Eww... It's Green!!!

Food. It nourishes and sustains us. It drives us. We crave it. We eat when we're happy (birthday cake), when we're sick (chicken soup and call me in the morning) and when we're stressed (that stash of chocolate in the back of the freezer/pantry/drawer/canister) It comes in all forms: natural, processed, meat, non-meat, really non-meat and whatever's in the pantry. People choose foods based on region, age, season and mood, but there's one faction of people who have completely different criteria.

Kids. Tiny humans who seem to choose foods based on the respective food's macaroni-and-cheese-iness or peanut-butter-and-jelly-ness. They also seem to show an aversion to the color green. (I'm really not surprised that Heinz quit making green ketchup.) Parenting books refer to this enigma as a "food jag". I refer to this as an "I can't take them yelling at me about something else right now and I'm pretty sure they won't die from it so okay".

However, we do occasionally catch them off their guard in one bright, shining moment of "eat a pepper" or "I like it". We all know those moments. It's when the clouds open up and choirs of angels look down upon you while singing something like "ahhhhhh". It's the sound of victory. Besides, there are at least three food groups in a pb&j. Bread, nuts and fruit... yeah, fruit.

Just the Average All-American Family

with 2.4 kids and a dog.

I'm not a physician or a scientist or savvy with anatomy, but it seems to me that .4 kids is probably a little difficult to make. That's not even my point. The main point here is the dog. Really? Two point four kids AND a dog. The All-American family has clearly not observed the canine-like activities of 2.4 kids.

I've considered getting a dog. Even done it once. What I discovered is that I already had enough dog-like goings-on and that a dog was too much like a kid. Don't be mad. Just think about it. They all whine when they want to go outside. They all pee on the floor. They eat weird stuff. Sometimes they even all play in the toilet. There are times when none of them wants to take a bath. And there's the whole issue of being slobbered on. My conclusion was "Holy Crap!!! Our kids are dogs!!!"

Not that there's much wrong with that, I mean they are man's best friend. (the dog, not the kids) All I'm saying is that they could at least have a kennel for your kids when you go on vacation.

Vacuumed to Wonderland

Since the mid-1800's, people have been vacuuming their rugs and carpets. There have been many innovations in vacuuming since then from the one that looks like a missile to the one that weighs eight pounds and still picks up a bowling ball to the one that turns on a ball with (said in a British accent) "patented cyclone technology". The one thing they all have in common is that they bring about a very interesting response in children.

I have discovered that my kids (and their friends) have inexplicable reactions to vacuum cleaners. As soon as I get it out, the kids run away (in the fashion of Monty Python and the Holy Grail), but a few short, noisy minutes later, they're back for a sparring match with cleanliness. (Wow, that describes so much more than this.)

There can only be a few reasons for this reaction.

Reason 1- They're afraid of loud noises. Rebuttal- I've met them, that's definitely Not it.

Reason 2- They're afraid that they'll get sucked into Wonderland so they run away, but then come back when they remember that Alice got to eat cake. Rebuttal- They're not too fond of the Jabberwocky, so that's probably not it.

Reason 3- They're just plain weird. Period. No rebuttal.

I assume that most children apply to Reason 3, but I'd like #2 if that's alright. I've always wondered what the caterpillar's smoking...

The nudist colony at 107

People have been wearing clothes since Adam and Eve ate the dumb apple. Aside from the mass amounts of laundry it produces, I am a fan of wearing clothes. It has turned into a way for us to express ourselves and to portray who we are while still covering your butt (in most cases at least). My daughter seems to greatly disagree. Emphatically even.

At any given time, there will be a naked baby running around my house. As we speak, she's on my lap making this post three things: 1. difficult to type, 2. way too realistic, and 3. a little creepy.

I don't understand the need to be nude that she has. I'm not sure if it's innate, learned or she just thinks pants are for losers. She likes to pick out clothes, likes to dress up, likes to be "Pretty Emmie", but only sometimes.

Its not usually a problem... until we have a playdate. With a boy. (Oh boy.) But for now, I'm just going to say it's her telling me she needs to start potty training. (it's how mommies play pretend.) At least there will be one less person's laundry to wash.

Bestest ever? Awesome.

I often wonder what kind of mother I am. Am I attentive? Am I fun? Am I a good mother or a bad mother? I have come to the conclusion that I am a mother. Plain ole mother. Mother is a word that needs no descriptive. It is an all inclusive word. A mother is someone who is attentive, who is kind, who it mean, who is good and bad. You take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and there you have...

My current musing has been what kind of mother I will be to my children's hindsight. I'd love to think that they'll look back on these days of pillow forts, shower curtain tents and sleeping in clothes as amazing times when their free spirited mother showed them that life can be fun. But the reality is that they will probably have forgotten most of that by the time they form their opinions of me. And no, being the "bestest stuffed animal ever" does not count as a valid opinion. Someday they will remember funny things we used to do (that we've not done yet... Time travel. Don't think about it.) and they'll smile and that it will make up for all the trouble, the time-outs, the "no you can't go over to Little Billy's house"s and especially the nagging and harping and being overly concerned. They'll never forgive me for making them mow the yard or clean their rooms, but at some point, it will cease to matter.

The fact is that it is an insignificant worry, because in the end, you are their mother. They are your babies, and nothing can ever change that. Because you'll always be the "bestest momma ever".

I'm Back...

To the Future!

I've been thinking about my children.

My daughter has recently learned some new things. She's advanced her vocabulary (NO!!! and MINE!!!), she's improved her hand/eye coordination (by pinching and grasping small hairs... to pull), and she's learned some very basic skills such as getting dressed (taking off her diaper at completely random and inappropriate times).

My son has just turned four... and with age does come wisdom. For instance, now he's more able to tell when I am full. of. crap. He also knows many other things that adults, myself included, simply do not understand. Burritos are not burritos, they are tacos. TACOS I said!!! And shorts when used as pajamas are pants. It's an undisputed fact in my house.

Another new development is their attendance at daycare. They go to a family child care provider who works from her home, the magical Ms. Heather of Ms. Heather's Cupcakes fame (she also throws a mean Mr. Potato Head party). What makes her magical though, is not her willingness to take other children into her home on a regular basis, or that she keeps her cool and gives them fun things to do. No, What makes Ms. Heather magic is that she gets my son to eat... (shh... come closer... don't let him hear... vegetables)! Gasp! I know. After his first day as a cupcake, we had this conversation about lunch.

"What did you have for lunch?" I asked.
"We had 'azanny' with green stuff in it," he replied.
"You mean lasagna?"
"Yeah. The green stuff was sour and it was supposed to make my muscles grow bigger. But I don't like it because my muscles aren't bigger yet."

So yes. Popeye has been debunked! Take that spinach!

He Ain't Heavy...

Siblings come in almost as many varieties as gourmet coffee. Some are half, whole or step (skim). Some are calm (decaf) while others are an extra shot of espresso. Some are even mocha, caramel or white mocha.

Siblings are an anomaly. The first child is like a shock to the system and then sometime between screaming infancy and screaming toddlerhood, the parent believes it is possible to live through it one more time. Oh boy!

The new baby gets mixed reviews from the existing child. One minute big brother is holding the baby's bottle and the next, he's trying to drive his racecar through her head. He goes through the phase where he hates her for stealing mommy, and then he decides she's not so bad.

At some point through all of this (hopefully), we sneak glances of secret adoration. A hug or a kiss. A tickle and a giggle. Then one morning when baby wakes up she yells, "Bubby!"

You think, hey, this isn't so bad, I could do this again. Then you put down baby and she screams for the five whole minutes it took you to get her breakfast and you remember. Kids are crazy.

But kids are awesome! Especially when you teach them the best sibling catch phrase ever spoken by a toddler: He not heaby, he a brudder!

Hello Hungry, I'm Mom.

Children grow like weeds. They're stomachs are also miniscule (their actual stomachs, not their adorable little Buddha Bellies). With their powers combined, they are... Always Hungry!


As parents, we try to give our kids as close to the recommended amounts of good, nutritious food as we can, though most of us are lucky if we can get them to eat their vegetables (I've still never met a child who eats lima beans). Cheese does seem to disguise the green enough for it to no longer be in the green part of the toddler color spectrum, but even then, they still have to sit down at dinner time and eat.

What toddler in his right mind (are any of them really ever in their right minds?) would stop playing whatever super fun game he was playing just so he could make your day by sitting up at the table, placing his napkin on his lap (because he knows how his messes make your life harder), eating his vegetables first and commenting on how beautiful you look today? If your children are anything like mine, there are at least three announcements for dinner even after they have been bothering you for 15 minutes because they're huuuuungryyyyyy. Then comes the exclamation that "I don't like it!"

"How do you know? You've never had it."

"But I don't like it!!! I want a snack."


And after a hearty meal of approximately one chicken nugget, three green beans and five macaronis, they want a snack. While you cook the dinner they won't eat, they want a snack. When they wake up from the ever elusive nap, they want a snack. If I'd let him, my son would petition the government to make Pepperidge Farm Goldfish Crackers a valid food group.

And after dinner (and some whining and a snack), when it's time to go to bed, one of the last things my son tells me is, "Mom, I'm hungry!"

Well, hello Hungry, I'm Mom, and I'll be making your dinner for the remainder of your childhood (and you'll eat it and like it).

Silly (Putty) Perspectives

Perspective. It's hard to get, and hard to keep. It's hard to know you have the right one. It's hard to know if there even is a correct perspective. Perspectives are pliable. They change with every season, every life event, every phase of the moon. Heck, they change every day.

Perspectives involving children are particularly metamorphic. A child's perspective on the world is magical. Everything is new and bigger than life (at least their life). Slowly, as they gain more life experience and lose their naivety, their perspective on things takes a sour turn until they have children of their own (that means we get old too).

Ahh... children. You love them (but not necessarily always like them), but they're always better for others than for you. The cashier at the grocery remarks on how sweet they are. You inquire as to whether their establishment accepts payment in children. The funny look the cashier gives you gives you the answer (and maybe a visit from child services).

You desperately try to get rid of the kids for just an hour (please, just FIVE MINUTES OF PEACE. Please let me go to the bathroom ALONE!!!), and when the shining moment appears heralded in with the heavens opening up to reveal a choir of angels singing and a band of trumpets blaring the respite you so desperately deserve, all you want is to see your kids.

Perspective. Your parents probably didn't like you, but they love (or will love or won't if you don't have) your kids. Because THEY know. THEY know what's coming and that keeps things in perspective.

My children are much like others that have gone before them... completely insane. They turned me from a mild mannered house wife into (no, not a super hero) some kind of super villain. It may have been all the times I had to be the Megatron to his Optimus Prime (or the Lex Luthor to his Superman, or Green Goblin to Spiderman or Mama-Be-The-Bad-Guy-So-I-Can-Beat-You-Up), or maybe not (That's an argument for nature vs. nurture). But, one thing is for sure, I had crazy eyes, lowered inhibitions (what have I got to lose, I could plead insanity), and always had that frazzled look about me. Slightly panicked. Other mothers recognize the look.

Then I had surgery. I had a break (and a breakdown). It was a glorious break. Pain medication, bed rest, and all the terrible SyFy shows I could handle. The only thing that could have made it better was a beach... and maybe an umbrella drink... and oh yeah, not being post-op (but you take it where you can get it).

Then suddenly it changed. My perspective. Suddenly, I adored my children (I was on drugs). They were fantastic specimens of the human race. The world was going to be fine after all. There was hope for everything... all embodied in these two little precious bundles (Pandora's boxes). A few days later when (the meds wore off ) I started getting the frazzled look again... you guessed it, perspective. Only this time, it was as if I were home. It was like a dream and you were there crazy eyes, and you, loud mouth, and you, frazzled hair (and Toto too).

And now, when my children drive me to the brink, I smile and think that There's No Place Like Home.

A Call To Arms! or The Plight of the Disgruntled Housewife

We vote, we create living things, we secretly run things, we work in factories, we are corporate executives. We are women (hear us roar). Women have been fighting to have equal rights with men for a long, long time. Women had to fight to get the right to vote (We're clearly soldiers in petticoats, dauntless crusaders for women's votes... you know you were singing it too) or even the right to have a job. Women's liberation and all that jazz. However, there is one group of women that time forgot.

Stay-at-Home Moms. Disgruntled Housewives. Wisteria Lane's got nothing on the real thing. We've been underappreciated for centuries. Expected to do the work of ten men. Yet we recieve no wages for our work.

So I'm proposing a revolutionary use of our particular skillset. Government. We should be in charge of things. (We already are anyway.)

We could put together a dinner in no time and for less money (we do barbeques), organize charitable events (we do bake sales), give thought provoking speeches on doing what is right and good (been doing it for years), cut down on costs by cleaning up after ourselves (we'd probably do it out of habit anyway).

In a few years the place would all be ours... and let's face it, we'd still do all the same things that we do now. Because we're housewives and mothers (and secretly have magical powers) and that's just how we roll (as the kids say).

So return, brave citizens, to your ovens, your brooms, your huddled masses (of laundry). Somewhere out there is a ball team that is depending on you. It's your day for snacks (you know who you are)! Go! Lead them!

(This message paid for by the Disgruntled Housewives of America Foundation.)
(Such a foundation does not exist in reality)

Let's Go To The Movies!

Movies, cinema, theater whatever you call it, we all know it. Movies are everywhere and since the advent of such new-fangled devices as personal camcorders, personal computers, and (my personal favorite) the Internet (aka, interwebs, world wide web, the place with the thing and the people and stuff, you know), everywhere literally means Every Where. There are home movies (More of the Grand Canyon Grandma???), wedding videos (Aww... how sweet.), birth videos (Aww.. how-OH MY GOD!!!), video clips (from cell phones that quickly become), viral videos, but perhaps my favorite of all forms of film is the theater showing of feature films. It's great entertainment for the whole family. Right?

Maybe, but there are things that all the good intentions in the world cannot influence. One of those things is spontaneously taking a one-year-old and a three-year-old to see a movie by yourself. Why, oh why (I seem to be asking myself that a lot these days) did I think this was a good idea. Point 1- Movie theaters on Saturdays are generally a bad idea. Point 2-Small children in movie theaters is generally a bad idea. Point 3- The two to one child to parent ratio at the movie theater is generally a bad idea. Even if two negatives made a positive, we'd still be at a Bad Idea. Even if you have the forethought to bring appropriate drinks (Mama, I want juice. In my Transformers cup!!! No wait, wait, I want milk. No, juice) and love items for said children (monsters), you're still probably at a bad idea.

How do I know, you ask. I know because my road to hell is paved with the good intentions that just didn't seem to influence my children's behavior at the movie theater. Saturday. By myself.

During the two thoroughly exciting hours we spent at our local cineplex, we wore 3D glasses, took off 3D glasses, lost 3D glasses, went to the bathroom three times, flashed little boy butt to the ladies restroom, ate popcorn, fought over popcorn, choked on popcorn, ate candy, fought over candy, dropped candy, dropped popcorn, dropped sippy cup, chased sippy cup down aisle, lost sippy cup in theater, dropped other child's cup, found other child's cup, spilled popcorn, dropped more popcorn, argued with brother, argued with sister and generally caused a ruckus. Honestly, I'm surprised we didn't get kicked out.

You know, in the movie Annie, they make it look so easy to take your kid to the movies. It's all lies. Children do not like to wear 3D glasses or share their popcorn or sit still for the last half hour of the movie (no matter how many times you tell them that they have to wait for the lights to come on so Mama can "FIND YOUR CUP!!!").

So, if you're at the theater and you hear some poor woman screaming "Why, God, why did I think this was a good idea?!?", you'll know it was some poor misguided mother who thought her children would enjoy going to the movies (because Annie was good).

You May Be Right...

Children have an amazing innate ability to have fun anywhere (except the doctor, grocery store, post office, or electric company). The simplest things bring them hours of enjoyment. A small child can turn an average cardboard box into a house, a club, a clubhouse, a rocket, a car, a train, jail, a garage, a table, no a garage, but I said I want a TABLE!!!

When did we, as adults, lose the ability to have that kind of fun? When did sidewalk chalk become a mess desperately in need of some spray and wash instead of a wonderful rainbow of expression? Somewhere along the way we lose our way, but a "lucky" few of us have discovered the secret to child-like fun. (Are you ready for this?) Children!

Nothing gets you outside playing (read: cleaning) with bubbles and Play-Doh like children. There are the games of Hide-and-Seek that turn into Hide-and-Why-is-it-so-quiet-oh-crap-Seek. And something seems to go terribly wrong when a frazzled mother (like the ones in comic strips with frizzy hair circa Albert Einstein and crazy eyes) grabs a piece of sidewalk chalk at the end of a very long (long, long, long, long, long) day of (not so) quick errands (or torture).

Rain turns into a pond, with a duck and a fish, oh, a cloud, maybe a thunderstorm complete with lightning bolt and if you call now I'll throw in a badly drawn Zeus in the Parthenon (maybe?) for absolutely free! (But act now because we can't keep these deals around forever.) And it's entitled, "Zeus, Zeus's Wrath, and Uh Oh Duck". (Probably not bound for the Louvre, let's face it.)

Some people will say their children bring out the kid in them. I say Poppycock! Sometimes you just have to laugh so you won't cry.

And you may be right, I may be crazy, (Hey!) but we all may be a little crazy inside.



Dedicated in loving memory to William Homer Haskins, an eternal kid-at-heart.

A Word About Exhaustion and Time Travel.

When I was young, (back in the day) I thought I knew tired. I thought that tired and I were well acquainted from my many late nights spent with the internet. I had school and homework, extracurricular activities (boyfriend), important things to tend to (boyfriend), and a boyfriend (boyfriend). I had no idea what exhaustion was.

And now, five years, four moves, two point five kids and a dog, two deployments, innumerable mini-disasters (and a partridge in a pear tree) later, I am so tired that I've entered a whole new realm of exhaustion. A realm so powerful that it enables me to travel through time (that's to say nothing of the delirium and randomness that comes with complete and utter exhaustion). Or at least manipulate it at random (not at will though, unfortunately).

For instance, it's Friday now, but the last day I recall registering was... Wednesday(?). Time travel.

And also, I thought it may have been Saturday since time had managed to slow to a near stop. Time manipulation.

Basically, at any given time, it may be any given time. So, I'm going to hop in my Delorean (delirium) and go back! To the future!!

Remember the Tostitos Commercial?

People thrive off of human interaction. It's at the core of our beings. It's why we have created this rapidly growing market of internet phenomena. It's amazing how you can stalk someone from across the country (I'm watching you). In roughly 2.5 seconds, half of the world can know exactly what one person thinks or has to say (or how someone's boyfriend totally broke up her by text).

But even with all of these ways of communicating, the one we crave most is the good, old-fashioned face-to-face chat. Chatty Cathy's unite! This is even more important to the Stay-At-Home Mom. She is a completely different creature (sounds like a National Geographic documentary). She spends her days speaking Toddlerese (Interpreters needed!!!) and conversing with such important figures as Elmo and Dora the Explorer. (If I have to tell Swiper one more time, he's going to time out.) That is why mothers love (and I mean love) playgroups.

We'll tell you it's for the kids because we all know that they need to interact with other kids their age to learn social skills and they need to play and work out all that energy. I'll let you in on a little secret though, while that may be true, it's a lie. We go to playgroup to talk to other moms. Really just other people who don't pee themselves (a lot of parenting has to do with the bathroom. It really is a crappy job. Get it?) It's even better when Playgroup Mom commiserates with you.

Have you seen those moms at the park who are laughing hysterically and causing a ruckus in the process? They're probably stay-at-home moms who are just thrilled to be out of the house. The conversations usually go something like this:

"So this morning my son yelled at my daughter because she stole his cup," said Mom No.1

"I know! Mine did too!" Mom No.2 offers.

"Don't you hate it when they do that?" Mom No. 1 asks.

Previously unknown Mom No. 3 interjects, "Wow, mine do that too!!!"

Raucous laughter ensues.

And that will be the highlight of all three mom's days.

Remember that Tostitos commercial where three moms are eating chips talking about how getting the kids together is so wonderful? Then it cuts to the kids and there are three infants in car seats. That sums it up quite well. (said Mom No. 1 in her blog so someone can read it in 2.5 seconds)

Chatty Cathy's invited to the park on my block for raucous laughter and cupcakes.

Kites Are Fickle Things

Kite flying has long been regarded as a very pleasurable leisure time activity. Kites can be flown by children and adults, a single person or a whole family. In the Disney film, Mary Poppins, George Banks broke through the monotony of his British life by flying a kite. Perhaps kites are magic. Or, maybe they're just ambitious.

We flew our first kite of the year yesterday. Transformers. With a tail. We went to the field where the old aircraft are displayed. Good idea right? Plenty of room to fly and run and good parking. It was going great! The one-year-old wonder was wandering through the field, Grandpa was being Kite Flyer Extraordinaire, the boy was his apprentice (or as much of an apprentice as any three-year-old can be), and (I didn't know it yet, but) I was to become a World Class Sprinter.

The Apprentice got the reins and it was going well. He'd run with it and bring it back. We took pictures and video and laughed at the... HOLY COW, it's getting away!!! With near lightning speed, I was off, kicking off my shoes in mid-stride (you just can't run in Crocs), running as fast as my out of shape, Mommy legs would carry me. I finally caught up to it on the other side of the green airplane. I was very proud of myself for catching a rogue kite (until I learned the truth).

The Truth- The kite string had gotten caught on the tail of Green Airplane and the kite had gone on to the wing (kites are ambitious) where it could go no farther and hit the ground (where I proudly caught up to it...).

The kite was pulled down... not the string.

"Maybe I should call somebody to come get it down," I suggested.

"We're right here, they'll throw us in the Brig," Grandpa wisely replied.

"Oh, it's sunday. Nothing's open anyway," I recalled.

As of now, there's still a yellow kite handle blowing in the wind off the tail of a C-123K aircraft...

I'm just waiting for the sirens.

Give them a fish, they'll eat for a day. Teach them to fish and they'll run away

It's important to expose your children to nature. It's easy to do that in The Natural State. Arkansas boasts a roaring outdoor life (this article is in no way affiliated with the Arkansas Parks Department.) and a plethora of activities for the avid outdoorsman or even an over excited toddler spending time with his grandfather.

Today was the perfect day for fishing, if you're an adult. It was a little brisk for babies. However, the plan was to go fishing for the first time today, and we must not deviate from the plan. After loading up the car with provisions for every natural disaster ever known to take place and getting bait out of a vending machine, we set out for the lake.

I, myself did not have high expectations for this particular outing. In my mind, my son was grossed out by the worms, antsy and clumsy and fell in the water, while my daughter (who is a human garbage disposal) snacked on a few nice earthworms (they did come out of a vending machine) . So, getting a worm on a hook and the line in the water was already more than I had hoped for.

After about five minutes, he got his first bite. I know, five minutes! It takes me an hour to get anything! No luck, but the second bite was different.

I squealed and reached for the camera, taking many photos of exactly the same thing and of nothing of any consequence in my desire to document the entire occasion should anyone wish to relive it, the whole time, my son and my father were getting a fish out of the water and my daughter was thoroughly unamused. My son was beaming! Positively enraptured! Maybe the best moment of his whole life (all three years of it)!

"Caleb do you want to touch the fish?" we asked.

"Sure!" he said.

He put his hand on his wormy, squirmy rainbow trout and

"Eww!!! That's so gross! I gotta get out of here!" he said, and he ran away.

Someday when I touch my wormy, squirmy kids, I'm going to yell, "Eww!!! That's gross!! I gotta get out of here!" and run away...

The Perils of Laundry

Cleanliness is next to Godliness. If that's true, God's not been to my laundry room in quite some time. Of all my domestic duties, I despise laundry the most. So much so, that I've considered becoming a nudist. (I know, I know. Scary.)

When the clean clothes are almost gone and I begin thinking that gnomes are stealing my son's underpants, I start to think I should do laundry. But then I remember Monty Python and the Holy Grail and agree that "It's too perilous" and I should just "Run Away!!!"

It's not only the volume and frequency of loads that bothers me or the tediousness of folding every Lilliputian article of clothing in the Soiled Textile Mountain Range. It's dangerous. Not danger from an avalanche (although I've heard urban myths), but from little surprises and runaway socks.

Everyone has mathematical socks. Two socks plus one cycle equals one sock. (I firmly believe that "one cycle" is actually a negative value.) However, not many people have socks that actually run away. (Even my laundry doesn't want to do laundry.) One of my daughter's above mentioned Lilliputian socks has made it's way to Afghanistan. I'm pretty sure that little girl's gumballs socks are not military issue gear. I can only hope for the best.

The truly dangerous part comes from the child learning to toilet train. Oh Boy! Give them an inch and they'll take a mile, give them bowel independence and they'll give you poop in the laundry. My son had an accident one day and didn't tell me, just went and put on new underpants. I should be very proud of his initiative, but I'm not. Because... I was doing laundry about a week later and there, fossilized in a pair of Optimus Prime underwear was the poop in the laundry.

My laundry has just informed me that it's atheist so there's no need to be cleanly, which is good because it's really much too perilous!

Deployment Special

In honor of Adam reaching the correct -Stan, here's a heartwarming story involving deployments.

Children show their innocence in some amazing ways. It's never expected, and always amazing. They are terrific, loving little creatures, and say the darndest things.

Yesterday was our first phone card sponsored call from Afganistan. For a month, my husband has been in New Jersey for combat training (New Jersey in the middle of winter to prepare for the desert. Who thought of that???).

Since he's actually gone now, I was having a pretty hard day. I sat my son down and explained to him that I'm sorry I'm so grumpy, I'm just having a bad day because I miss Daddy a whole, whole lot.

"I give you a hug and a kiss, Mama!" was the response I got.

"That would be great, Bubba," I told him.

"A big smushy, squishy hug!!!" he said.

That may be the best hug I've ever gotten. I love children!!!

I tooted!

Children are honest, bless their little hearts. We love them for it, but sometimes wish they'd learn the art of the little white lie. Like when you're in line and your child says "That's a Big booty, Mama!", and there's nowhere to hide. If only we could teach our little Honest Abes a little discretion.

My son has a fascination with bodily functions (He's a boy. I'm told, that's what they do). It started innocently enough with a simple inquiry about a smell. After that, it was like everything was an attack on his olfactory sense. In fact, some smells were downright offensive to him.

When we were at home and someone passed gas, my son would ask, "What's that smell?" We would tell him that it's not nice to ask that, but he was nothing if not persistent.

So when we were in public and he smelled something a little off-color, he would ask, "What's that smell?" Again, we tried (naively I might add) to explain to him that it's really not polite to ask what that smell is.

We finally made progress while visiting his grandmother. She did what grandmas do and he, of course asked "What's that smell?" She told him she farted. No ifs, ands or buts about it. Just straightforward.

We told her of the plight that we had been experiencing concerning his animal-like sense of smell, and she did the only logical thing for a mother of grown children to do. She turned it around on him.

We went shopping and my son passed gas, his grandmother playfully asked, "What's that smell?" Without missing a beat, my son replied, "ME!!! I tooted! (giggles)".

He still asks what that smell is because he's a boy. But a wise man once said, "He who smelt it, dealt it."

I'm DONE!!!

Traditions are important. We all have some. Most of them are learned, but there are some that are just innate things we know and keep doing generation to generation. There is one tradition that has stood the test of time in my family.

Back in the eighties when things were more relaxed, we lived in a house that shared a driveway with my grandfather's business where my mother was the receptionist. I was around three and fairly independent so she would put on a recorded VHS (Remember when you could record six fuzzy hours of television and then accidentally tape over all of it?), and turn on the baby monitor.

Disclaimer: When I needed her or got hurt, she always ran to my aid (as demonstrated by the below story). This was in NO WAY child abuse.

There was one particular day which lives in infamy... still. A nice elderly woman came into the shop. She and my mother were discussing business when all of a sudden, "I'm Done!" The lady was surprised and my mother explained to her that I was next door, and the baby monitor was on to "I'M Done!", tell her when I needed anything. "I said I'M DONE!!!" And right now I needed some assistance in the bathroom.

So, the lady told her she better go help me and they giggled about it and she's been telling the story for 20 years.

So now, 20 years later, my son is toilet training and learning how to play pretend (a valuable skill at any age... either skill actually). He really likes to play robots. I was Momicron, he was Calebmus Prime and his daddy was Daddytron.

After the obligatory run through the house yelling "poop poop poop!!", there was silence for a few minutes and then all of a sudden, "WIPE MINE BUTT, DADDYTRON!!!"

So, I told Daddy that he better go help him and we giggled about it and I'll be telling that story for 20 years... much to the chagrin of Calebmus Prime.

Weekend Update- Privacy!!!

Parenting is a rough job. Anyone who has ever had toddlers knows that when they say they have to go, they really have to go, and nothing will get in the way. We try to teach them patience and to not fight, but sometimes it happens anyway. Like when three toddlers have to pee in two bathrooms.

We had our neighbors over and Ally, 3, had to pee, so Caleb, 3, had to pee also. When they ran inside, Alex, 5, of course had to go.

"Do you really have to pee," I asked.

"YES!" was the reply.

Well, who am I to judge.

We went inside to pee. By the time we got to the bathroom, Caleb and Ally both had their pants around their ankles and were pushing each other off the potty both trying to use it while the other was away from it. In the process of arguing over urination rights, Ally had put the potty seat on sideways so that when she sat down, the back of the seat fell into the toilet along with Ally's backside.

Caleb and Alex got sent to bathroom number two for their respective number-ones (numbers-one?). In a few seconds,

"When do I get to pee?" Alex

"Caleb, go pee." Me

"I already did..." Caleb

"Then pull up your pants, Alex, go pee now."

A few more seconds go by and the boys walk out of the bathroom, and Alex, in all of his five-year-old exuberance exclaims, "Finally some PRIVACY!!!"

Wait until he has kids, I've not had privacy in the bathroom in years.

Only Sometimes, Mommy.

Children are a blessing. A crazy, crazy blessing. Some days you can't hug them tight enough and at other times they are destined for a box on the curb labeled "Free to Good Home" or to a family of gypsies.

Being a stay-at-home mom may possibly be the hardest job on Earth. Don't laugh at me calling it a job. You get up at 6 am. You are a chef, maid, chauffer, teacher, aeronautical engineer (paper airplanes), hostage negotiator (stolen toys), and an event coordinator (playgroup anyone?).

If it's such difficult, thankless work, why do you do it? Because, in the midst of all the chaos, in the cyclone that hits your home everyday, there gleam tiny moments of sheer perfection.

Yesterday, my 15-month-old wobbled over to me, climbed up on my lap (they're always taking liberties with my lap), looked me in the eye, said "Mine!" and gave me a hug! How great is that? I've been claimed, which is good since my 3-year-old has informed me that "Mommy, sometimes I love you."

"Only sometimes?" I asked him.

"I love you sometimes," he told me again.

"I love you sometimes too," I agreed. Just wait until those gypsies get here.