the dust.  Both of them.  Seem fair? No.  Not fair, because the bathroom is about the only place I can guarantee alone time anymore and its not even a full guarantee.  Anyhoo, door knobs sent a little memo to each other and agreed to simultaneously have the little sticky-outy-part (I know there is probably a name for this part, but who cares) stay stucky-inny.  So the doors can close but not latch, much less lock.

So on Saturday St. Paul of Bunyan and I were furiously cleaning, storing, throwing out and swearing at stuff.  As we were wrapping it up I needed to "powder my nose" so to speak.  Go into the bathroom and do my business and was about to leave when it happened.

The sticky-outy-part that has been stucky-inny for like 3 weeks?  Popped out.

But could it pop out in a miraculous door-is-healed sort of way?  Hello, this is me we are talking about!  What are the odds that the exploding smurf, plastic wrap warrior will have the good luck to have something work in my favor like that?!

So the thingy pops out and I can't open the door.

I try turning the knob.  Turning it fast, turning it slow, pulling on the door, pushing on the door, speaking to the door nicely, calling the door a few names, smacked the knob a few times (not advisable, hurts you more than the knob) ... no change.  Finally I take a deep breath, try once more and I hear a strange clicking snapping type noise then feel the knob go slack.  I can now turn it in either direction with no resistance or effect.  Yeah, not good.  Fortunately, I wasn't home alone, or home with just the baby.  More fortunately I happened to have my cell phone in my pocket so I didn't have to yell myself horse until I was heard.

St Paul came back, starts running through the procedures I already did from one side of the door.  Then goes and gets tools. Lots of loud noises come through the door.  I sigh and realize I am not going anywhere for a little bit when the hubs has to go back to the tool box for some new tools.

And it hit me.

I am locked in a bathroom, alone.  As in by myself.  Just me.

And the shower.

And the clouds parted and the rays of sunlight shown down while the angelic chorus of "hallelujah" blasted through my brain.

That elusive beast that evades all moms, especially those of younger children, is mine for the taking.

I took a long, hot shower ... by myself.  Uninterrupted, if you don't count the loud noises resulting from St Paul eventually breaking the door down.  After 20 minutes I emerge from the steamy bathroom with my hair clean, skin scrubbed pink and moisturized, all relaxed and calm to a frazzled husband and crying baby.

So the next time you hear that tired old phrase about life handing you lemons just remember, when life hands you a bad door knob you can have yourself a somewhat peaceful shower.

You got a long, hot shower to yourself? You're welcome.

the Battle of the Toilet

There are things one must accept when horribly outnumbered by boybarians.

Fart is a second language.

Showering can be seen as optional to some.

Chocolate, and Mommy's compulsive need for it, is not treated with the sacred respect it requires.

But the toilet seat?  Ah this is a battle I have had within myself because you see I am a fair person all things considered.  Being that there is only one of me, and two of them (two out of the three males in my house use the toilet, third one is too young yet) I kinda debated briefly whether or not it was reasonable for me to expect the toilet seat to be put down after use. 

When I say I "debated" it that means I thought about it for about forty five tenths of a second.  I asked myself is this a fair request when there is only one pee-sitter in the house and was instantly barraged with mental images too gruesome to share -- though I am sure some of you can relate.

I really have two toilet related issues:
1.) The seat is rarely down
2.) The pee rarely goes where it aught


When I bring up either of the two to the others who live in this house I get one of three responses.

St. Paul of Bunyan: That is sooo Thing 1's doing.

Thing 1: It wasn't ME!!!  I don't know how that happens!

Thing 2: Dadadada <-- he is only 5 months old but if you pay close attention note that he is blaming someone who goes by "dada" ... hmmmmm ...

In the front bathroom, which we all use, there seems to be a pee fairy that hits everything but the toilet, and no one claims to have been this person or had anything to do with it.  Since the baby can't walk yet and I generally know where I have put him we can assume he is not the pee fairy.  Since I would have to do some impressive acrobatics that would leave me severely injured I think we can rule me out as not being the pee fairy.  So that leaves two others.  The two who say they have nothing to do with it.  Strange.  In the other bathroom, the one St. Bunyan and I use, the seat is never down, but the aim does seem to be a bit better.

Odd, donchya think?

Ultimately, I have reached the conclusion that Mars vs Venus may be a way of life for us here, but its all about compromise.  Basically I accept that I will hear things like "no really, pull my finger, I won't do it this time" and will not interfere because really some lessons in trust and gullibility are necessary.  But I also accept that while I expect the seat to be down and there to be some attempt at aiming this this will not happen 100% of the time.  I will be lucky if I see it work out 30% of the time. But that's okay.

What's the phrase?  Revenge is a dish best served cold with a single red sock in a hot wash with all your white clothes?  Something like that anyway.