The Sharts

Do you treat them as a poo accident or cut the kid some slack?

P.A.M.I.L.A.

A week ago now I emailed my MIL and asked if we were still going to see her in March. She had made a big deal with "pencil me in! Are you doing it right now? Are you done yet? Am I penciled?"

"Yes, you're penciled." But not literally. I did not actually write anything down, because if my MIL picks out a particular weekend and tells me she coming A) the threat is enough to keep me from forgetting, and B) I don't actually believe her.

She has seen the Cracker twice since he was born: at 5 months and at 28 months. She lives 6 hours away by car, and likes to tell me about how she can fly here on Southwest $28 one-way. All talk, no action.

"Has he changed? Will I notice a change in him?"

No, developmentally he'll be the same kid at 4 that you last saw at 2 and not quite a half. He's just taller now.


So she makes this really big deal, informs me of the who (just her), the when (March 15-18th), the where (my house), and then I didn't hear from her again, at all. Finally she calls two weekends ago and J answers the phone. Did she mention the penciled visit? No, not a word. And of course J forgot to ask .

(Sorry, I’m distracted by the neighbor’s puppy across the street who is strutting up and down the fence line with a big ol tumbleweed in her mouth. It’s freaking adorable.)

So, to recap quickly: MIL informs me she’s coming to visit. Weeks go by without any contact. She calls, talks to J, doesn’t mention the visit. I e-mail her and ask nicely “Are we still going to see you in March?” More time elapses. She e-mails J today and again doesn’t mention it.

Why do I even care? Because I am trying to book a flight, and it turns out that the best time for us to go includes part of the days she’s selected. It’s too late to call her now and I have a sinking feeling that the fare will go up $400 at midnight when it becomes less than 14 day advance notice. (I forgot about stupid short February.) And I KNOW she’s not coming, but I have to pretend that this time will be different just because she’s the mother of my husband, and if the Cracker ever sees me they way J does her I will be devastated.

(And it was far too windy to play outside today. That always puts me in a foul mood.)

I care because I’m tired of playing this game with her. She picks arbitrary dates in the future 3-4 times a year, tells me she’s buying tickets and that she’ll call with the details in less than 24 hours, and then doesn’t. It’s not that I don’t like her, and I try my best to make her feel welcome because I want her to be a part of my child’s life, but my patience has worn thin. Her relationship with J is strained to say the least so the effort I make is for his sake as well.

“Why does she do this? And why do I let her get to me?”
”It’s the whole passive aggressive thing. Nothing’s changed.”

This brings me to our old code name for her, Pamela, which dates back to our newlywed days. Passive Aggressive Mother In Law Attacks. (Okay, so it’s not perfect acronym, but I was a friggin teenager.)

Further proof that we are evil: we did get a laugh at her expense today. In the e-mail she sent J, which he forwarded to me, she has added a new signature line:
“(Business name) coordinator #32,864”
Pyramid scheme, anyone?*



*Which reminds me of a bumper sticker I saw recently "Mary Kay: Enriching Women's Lives.” I don’t wear face paint more than once a year because I am far too lazy, but really? Enriching women’s lives? And I stupidly wonder why the princess thing has gone from an innocent game of make believe to so out of control that it’s hard to find a 0-3 mos Carter’s outfit that doesn’t say “Princess” on it somewhere. (But more on that another day.)

I Have No Words

Today's Parenting Lesson

Your child does something they aren't supposed to do. They knew that it was a no-no, but they did it anyway. You know they did it. Hell, you may or may not be sitting right in front of evidence; you may have actually stopped them in the act. Doesn't matter.

"Did you just wipe poo off your tushie with your stuffed bunny?"
"No."
"I saw you."
"Nope, it wasn't me."
"Honey, it's very important that you tell me the truth. I'm not mad, but I need you to be honest with me."
"But I didn't do it Mommy."
"If you didn't then who did?"
"Hmmm...I don't know."

And they are the suckiest liars ever. Their faces are this weird mix of guilt for the act and doubt as to whether or not you’re going to buy what they're trying to sell. Go ahead, ask until you're blue in the face, but the answer ain't changing.

"No."

But, ask them why and the suckers crack immediately. It totally worked.

"Because he's soft, and he was alweady in my hand, and I didn't know where the toiwet paper was."
"The toilet paper is right here, on the roll, where we always keep it."
"Oopsies!"


So, thank you mothers on the internet who've BTDT. Keep it coming.

Oh, we're poop trained now

Why didn't I say anything before? Because regression is inevitable. Seven glorious weeks without a single (not one!!!) accident and we're back to dirty drawers.

So now I can talk about it.

"Mommy mommy! I went poo all by myself!"
And you've already pulled up your pants = skid marks. (moan)
"That's great honey. Let's go wipe."
"I alweady did!" Pauses and then sticks out thumb. "But my thumb is dirty.........it has poo on it."
Visible poo.

Now, take that exact same scenario, fast forward a week, and replace thumb with pinky finger, and you have the second time it happened.

I am now attempting to cut his nails every other day.

Another Embarrassing Moment, Batteries Included

Whenever my parents visit my Dad is delighted to take on any job that needs doing around the house. And because he takes pride in his work the guy won't quit until it's friggin perfect. It's just...awesome. My dear husband, on the other hand, puts so much energy into bitching and moaning even if I'm not nagging about the prospect of having to do something that he exhausts himself to the point that he needs a nap before he can even begin, and so begins the process again the following weekend.

So last weekend my Dad asks if there is anything else, anything at all, that I'd like him to look at before they left. Yes, I have a clock that has never worked right.

"Let's start with a new battery."

So I go into our bedroom and reappear with AAs.

"Uh, actually it takes AAAs."

No sweat. Thinking nothing of it I head off in the opposite direction for J's office where all the other batteries are kept.

J, witness to it all, is dying.

And did he cover for me? Noooooo.

Bad husband.

Then, to rub it in, he makes me watch that episode of Coupling where the guys keep telling Steve to check out Susan's remotes.

In case you were wondering, yes, I still find ways to embarrass myself. It's a talent, really.

CRAP

Apparently the new skin is not working well and I am now having publishing problems. So yes, there is a reason you keep seeing the same post published and pulled hundreds of times. The darn preview no longer works and I can't tell if I've made any improvement until I publish. This sucks.

We Take Pleasure in the Little Things

"Hey Mommy, wanna know somefing weally funny? I'm pooped means you is tired! Bahahahaha!"
"Where did you learn that?"
"Dragon Tales on PBS Kids."

Everything I Know About HTML I Learned in 1996

Please forgive me as I try to ditch the ugly template I never really liked and can no longer stand.

How to Keep 12 Kids Amused for 99 cents

1 can shaving cream

I Demand the Return of My Living Room

Back in early December J and the Cracker hauled out all the Thomas crap and began construction on their biggest project ever. Over a period of weeks I watched the affected area of my living room grow. At first it was really cute to watch them, my two sons, discussing layout changes and playing trains, but as days turned into weeks it the damn thing kept spreading out and the cuteness faded long before their interest.

"Is it okay if I take this down?"
"NOOOOO!" "NO MOMMY NO!"
Arugh.
"Well, couldja kinda rework things a little, maybe move the roundhouse and the engine wash so that there's a path into the bedroom?"
"Uh, no! Do you know how long it took us to come up with this configuration?"

Sadly, I do.

(multiple nights in the preceding weeks)
"I'm going to bed, wink wink."
Picking my way around the above-mentioned obstacles I realize that my loving husband has not made a move.
"You coming?"
"I can't."
"Huh?"
"I think I may have figured out how to fix blah blah blah! You see the way it is now, blah blah blah, you get forced in this direction blah blah blah can't turn around to go back to blah. So I'm thinking that if can rework blah blah then blah blah and blah blah flow!"
(He looks up at me, big ass smile, oh so pleased with the plan.)
"Are you fucking kidding me? Sex! You'd rather play trains by yourself in the dark than have sex?"
"I'll be there in a little while."
"What you're not getting is that this is a limited time offer."


Yesterday I had one of my I've-had-it! moments and I declared (to no one other than myself) the branch lines of Sodor relocated to a more out of the way location where I will not trip over them quite so often.

Compounding my frustration is the fact that we have an actual playroom off our living room. (In the model they called it the formal dining room, but I find I love my family more when I'm not cleaning food off carpet.) When you walk into our home the first thing you see is the living room ahead of you. It isn't until you get halfway down the entry hall that you realize there is a playroom on your left as well. I like it like that: the toys are all in his reach, I can keep track of him from the LR or the kitchen, but you cannot see the chaos from the front door.

So why isn't it in the playroom? Because the configuration spans 8 feet, 2 inches by 7 feet, 1 inch.

Welcome to my nightmare.

Not even daring to take a breath I ever so carefully, section by section, begin moving the land of Sodor from one end of the living room to the other, cursing myself that I did not remember to first take a few digital pictures in case I accidentally rip it all apart and cannot figure out how to get it back together just so. Simultaneously I applaud myself for not buying more track for them at Christmas.

(Even with my 50% any one item at Michael's coupon I just could not bring myself to spend $1/inch for a few curved pieces.) (Most of our track is generic Imaginarium BOGOHO or the retired plastic yet compatible "Interactive Thomas" I bought on clearance 2 years ago at Target and later at Ross for a few pennies an inch.)

I move it to the corner recently vacated by our holiday tree. Crap, it doesn't even really fit there either. Should have measured first.

I spend the next hour wiggling it around the LR, a little to one side then the other, trying to figure out if minor adjustments will suddenly open up a fat path for foot traffic.

No.

Pissed and mentally exhausted, I get up and look around. Hmmm...maybe if I move the couch and the big chair...

Forty-five minutes and no solution later my mind yells out "WFT are you doing rearranging your living room furniture for Thomas and Friends? This is bullshit! You have totally lost your mind woman! (But, on the plus side, maybe I'll leave it this way for the night. Having the couch smack dab in front of the TV like that would give us a much clearer shot for throwing Pirate's Booty at the President during his address. Decisions, decisions...)

Google Me

I know I suck. The last month has been a flurry of illness, birthdays, get to the dentist/optometrist before the end of the year appointments, travel, record breaking snow and a little more illness. I just logged in and found a bunch of posts I don't remember even writing that I never published. (See below.)

Ahh! The holidays!

But I am here now, thank you notes not even started, inspired by the fact that I just checked for the first time in forever what searches have brought people's asses to my blog and found a fairly good one: renuzit room spray with a penis on the can.

Sweet.

(You can't see it, but I am swelling with pride. At press time I am the third link down on the first page. The first page!)

I originally got the idea from DGM. (Except don't follow the link yet, because then mine really suck in comparison.) Sometimes I will spend way too much time getting as far as page 20-something before I give up trying to find how "super glue locks rock-hard" brought them here of all places. It's amazing how quickly these things get buried if I don't check them, like, that day.

And for the most part the search terms aren't all that weird: I get a surprising number of hits from shoes I've mentioned, though the majority are along the lines of "poo stained panties" which has lead me to conclude that there isn't a lot of graphic potty training vents on the net. Shame.

Most of my favorites are from Ask.com, where I am/was supposedly a good resource to answer:

Where can I find Aloe Vera gel and how to use it on hair?
Will a jell dildo go through airport security?
Where can i find a monkey hitting himself in the head?
The inside of my belly button has a red rash and burning feelin (no G, which somehow makes it better)

And a few of the other stranger ones:

Sugar ants in dirty laundry
32A July (Thank you...that would be my old bra size)
why adults and teenagers would wear diapers on purpose
sex w/pumpkins
male bedroom finished in animal print
unpotty training
rash from alberta spruce

Happy New Year!

and more snow pictures of my kid.

My First Sled

Happy Holidays!*

(*Becuase the "The War on Christmas" makes me giggle.)



(And yes, I really need to learn to use Photoshop, which I even own, so that I won't revert to back to Paint. Hand drew the eyes and nose on the cards I sent, but I wish I could have used a mini carrot instead.)

You Say Farolito, I Say Luminaria

(And if you're not overly familiar with the Southwest you say "WTF?")

(And if you're my husband, you just call them "flaming bags o poo.")

So what the heck are farolitos/luminarias/fbops? From dictionary.com: "A votive candle set into a small, decorative paper bag weighted with sand and placed in a row with others along a walkway, driveway, or rooftop as a holiday decoration."





(Or you can buy electric ones with clear C9 Christmas lights and plastic bags from Walmart.)


This year I made J and the Cracker take me to Santa Fe on Christmas Eve so we could do the Farolito Walk.

Wow! Even J was impressed, and he was not all that thrilled to go hang outdoors past sunset with temps in the teens when he could be inside playing computer games. It was that amazing.

So we walked, we drank ponche, sang some carols, did the ooh and ahh thing. We even came across a Papa Noel who was giving out Beanie Babies to all the kids just cause he was cool like that.







The Cracker was gifted a bald eagle, which he insists is a penguin because of it's black and white and not a panda and not a zebra. (Go figure: he was so totally over Happy Feet after the first hour.)


















There are bonfires every where, which they call luminarias locally (it's all very confusing) so that you can stop and defrost while making chit chat.










J's favorite unexpected highlight of the evening was the college-aged female PETA protestors who were very cold in Christmas themed lingerie. (Sorry, no pics.)




There is a great article in this December's Sunset Magazine (different than the link above and not on the web) with great pics. I highly recommend going, even if, according to my neighbors who have recently migrated from the Golden State, Santa Fe is filled with "assholes from Berkeley" (Snort.)

Tonight's Entertainment

Damn I love those eyelashes...

Just Stop Talking, Like Right Now

I hate vomiting and I try not to do it often. My kid? So NOT a barfer. The virus that hit me the night of December 1st was the first real can't-keep-water-down since Christmas Break 1996.

(Have you seen that Seinfeld?)

Dictionary police: I used the word "virus"...didja see? Know what I hate more than people who use the word virus when they've been throwing up and/or having diarrhea and say "flu" is the people who correct them.

"Wow, you don't sound so good. You okay?"
"Getting there. I got the flu and haven't even been able to even keep down ice chips for 3 days. It sucks."
"Nenenenoooo! That's not the flu! The flu is res-pi-ra-tory. You had a virus!"

Assholes.

The Coolest Shit Ever!

when you're three.

This was taken, by request, as Mommy's car got new shoes so that the Cracker could take a copy to "sharing" aka Show and Tell.

Sucks to Be Him

So we're in Colorado at J's dad's house when I spot this dude out the window last night.



(That's a purple volleyball net complete with carabiner.)

Poor guy is local celebrity and has my FIL's house on his daily rounds. The powers that be have decided to just leave him alone as he'll be shedding his antlers soon anyway.

Presenting my Niece

Due 5.4.07

My SIL M and I think she totally looks like a girl already. I'm off to shop! I've been waiting until the official word which arrived just a few hours ago. M feels very strongly about NO YELLOW! and NO GREEN! just pink or blue. Seeing as M and I both have boys we need to get cracking on wardrobe. Fun!

Tales from the Homeland

Did you hear about the new milk campaign that was pulled after just a day in SF?

Seems that cookie-scented ads in bus shelters are not only offensive to those with allergies (that one I get) but to homeless people who can't afford to buy cookies.

Sometimes I really do miss life in the Bay Area...

How to lose 9lbs in less than a day!

A big, fat, nasty virus.

On the plus side, for a few days I actually weighed less than my DL says, which, is like, something I never thought would happen, and wouldn't have except that I'd lost real weight a few months back.

So once I'm back to my normal self I think I need to go get a new license and knock that weight down by at least 10, maybe 15, okay how about an even 20lbs. Because when the cops are putting out APBs for women I seriously think it's DL weight + 10-20, doncha think?

More Than Meets the Eye

"I want to watch Tubbies."
"How about we watch Transformers instead?"
"No, I want to watch Tubbies."
"Daddy doesn't want to watch Teletubbies. How about Voltron!"
The Cracker shakes his head no.
"Monsters, Inc?"
"No Daddy. I not like those movies."
"But they're cartoons."
"Cartoons is not for kids. They's for Daddies!"


2001


















2002 (Heidi 2006 called and wants those arms back)










2003


















2004 (He can't wear this shirt now unless he's got pants on "because it matches" his leg tatt. See 2006 picture)

















2005 (J's Saabatron after battling Idiot Driver's Ford F150)












2006

Ex Californian attempts to make snowman

out of less than an inch of snow to placate her son.



Those would be raisin eyes and Russian Sage arms.