By the looks of things it appears that there are a whole slew of moms who just adore the park. Unfortunately for my kids, I am not one of them. The park makes me nervous and I feel like everyone is either a kidnapper or a pervert (this is a theme for me…). If that weren’t enough of a deterrent, there are also these 10 super anti-awesome park facts that make me wanna’ barf. Join me in my misery, yo!
sandbox litterbox. I’m no dummy, so unless there is a magical Parks and Rec crew that conjure a force-field over the sandbox each night, there’s cat shit in there. It goes something like this: 1) the cat poops in the sand. 2) the kid digs in the sand/poop cocktail. 3) the kid licks her hand or altogether bypasses this step and goes straight to eating the poop. In either case, this is a recipe for worms. I should know, I was a thumb sucker, and nobody likes a 6 year old with itchy butt, am I right?!
2) Tennis courts. Men in tiny shorts. Eeeew.
3) Nature. Don’t get me wrong, flowers are sooooo pretty and I love a good meadow as much as the next mommy. But I’m also crazy amounts of allergic to, um, the entire outdoors. Which is a problem at the park because I also can’t stop myself from rolling down a grassy knoll, especially if some ginger-haired ten year old dares me. If I have to choose between hives and self restraint then bring on the asthma. Continue reading
Um, yeah, so this is a story about poop. If you’re squeamish you should Skype me so I can laugh at you while you read this. Barf, sorry, that was even a little gross for me.
It all started after my last post on Friday night- I should have expected some blow-back after birthing all that rollicking hilarity into the world. You know, tit for tat, no good deed goes unpunished? Whatever.
As I was saying…it all started when we arrived at the cabin. Continue reading
Guess I should start with an apology to my husband who is finding out this information at the same time as the rest of the world. Honey, it’s not as bad as it looks, and I promise to have it fixed to the best of my ability by the time you get home tonight. Sadly, it may take me about that long.
It all started with a rat. Eeew. Which my husband caught last night (double eeew) while the dogs slept soundly in their memory foam beds and I hid underneath the covers. This morning I walked into the kitchen ready to contend with the harsh reality that a hairy, disease ridden rodent had been cavorting with my fruit bowl under the light of the moon. Every countertop, every baseboard, every visible surface was potentially harboring rat cooties, and before I could even start making the kiddos breakfast I knew I would have to slap on some dish gloves and dip the kitchen in bleach.
Now here’s the thing about that. I’m not a germophobe. I know all about good and bad bacteria, about the over-use of hand sanitizer, about what harsh chemicals can do to our bodies and environments. But rats? That’s BAD bacteria, no matter how you slice it. So I cleared away the cobwebs from the back of the kitchen cabinet and dug out the big guns. Lemon scented Lysol, folks. That old familiar headache-inducing stand-by which I avoid using at all costs, but fell prey to in my moment of weakness.
Before I go any further, I have to tell you the other half of the story. I’m not defending my actions, just squelching any rumors about my natural hair color or IQ from the get go… Continue reading
These two things totally sound related, and I’m sure they often are, but not here. Not today. Ironically I experienced both of these events separately last week, and I still haven’t decided if that’s a good or bad thing.
The 4th of July rocked. This was our view:
A nice lady told us that’s a blue heron there on the dock. It’s way taller than it looks here. I think my husband may have said it was bigger then me, or could take me a fight, or could eat me, or something like that. I disagree. I could snap those spindly legs in a flash. Continue reading
Despite it being Easter and also the last day of Spring Break, today held a few hiccups that beg for release before the week begins. If you think I have a tendency to over-share, stop reading now. There is maybe nothing I won’t say.
I have a UTI. I’ll just put that right out there. It woke me up out of a dead sleep at 5:00 this morning, then every 10 minutes after that until 6:30 when I got my ass out of bed to call urgent care. By 10 am I had antibiotics in hand (note to self: thank husband for consistent willingness to pick up embarrassing prescriptions), and was told that within 24 hours those razor blades inhabiting my girl parts would be a thing of the past. So I spent all day oscillating between the urge to pee my pants and fear of the stabbing pain it would cause my Twinkie (thanks to Becca for loaning me the awesome nickname for my woo-hoo). The doctor said it was probably due to dehydration. Damn you, Palm Desert.
But worse than all that – yup, it gets worse – my little stunt double took his tricks one step too far today and earned himself a bloody face. As my spawn he has the genetic tendency to do exactly the opposite of what he is instructed, so despite the fact that we’ve told his a hundred times before to hold on for Chrissake to the swing handles…he didn’t. Instead he chose “Look mom, no hands!” and backflipped. Onto the concrete. He overshot the pillowy grass beneath him and lay himself out lip first on the driveway. I yelled a curse word and scooped him up, he cried with ice packs on his bloody nose, then we watched 2 Disney movies back to back. Disney makes everything better, FYI. And what’s really the most tragic part of it all is that today was little dude’s last day as a 3 year old. Yup, his 4th birthday is tomorrow, and he will spend it puffed up and breathing through his nose like a stuffy bulldog. Memories. Sweet, sweet memories.
That said, this weekend rocked, and I can’t wait for tomorrow. Happy Birthday little man.