My Kids' Favorite Four Letter Word

I've come to the realization that my kids don't know their heads from their asses. 

Dempsey farts and says he burped.  I correct him.  "Oh.  I want to do it again!"

I tell Grady to sit down.  He stands on his head.  And says, "Sit down is my middle name mom."  

Ha.  No one sits in this family.  It's a dirty word around here.  A four letter word.  Ohhhh, he sits.

People sometimes ask me how I do it?   Manage the triple threat. Our neighbor asked me, just this week.  He said he thinks we'd have to be drunk all the time.  I think he sits at his front window.  Analyzing our recycling bin.

Then there's the ice cream truck.   Always in our neighborhood.  It sits.  And waits.  For us to be begged to death and poked at with wooden swords.   Having our money stolen from us by thirty pound members of the official Triple Threat Gang.  

Except for the day when I desperately want it to sit in front of our house.  The day the Triple Threat Gang starts asking at 6am when the truck of frozen treats will be arriving.   

It doesn't show up that day.  Mostly likely it sits.  In another neighborhood.  Avoiding our children.  Because it knows.

Instead, the Edible Arrangements truck arrives.  With flashy pictures plastered on its' side.  To deliver a gift to the neighbors.  For putting up with us.  The picture looks like huge bouquets of ice pops.  And while the truck clearly reads Edible Arrangements, to my illiterate children it clearly states, kill me for ice cream.  Lillian shrieks violently while Dempsey runs directly into the path of the still moving vehicle, screaming "ice cream! ice cream!"  Dempsey is what we refer to as super illiterate.  Kill you...Kill me...same difference.   Grady, armed with a green plastic knife, bikes furiously over to the truck.  "I'm going to kill you!"  He shouts.  And all this time I'm simply trying to have a normal conversation on the phone with my mother-in-law.  She hangs up when she hears, "kill you!"  and "Grady, drop the knife!"  But don't worry, she always calls back.

Okay.  So I know this sounds terribly awesome awful.  A two year old.  Committing ice creamicide.  A homicidal three year old.  With a knife.  Going after some poor guy who's just trying to deliver some fruit on a stick.  To the unfortunate neighbors who have to tolerate these pint sized beasts everyday.  But really, who hasn't had a moment when they would kill for some ice cream?  We've all been there right?

So then there's me.  Holding the green plastic knife.  As the bearer of fruit bouquets scrambles back to safety.

I scream, you scream, who kills sits for ice cream? 

A day in the life.  Of us.  Where no one sits.  Not even for ice cream.

And that is how we offed the Edible Arrangements guy.

Crabs for Mother's Day

Her first radiation treatment was May 17th, 2012.  Her last wish, before the treatments began, was to eat steamed crabs for Mother's Day.  She ate them.  And so did I.  They were fabulous.  And so was she.  My mom.

She had a sore spot on her throat.  It only bothered her when she ate tomatoes.  Or drank Coors Lite.  She thought it was just an annoyance.  A boo boo that would go away.  It didn't.

It was cancer.  Then came the surgeries.  And the claustrophobic mask fittings.  To ensure the rest of her face wasn't subjected to the harsh rays.  She endured radiation. Hospitalizations.  And months on a feeding tube.  Endless doctor's appointments.   Exhaustion.  The inability to talk on the phone.  A near daily occurrence for us.  Before.

She was unable to work.  Or keep her beloved grandchildren for sleepovers.   It was hard for her to swallow.  Anything.  Even water.  Her mouth was burned.  Her throat was burned.  But she didn't give up. 

Today,  Mother's Day 2013, she ate steamed crabs.  And so did I.  They were fabulous.  And so was she.  My mom.


To my mother on Mother's Day,

I didn't ask to be born.  But boy am I glad I was.  Thank you for creating me.  Thank you for carrying me.  Thank you for giving birth to me.

Thank you for hugging me.  And kissing me.  Thank you for showing me right from wrong.  And to always say 'please' and 'thank you'.  You led by example.

Thank you for teaching me.  Lots of things.  Like the importance of a hand written thank you note.  And how to smile.  At everyone.  Even when you may want to punch a couple of them in the face.

Thank you for always believing that the glass is half full.  I can't imagine life any other way.  But full.  I know that mine is.  Because of you.

Thank you for cursing me.  With multiple children that act exactly like me.  I couldn't live without them.  For they have made me a mother. 

Thank you for telling me to never doubt myself or my beliefs.  That is why I never doubted you.

Thank you for setting rules and curfews.  Making me roll my eyes.  And let's be honest, driving me absolutely crazy.  I guess I can't blame it on the children after all.

Thank you for all of the unsolicited advice.  I didn't want it.  But now I realize, I desperately needed it.  Now I'm glad I held onto it.  In my heart.  Most of it anyway.  I wish I would have written the rest of it down.

Thank you for making me feel okay about driving my own children crazy.  I know they will thank me one day.  Just like I am thanking you.

Thank you mom.  For eating steamed crabs today.  Happy Mother's Day.


Love,

Lisa
Love You More Than All The Tea In China
xxxxxxooooo

 

I'm Old. Blah.

I am old.  I turned 35 exactly 11 days ago.  Not that I'm counting.  The first time that 35 smacked me in the face was at my semi annual dental check up.  I was 35 and 3 days old.  The hygienist hit me up with a periodontal exam. At first I giggled.  "I've never had this test before.  This must be because I'm old right?"  She giggled.  Bitch.

When I was 35 and 8 days old, I discovered a bunion on my foot.  Yes, a bunion.  The world's most disgusting.word.ever.  I can't believe I'm even admitting to it.  I convinced myself that my feet were just getting skinnier.  And the bones were protruding.  When I was 35 and 9 days old, I glared at it.  I did this instead of reading books to the children.  I didn't even feed them.   Eh.  Who can eat when your mom has a bunion anyway?  At the end of 35 and 10 days old, I realized that I will be asking Lillian to rub my bunion.  For a quarter.  A whole quarter!   I'll just call her Rusty.  For this story's sake.  And I'll give Audrey Grady a quarter too.  See, I knew I wasn't wasting my time watching National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation over. and over. and over again.  I can finally put that knowledge to good use.  Now that I'm 35.  And 11 days old.  And know that it's acceptable to ask someone to rub your bunion for a quarter.  Because they do it in the movies.

My children have sucked the life out of my boobs.  And pooped it right out.  My boobs have gone right into the Diaper Genie II.  That bitch.  Some genie you are.

There are spider veins on my thighs.  My thighs and I?  We were just starting to get along.  And spiders?  We've always gotten along!  What have I ever done to you?  But let you live in my home.  And eat my pests.  Children included.  Now?  You suck.  I'm stamping out every single one of you.  From this day forward.  You can mark it in your calendar, 35 years and 11 days old.  Bitches.  I'd be happy to have a mosquito bite me in the boob right about now.  Who needs you Mrs. Spider!

My gray hair is multiplying like our children.  I used to blame it on Sean.  He rubs his head against mine while I'm sleeping at night.  I swear that he does.  Now I blame it on the children.  And my boobs.  And the spiders.  And the fact that I'm 35 and 11 days old.

So what do I love about 35?  I love that I don't care so much about what other people think of me.  I love my family.  I love my kids.  I love my husband.  I love my job.  Even if my bosses are constantly full of shit.  Whose aren't?  I love my home.  I love my life.  And...I love my butt.  Especially since I make an ass out of myself.  Every.single.day.  But who cares?  I'm 35.  And 11 days old.

Take that 35.

And the butt that I love so much.  Okay, so maybe it's not really mine.  But it's totally awesome right?

One Hundred Boys

Lillian   Mom.  If you had a hundred boys, would you freak out?

Grady   When I'm a grown up and  have one hundred boys, I'll freak out. 

Grady    And if I have one thousand?  My house will pop out!

 

 

 

Yes, boys do make me freak out.  But then, so does a girl. 

Thursday was a rough day for the girl...and the boys. 

Lillian refused to get out of the van.  Again.  When I dropped her off at school.

Grady got sent to the office.  For repeatedly discussing Mr. Potato Head's butt.

And Dempsey got written up for taking flying leaps from the top of the sliding board.

We rolled up to the 'kiss and go' line of Lil's school.  She 'kissed' me.  But didn't 'go'.  Again.  The assistant principal and guidance counselor were called in for back up.  They glanced at the lump of a kindergartner balled up on my minivan floor as my two, make me want to freak out, boys sat clueless.  Possibly discussing Mr. Potato Head's butt. And plots of leaping off of the sliding board at their shared school.  Then they probably moved onto writing their book, The Dummies Guide to Freaking Out Your Mother.

Lillian relented with the carrot of being featured on the video morning announcements. 

Turns out she missed her chance.  The announcements were over by the time she made it inside.  Because she kissed but didn't go.

She was promised the opportunity for the next morning.  Today.  This morning.  Which also happened to be 'Dress for Success Day'.  She was to be the 'Dress for Success' model.

Everyday in our house is 'Dress for Success Day'.  If you're dressed, it's a success.  But Lil's school had something else in mind.   They were supposed to dress as if they were showing up for a job interview.  Lil wanted to wear 'nice jeans'.   I told her it had to be a dress or a skirt.  She compromised.  How about a dress over 'nice jeans'?   That makes mommy want to do a keg stand.  Moving on.

We discuss reasons why she doesn't want to go to school.   She tells us about a mean kid.  For anonymity purposes, I'll refer to him as Ihopehepeeshisbedtonight.  Lil tells us that Ihopehepeeshisbedtonight called her friend 'stupid'.  We tell her to stick up for her friends.  "That's why we chase Ihopehepeeshisbedtonight on the playground mom."  She rocks.  I want to be her friend.

We talk about treating others how you would like to be treated.  Sean points out that mommy and daddy follow this rule and we have many friends.  "You don't have any friends daddy.  Uncle Ryan is your only friend."  Lil retorted.  Okay, so maybe daddy is a bad example.  But mommy has lots of friends!  Think about all those people she talks to everyday!  There's that Fed Ex guy.  Her friend that delivers the mail.  And that person who comes to check the meter!  And don't forget about mommy's special friend, Mr. Beer!  Never mind.  Mommy sucks too.

In the end, Lillian wore a dress to school.  Without the jeans.  Grady kissed Mr. Potato Head's butt and they made up.  And Dempsey promised to never, ever, go to school again.  Mommy and daddy still have no friends.  But there's always beer.



Now that's a butt I'd want to kiss.

The Things My Kids Bring Home From School

So I'm all about sending our kids to Catholic preschool.  They learn to pray, hang out with Father Jeff, meet a couple of nuns, and get free rosaries.  Grady really loves the free rosaries.  He also loves to pick up random things that don't belong to him.  Like sharp objects, car keys, mail from the neighbors' mailboxes, used chewing gum, and um, this...

This is what I found in Grady's school folder last week.  I slammed that sucker shut so fast the wind of it nearly forced that brochure to flutter to the ground.  In front of all the other mothers.  The one's whose children do not have pornography literature in their backpacks.  I snuck another peek.  Yup.  That's what I thought it said.  I checked again.  Yup.  Still says it.   I'm pretty sure Grady pilfered it from the church's book rack during his class's Mass day.  And stashed it in his backpack.   I think he was pissed that Father Jeff told the kids to stop plucking flowers from the plants that decorate the church.  So instead of plucking flowers, he plucked a pornography brochure.  Take that Father Jeff. 

So all this pornography stuff got me thinking about worms.  It's worm season again.

They're breaking into our home.  All shriveled up.  Dempsey carries them around the house and then tosses them into puddles in the backyard.  To freshen them up a bit.  Then he preserves them in plastic baggies.  Lillian and Grady hook them onto their fishing rod.  And go fishing.  In the beer cooler.

All this time I spend thinking about pornography and worms, got me thinking about erectile dysfunction.  Or maybe it was just that damn commercial that constantly replays on my favorite Sirius radio channel.   The one I listen to repeatedly.  In the van.  With the kids.  Not even noticing that our entertainment is a commentary on dysfunctional penises.  Because I'm too busy daydreaming about worms and pornography.  Until one day Lillian asks, "Mom, what is ED?"  Well sweetie.  It's a story about worms.   And how they Eat Dirt.  Grady will show you the brochure.

  

A Dose of Reality

If I get called a 'babypoopyhead' one more time...by a baby, poopy head... someone is going down.  And it won't be this 'babypoopyhead'.  I'm sure I've been called worse in the past.  And I'm sure I will be called worse in the future.  But this 'babypoopyhead' thing?  It's driving me to poop.   On my head.  And think it's okay.  Since I am a baby after all.  And because really, most days, what is the difference between my head and a toilet?   Not much.  Both are full of crap.  And scream to be cleaned. 

Boys have super human strengths.  They can snap the blade right off of a ceiling fan. 

And where was I, you might ask?  Pooping. 

They blamed it on this guy.

But I'm pretty sure it was this one.

Or quite possibly this one.

They also have a way with words.  No, you may not go into a public bathroom by yourself.  You are a pain in the butt mom.

And so are you.  We'll call it even.

They can apologize.  Sorry mom, I might have wiped some snot on you when you buckled me in.

They boast about you to their friends.  My mom drives really fast.

They know how to entertain a friend.  When we get home, we can throw my sister's clothes all over the house and then we can pee on the floor!

They are always trying to help out.  I don't help anyone on Sundays.  It's not Sunday.  What?  What day is it?  It's Monday.  I don't help anyone on Mondays. 

Yeah, me neither.  Let's go throw your sister's clothes all over the house and pee on the floor.

I have visions. Visions of the future.  When they're all grown up.  Married.  And tortured by children of their own.  Then I have Lillian to bring me back to reality.

Mom, can you imagine Dempsey when he's all grown up?  He'll be runnin' all over the place.  No one will want to marry him.   Thanks Lillian.   Because what are girls for?  A dose of reality.  And boys?  The reality that you need a lot of doses. 

She can't blame it all on the boys.

Because they learned it from watching her.


 

Her prodigies.



Camp Twistypants

That first wiggly tooth.  I couldn't help but check.  Every.day.  Before a single tooth was even wiggly.  But then one wiggled.  Finally.  And I got all wiggly inside.

Lil was going to lose her first tooth.  Three weeks after it first wiggled.

Lillian began teething at three months old.  At Camp Twistypants.  An annual camping tradition, with many beloved friends, on Labor Day weekend.  I can't tell you why it's call Camp Twistypants.  I'd have to kill you.  But I can tell you, pants get twisted.  And pants come off.   Lillian was conceived there.  So it was only fitting that her first tooth would erupt in that exact same spot.  On a 370 acre Christmas tree farm.  In a tent.

The night before her tooth fell out, I tried to pull it out.  I was that excited.  And so was she.

She climbed up into the bathroom sink.  "I'll be in charge of pulling out the tooth."  Grady told us.  I put him in charge of the camera instead.  This is what we got...

A big, black ass.

No idea who this guy is.

How does he keep getting back in?

I told her to jiggle it.  Front and back.  Side to side.   I suggested she twist it.   I tried to grasp it with toilet paper.  Clean, of course.  You never know in this house.  I yanked it with tweezers.  I fed her an apple.  I roped it with dental floss.  And pulled.  I squeezed her neck.  Hey, like I said, you never know.   She got mad.  Then I sat my big, black ass down.  And gave up.

 

 

 

The tooth fell out the next day.  At school.  Lil came home with it.  In a tiny, blue treasure chest.  Taped shut.  I warned her.  Do not untape the box.  Do not show it to your brothers.  Hide it.

 

Grady begged.  "Please tell me where you're going to put it!" 

 

Lil headed up the stairs.  She turned to me and said, "Mom, he looks like he's thinking of a plan to get it!  Look at his face!"

 

Grady found it.  Separated the treasure from its' chest.  And lost it.   I found it.  Lillian hid it again.  Dempsey found it.  And took his turn losing the tooth.

 

My mom, the infamous nanny, texted me that night.

 

Nanny  And did u have her rinse several times with warm salted water?

 

Me       No, you nut ball.

 

Nanny  That is what u r supposed to do...just like I did 4 u when u were little...u nut ball.

 

Moral of the story?  Pants get twisted.  Pants fall off.  Teeth get twisted.  Teeth fall out.  And without pants and teeth...we're all a little bit nutty.  At least that's what I keep telling myself.