Holla

I just returned from a conference, or as I call it, "restocking my pen supply."

The hotel in which we stayed was nice, nice, nice. Good food, good service, nice rooms, etc. Firstly, I would like to thank the hotel for it's position so close to a Wal-Mart, further enabling my Mountain Dew addiction, and for also providing 20 ounce bottles of Pepsi products, including Mountain Dew, during conference breaks. Shout-out, yo.

Also, I would like to say that I appreciate the way that hotels now, as a general rule, do not change your bedding each day that you are there unless otherwise requested. Additionally, I want to offically apologize to The Environment for the fact that I got chocolate on the bedding, two days in a row, that required the bedding be washed, using water, and requiring the introduction of otherwise unneccesary chemical cleaning supplies into our world. I am sorry, The Environment.

In addition, I want to apologize for everyone with whom I attempted to mingle and for the fact that I am unable to converse about sports or television or movies or gardening. Shit. I suck.

Perhaps Paraphrased a Bit

Neno: Oh. My. God. It's like a HALF HOUR before Kindermusik starts. What the hell am I going to do for a half hour??? (Of course, I could have, I don't know, cleaned the house or packed my suitcase for Big Important Trip of Fear or exercised or played with the children, but no.)
Husband: You should go get gas.
Neno: Gas? Like... gas?
Husband: Yes. That stuff that makes the car drivy. Gas.
Neno: But... gas smells. And other people? Touched there. And... wait, isn't that YOUR job?
Husband: Well, I could leave you here with the children as they tear at their faces and wail for Kindermusik to start, or you could go get gas.
Neno: Yes! Good-bye then! See you soon!

So, I drive to the gas station. After much pausing and deliberation because I have been forever fucked up by That One Car I Owned with the Gas Tank on the Wrong Side, I pull up to the hosey thing and get out of my car. There is another car on the other side of the big tanky thing (see how I don't get the gas so much?). I bet myself that I know whoever it is on the other side. Because Town is small that way.

I win my bet. It's a girl who threatened to kick my ass in 6th grade. Why? Over a boy. Naturally. This is what I said to her, "I can't fight you today. I'm wearing my new Guess? jeans. But tomorrow I'll wear some Lees or some shit, and I'll totally TAKE YOU DOWN. Bitch." But the next day, we made up and were friends for a few months or something.

After much confusion over a totally unnecessary "start" button, I actually managed to buy gas, rewarded myself with a Kit Kat, and drove home.

The End.

My daughter plays with trucks. And dolls. But mostly dolls. My son plays with dolls. And trucks. But mostly trucks.

I didn't think it would matter very much, particularly because I'm not very "girly" - I don't wear makeup or care much about shoes and purses and mostly I just want to bury my nose in a good book. And my husband, while extremely manly (in the "I can change the oil and grill a burger and love a good beer" kind of way), isn't all that "macho" - like he doesn't watch sports or hunt and he's actually better than I am at changing diapers (and thank god in heaven for all of that!). So, I thought "girl" toys and activities and "boy" toys and activities wouldn't have much meaning in our house.

But I was wrong about that. This was brought most starkly to my attention today by the following:

• D, coming around the corner, huge grin on his face, proud as all hell of himself, pushing his sister's toy stroller - with a ball in it. "Ball!"
• E, playing with the wonderful Schleich brachiosaurus ("Look, mama, it's a broccoliasaurus!") my sister sent her, twisting a pearl necklace around and around so that it crept up the dinosaur's neck, "Pretty!" she proclaimed.
  

Indeed.

Learning

Used to think:
Food allergies are total bullshit. People just want to have an excuse for their child's poor behavior or want to elicit false sympathy from people by making up a crazy ailment.
Understand now:
Um... yeah. With a daughter failing to absorb any of the food we were putting into her body which was working so hard to reject all of the gluten she was taking in, years of tummy aches, diarrhea, slow growth, spitting up, and colick, we finally learned. Yes, there is such a thing as food allergies.

Used to think:
Why do people need to child proof? Can't you just teach your kids not to touch things? Seriously.
Understand now:
Can't... stop... laughing... at... me.

Used to think:
Why are little boys so dirty and why do they always have bruises? Don't their parents watch them? Jeeze.
Understand now:
Boys are made entirely out of gale-force wind, mud, and piss.

From the Clueless Couch

My own stupidity honestly amazes me sometimes. Like the fact that I listened to happy rap for like 10 years before realizing that "hood" was short for "neighborhood." Oh lord.

I had one of those "oh duh!" moments today, and I thought I'd share with you. Because I have no pride.

So the Puff the Magic Dragon lyrics, as well as lyrics from a song included in Alice in Wonderland refer to something I heard as "ceiling wax." And every single time I heard it, I thought, "Damn. Do people really wax their ceilings? Because I can barely get my floor swept. Obviously. I am such a crap housekeeper."

But then, this morning, I totally realized it was SEALING wax. Oh, oh yeah. I knew that, yeah.

Just a Theory

I apologize if you know me in person and have heard this theory before.

Okay, I think I have totally figured out why my entire generation is a bunch of tattooed, odd-hair-colored freaks. It is the fault of My Little Pony, who always had the most awesome pictures on her ass, including butterflies and hearts and whatnot. Oh yeah. And also Rainbow Brite. I mean, that hair? Yeah.

Angry Mom, Center Ring

To those people that buy their kids swords at the circus and then provide zero supervision in proper plastic sword handling technique while seated in a crowd of people: FUCK YOU.

In Which I Heartily Agree with Myself

1. Dear morons who keep taping permanent siding ads to my front door: My house is stucco. Stop it. Stop it immediately.

2. RE: The Sound of Music: If I had my 10,000 children all quiet and lining up on a regular basis, I would be ever so pissed if some nun came in and screwed that all up for me. For the record.

3. MIL bought the children a DVD of Puff the Magic Dragon for Easter. Oh. My. Lord. I've never seen this, as I'm just-slightly too young, but WTF? I know Lewis Carroll told everyone that going on a giant group opium trip was appropriate entertainment for children, but holy lords of acid, people. Wow.

Heaven Is

• Cinnamon Melts
• Large Coke
• Last day of work before vacation

OR

• Actually having enough money in my bank account to pay for my breakfast? Hmmm.

When?

When exactly am I going to stop dreaming that it's my first day of high school and I can't find my schedule? When?

Roast Beast

E had been asking me to make roast beef for several weeks now. But, she doesn't really like roast beef, and she never really has. She was asking for it anyway. So, finally, yesterday I went and bought a roast and cooked it all day in the crockpot. When E woke up from her nap, I said:
Guess what we're having for dinner today?
E: What?
Me: Roast beef! (Big grin, see me please the child? Good mother I am!)
E: (Flings herself on the floor, screaming) I don't LIKE roast beef! I won't eat it! You can't make me!
Me: Fine. You don't have to eat it, but that's what we're having for dinner. And also, you're being mean.
E: Ahhhhrahhhhblahhhhwahhhhh!

At dinner she eats her mashed potatoes and her corn but won't touch the roast beef because, "I don't LIKE roast beef, Mama." (Subcontext: you stupid fucking whore why did you put this shit on my plate like I'm supposed to eat this crap?)

Later we take her over to her great grandmother's house.
E: I'm sooooo hungry, Grandma!
GG: You are? Didn't you have dinner?
E: I had roast beef but I didn't eat it because it was so so yucky and Mama made it bad.
GG: Oooooh. Do you want some ice cream?

E proceeds to eat two bowls of ice cream. Goddamn it.

Love and Death

This weekend, we dropped the kids off with my same-same, ate some Arby's, and went home to write our wills. It's hard stuff to think about of course, what happens if he dies, if I die, if we both die. If we all die.

It's so morbid and the Husband avoided it, tinkering around the basement, forcing an old Anthrax album on my unsuspecting ears, moving shit here and there as I shouted out questions. But it's peace of mind. Knowing that our kids will, as much as possible, stay *home* in our absence. And home means people who love them and know them and share our parenting style (or maybe the parenting style we hope we have). And having people like that in your life, and knowing it well enough to put their names on your will? That's the real blessing.