My Kid is a Little Creepy

2 05 2010

As you know, Little G’s birthday was yesterday. It was a great day. We went to the aquarium, had pizza and cupcakes, and Grandma and Grandpa bought him a water/sand play table. It was in the 40s and raining, so we temporarily put it in the garage and filled the whole thing with water. Awesome, right? Little G loved it.

Here’s the thing. I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to have nightmares about Little G’s laugh. Seriously. He sounds like a crazed killer clown or something, and he’s doing it all the time now. It’s not just me, right? This is creepy.

Sweet dreams, my lovelies!


My Little Marilyn Manson

15 04 2010

Big G has a cousin who’s 3 years older than him, so we get a good amount of hand-me-downs. This works out nicely since we’re poor. The only drawback to this plan? My nephew, Gigantor, the 6-year-old boy who is almost as tall as his mother. Admittedly, I have been known to call my sister-in-law “Shrimpy McShrimp,” but still.

When I pulled out the summer clothes this week, I discovered a total of two short-sleeved shirts. I was terribly confused until a phone call to my brother clarified the situation–Gigantor grew so quickly that he completely skipped 4T summer clothes. Which means–yay! I get to buy clothes for my son! Also, boo! I have to buy clothes for my son! I dislike this situation, because it confuses my priorities. I need to shop! I need to save money! But my son needs clothes! But I’m so poor! I don’t need this stress.

Since temperatures are in the 70s now, I decided Big G probably needs a few t-shirts, like, yesterday, so I set off to Shopko. It’s much closer to my house than Wal-Mart, but not at all less frightening.

Big G is now of an age where I can start poking around the boys’ clothing rather than the toddler sizes. Fun, right? Yeah, not so much. I am, quite frankly, horrified by the options available to my 4-year-old. First up, we have the “Peter Steele died so I won’t be leaving my room for the next week” look:

Would I have to dye his hair black, too?

Next up, we have the “I’m a damn hippie” look:

At least I wouldn't have to cut his hair!

I’ve always been a fan of the “It’s never too early to contemplate death” look:

And last, but certainly not least, the “Train a child up” look:

Did I happen to mention that my son is FOUR? I realize I’m probably reading too much into all of this, and I need to loosen up, but really?

I do continue to be grateful for my boys. I’d much rather contend with this:

Available in sizes 6 months to 5T!

Than this:

Available in sizes 7 to 16!

Odds and Ends

14 04 2010

First I’d like to thank everyone for your input on the whole “what should I call my husband” issue. I’ve decided to ignore all of you and just call him “Car.” If you know him, that makes sense. If you don’t, it probably sounds really weird, but I’m okay with that.

Next order of business: I’m disappointed to report that Pixi Boggle will not let me use the word penis. How is the word penis worse than anus? I’m so confused. Also, thanks to my blog, I now know that “anus” ranks in Car’s top 20 least favorite words. Regular readers and close friends will understand that I feel morally obligated to use the word anus as often as possible from now on.

I pulled weeds for 2 hours today. That may not sound like a lot, but I have the health problems of an 80-year-old (Arthritis! Tennis Elbow! Plantar Fasciitis!*) and will probably be crippled tomorrow. (Did you like the exclamation points? I feel like they made my physical complaints sound more interesting.)

I think the last time I pulled weeds was about…oh, 5 years ago. Possibly longer. But I looked at my tulips desperately trying to peek out from the weeds, and guilt got the better of me. The only thing sadder than tulips made invisible by weeds? Discovering said tulips were apparently propped up by the weeds, and are now lying limply on the dirt.

Whilst pulling weeds, I ran across this:

I showed it to Big G, who promptly demanded we find the snake. Here’s the thing–I don’t have a problem with garden snakes. They eat bugs, and I despise bugs with the fiery passion of a thousand suns. So snakes = good. My sole issue with snakes is that they tend to scare the crap out of me. I’ll be staring at some flowers, or pulling some weeds, and BAM! SNAKE! (If this wasn’t a family-friendly blog, I would totally have a Samuel L. Jackson moment right now.)

I startle easily. I’m like a deer that way. Plus I have big, brown eyes. And a tendency to leap in front of moving vehicles, but that’s a whole separate post.

Can you tell I really don’t know where I’m going with this? Cut me some slack. It’s almost 3 am.

I gave Big G a bottle of bubbles to play with while we were outside. Little G, of course, had to pour them out all over the porch. You’d think he killed Big G’s favorite puppy from the horrified screams that issued forth. Then Little G grabbed the bubble wand and put it up by his lips. I thought, “Oh, how cute! He’s going to try to blow bubbles like his brother!” Obviously the physical activity addled me considerably, because I think anyone over the age of 5 can guess what happened next: he put the bubble wand in his mouth. Which leads to:

Today’s proof that I’m a terrible mother.
1. I giggled when Little G coughed and gagged. Hey, bubbles are non-toxic.
2. I also giggled when our dog, Tigger** (leashed to one of the posts in the front yard) did a left-to-right sweep and clotheslined both kids.
3. I took a nap when Car got home from work at 6 pm.
4. I let Big G have Chex Mix for breakfast.

I could keep going, but I have to get out of bed in 4 hours…and I’m not even in bed yet. I’d promise a better post tomorrow, but I don’t want to get your hopes up.

*The WordPress dictionary believes I have Plantar Fascists.
**I don’t even want to discuss what WordPress thinks my dog is named. What’s wrong with these people?

Not As I Do

8 04 2010

Muffin and I, like many parents, have a nightly bedtime routine with the kids. It helps the kids settle down, plus it’s a nice way to sit down as a family and read a few stories. Here’s what I saw at the beginning of a recent bedtime:

Big G, grabbing Little G’s hand: “Stop hitting yourself! Stop hitting yourself! Stop hitting yourself!”

As I tried really hard to not laugh, Muffin looked at me and said, “Gee, I wonder where he learned that.”

My kids are always watching me. Sometimes (like, say, when I’m using the bathroom) this is a little bit creepy. (Yes, I close the door, but they’re still there. To make sure I remember that, they shove things under the door at regular intervals.) It’s like I’m on Big Brother but never actually gave consent. The hardest part? I’m human. I make stupid mistakes. I say things that ought not be repeated, and yet there they are, like little tape recorders.

The upside? It’s not just me. One night I had a chat with Muffin about not using the word “butt” in front of the kids, and he informed me that he was very careful about what he said in front of the kids. As we stood up to walk into the living room, he picked up Little G and said, “Somebody has a stinky butt!”


At least I know he’s paying attention.

22 03 2010

I was roughhousing with Big G today, which of course ended in tickles. As I tickled him, he fell on the floor and bumped his arm. It was, of course, completely my fault: “Mom! You hurt me!” I love these moments, because they’re always tinged with the idea that I did it on purpose. I apologized profusely, and this was his reply:

“You hurt me when you tickled me. That was a bad thing to do. You should have listened to God.”

Of course, being the stellar mom that I am, when he was bugging me later in the day I said, “I’m pretty sure God is telling me that you need to play somewhere else.”

So are any of you going to nominate me for mom of the year, or should I just put my own name in?