Haiku of the Day

where do they come up with this stuff?

I accidentally stepped on a lego spaceship the wee one had just built. I apologized profusely, but he just looked at me with steely eyes.

"Tell it to the judge, Mommy," He said grimly. "Tell it to the judge."

A special day

sweet young innocence
yet it's still freaking me out
how does this happen?

"Today was a special day because I got something no one else got," the wee one told me when I picked him up from school today.

"Oh, yeah?" I answered, thinking it was a sticker for good behavior or something like that.

"I'm going to show you, but it's a secret for everyone else," he said. He whipped his backpack around and pulled out a piece of paper. "It's from Natalie." Natalie is a girl at school he talks about a lot - her pretty hair, how fun it is to hit her at recess, etc.

The paper had a drawing on it of a boy and a girl holding hands. On the top, written in wonderful kindergarten handwriting, was a profession of love.

"I wish I could jump into this drawing," the wee one said wistfully. "I would flip dimensions so that I could kiss Natalie and then flip back really fast."

"Oh?" I asked, trying not to sound shocked.

He gazed at the drawing. "It makes me want to cry I like it so much," he said, closing his eyes and smiling.

It kind of makes me want to cry, too, but for many different reasons. I knew he was precocious, but this is (charmingly) unsettling, you know what I mean?

My five-year-old lothario. Good grief.

finally figured it out

a well-rounded boy
enjoys jazz, literature
and showing his butt

For weeks now, the wee one has been humming a song and begging me to play it on the stereo. It has sounded vaguely familiar, but much to his consternation I haven't been able to figure out what song it is. Until today.

He hummed it for me and suddenly I realized what it was: Blue Rondo a la Turk, from the Dave Brubeck Quartet's 1959 album Time Out.

Lest you think my boy is a musical prodigy, I should admit that this is my favorite record of all time. We listened to it a LOT when he was tiny. But lately we've been listening to more contemporary stuff. My thing right now is a mix of Spoon's radio hits and the latest Clash spinoff Carbon/Silicon (worst band name ever). We toss in a heavy sprinkling of Elvis' Vegas hits and Kanye's Stronger, just to keep it real.

So I was surprised that Dave Brubeck made such an impression. As soon as the song started, the wee one was flying around the room in a kind of dance frenzy. The dog started barking, the wee-er one squealed and clapped with glee. It was a nice moment.

Note to self: more Brubeck, less crap. It's like listening to a really strong cup of tea. Smooth, relaxing, and yet somehow invigorating.  I forget how nice it is.

Thankfully, the wee one didn't.

so THAT'S what they do all day...

"What did you do at school today, Wee One?"

"We drew pictures of evil butterflies in prison."

"Oh. Uh, OK then."

Things learned on the first day of Kindergarten

my politician
who knows where the genes come from
so cute, so bizarre

We went to pick up the wee one from school yesterday, and the excitement around that place was electric. Even the teachers were flushed and breathless. Though that probably had something to do with the fact that it was 49,000 degrees outside.

I asked the wee one what he learned on his first day of school and here's what he told me:

1) If you bring a toy, it goes to the mayor's office where it must stay until a mommy or daddy comes to pick it up

2) It is not fun to have milk spilled on you, especially when other kids laugh

3) School is great, but it feels like you are there for ten hours

4) Everyone wants to be friends

5) If you hold your hand to your face and close your eyes, it's like your mommy kissing you

6) Teachers like to eat chocolate

I think it was a successful day. His teacher commended him on his politeness (!) and when he got home he was excited about going back. Also, he fell asleep at 4:20. Ha. I had to wake him up to eat dinner.

This morning, though, he bounded out of bed at 6:10, put on his clothes and was ready to go before I could barely crack an eyelid open. We made an attempt to catch the bus today, but after a twenty minute wait I deduced we had either missed it, or it wasn't coming, so I drove him. He was not happy at all. I don't know why the school bus is such a draw, but he is bound and determined to ride it and love it. 

I talked to the school's principal (or "mayor" as the wee one calls him) and I made a call to the bus people so I think we'll be all set for tomorrow. Though I admit, I kind of like driving him. It's fun to see all the little shorties and their giant backpacks.

Maybe once my muddled mind clears up a little I'll write more about our first day adventures. For now, though, I'm going to drink some tea and send psychic brainwaves to the wee-er one, pleading for her to sleep. Mama needs a nap.

conversing

A conversation I just had with the wee one:

"Mommy, where are we going?"

"To Office Depot."

"Why?"

"We have to find you a clipboard for school."

"Do you need a mommy and a daddy to make a baby?"

"Yes."

"Can we get a milkshake after we get a clipboard?"

"Maybe."

"I have to go potty!"

meet the teacher!

wheelbarrow is full
supplies in tow, we venture
into the future

This afternoon we take our four bursting Target bags of school supplies up to the wee one's new school and meet his teacher.

[insert image of me, as Homer, hopping from foot to foot, hands up by my shoulders flopping nervously back and forth, with a concerned grimace on my face]

Something about school brings back memories of being judged. And I loved school! But I still can't shake the "am I doing it right?" "did I answer that correctly?" "does everybody like me?" decidedly in-the-box-with-a-fear-of-stepping-out-of-it attitude that was instilled in me during my elementary and middle school years.

Feeling this way irritates me, because I'm happy to be uncoventional and strange and all that. I feel better when I'm antagonizing the status quo. And yet, as a kid I was Hermione Granger. I guess I still am to some extent. So just smelling the inside of an elementary school brings back some kind of muscle memory that makes me shrink down to three and half feet tall.

I am intimidated, I think. Which is ridiculous. I am the mommy. I rule the world. And yet I know that for the better part of everyday, another grown woman will rule the wee one's world. I don't want to defer my power to her, but I know I'm going to have to trust her. Wielding Grown Up Power over my child is not something I trust to those of a weak constitution or tendency to holler. I plan to scrutinize this teacher, as I'm sure she's used to from mommies throughout the years. I have a page of questions to ask. I am going to try and not feel bad for being annoying. I'm also working very hard to banish all feelings of intimidation and inferiority before I step foot in that school this afternoon.

I will not be a push over. And on the other side of the spectrum, I will not be a hovering heliparent. I will relax. I will relax. I will relax.

The wee one, by the way, is incredibly, out of this world excited. And I'm excited that he's excited.

"We get to meet my teacher today!" he squealed upon waking up. "I'm going to wear this!" And he promptly offered up the skeleton hoodie I bought him a couple of days ago. It's black and has glow-in-the-dark bones painted on it in the shape of ribs and arms. 

"It's a hundred and seventy nine thousand degrees outside, wee one," I said. "It's going to be too hot to wear a jacket."

His cheerful grin turned into a glower. He stared at me as if I had just happily offered him a plate of green beans for breakfast.

"Mommy," he said in his 'don't be an idiot' tone that makes my ears twitch. "I'm not going to wear a shirt under it."

Ah, yes. That will make it incredibly cooler.

So think of us at about 3pm today. The wee one will be doing his best Martin-Lawrence- jogging-in-a-sweat-suit-and-slowly-sweating-to-death impersonation and I will be tamping down decades of strange leftover "a test! it's a test!" feelings. The wee-er one will be standing in her stroller and my husband will be walking behind us pretending he doesn't know who we are.

Yee haw, three days until It All Starts.

Honky song

lost in translation
must pay better attention
corrupting my kids

I was sitting on the sofa, using my Tide pen to go to town on a mysterious brown splotch that had just appeared on my white shirt, when I heard, "It's a penguin honky song!" in a high pitched voice.

"Huh?" I thought, as I continued to scribble and scrub away at the spot, not looking up.

"A honk, honk honky song!"

Finally, I looked up. "What are you watching?" I asked the wee one, pretending that it wasn't actually my job to know these things.

"It's Diego," he said happily. Then, singing along, "It's a honk, honk honky song!"

"Honk-ing," I said. "I think it's a honk-ing song."

But it sure sounded like a penguin honky song.

That Diego. He's a troublemaker.

the early bird catches.... an empty wallet?

back-to-school shopping
all we need is wheelbarrow
and lottery win

Y'all. Holy shit. We just got back from buying the wee one's school supplies for Kindergarten. School starts 8/27 so we're a little early, but I ordinarily love school supply shopping and we were itching to get all the stuff.

I seriously think we just bought supplies for half the class. Think I'm exaggerating? Here's the list, straight from the school's website:

Kindergarten

(all supplies preferably NOT Roseart brand)
1 - plastic supply box
1 - clipboard (letter size)
3 - composition books (No spirals)
2 - packages #2 pencils (sharpened)
4 - boxes 16 count crayons (basic colors only-NO Roseart)
4 - 8 oz. bottles Elmer's white school glue (NOT COLORED)
1 - backpack (large enough to hold a 1" binder)
1 - box 200 count tissue
1 - pkg. pink erasers (no pencil toppers)
1 - pair child Fisker brand scissors (no plastic scissors)
2 - boxes Crayola basic color markers
1 - package 6 count dry erase EXPO markers (medium point)
3 - containers of liquid soap
2 - packages seasonal/fun stickers
2 - red pocket folders (no brads)
1 - Kindergarten rest mat and towel
1 - yellow highlighter
Girls only:
1 - package plain paper plates
1 - box Ziploc plastic bags (gallon or jumbo size)
Boys only:
1 - box Ziploc bags (quart or snack size)
1 - package plain paper lunch bags (white, if possible)
1 - box wipes

That is a LOT of stuff. Especially when you're at Target and you grab a different school's list to see what those kids need, and those kids have 1/4 of the stuff to bring. Not only that, but this list seems designed to inflict irritation.

Clipboard? That's going to take a special trip to an office supply store, because Target doesn't have them.

A set of 6 dry erase markers? There are only sets of 4. Or 10. Or 12.

16 count crayons? $2.49. 24 count crayons? .20.

8oz glue? $1.57. 4oz glue? .15.

1 box of 200ct Kleenexes? I could only find boxes of 120ct or 180ct.

JEEZ. It was very vexing trying to buy these supplies, because nothing matched the list. And the things that did match the list were a lot more expensive than the things that were close, but not exactly right. Sigh.

So I'm going to be that mom. The one who supplies her kid with the right amount of stuff, but in various and sundry quantities.

I understand that teachers have specific reasons they ask for the supplies they do. And probably much of those reasons hinge on knowing that the school can't afford to provide a lot of the things we take for granted - like crayons. I know a lot of times teachers end up spending a lot of their own money on things they shouldn't have to. And that's probably why we're being asked to provide so. much. stuff.

And yet, I wish the things on the list weren't such a pain in the ass. White lunch bags? The hell? I know they make better puppets, but no one sells them. Or if they do, they're like 1,000 times more expensive.

Ah well. I grouse and complain and admit to being a little prickly about my kid having to bring four times more shit to school than most of the other kids in the district, but it was still fun to go get everything. I still remember the fat Snoopy pencils I had rattling around in my backpack on my very first day of school. And so we'll pile all of this crap into a wheelbarrow for the first day and the wee one will show up grinning and scared and excited in shiny new clothes, with a sparkling new backpack, emanating that smell of newly sharpened pencils.

I can't believe he's starting school in just less than a month.

That should give me just enough time to track down the ever elusive clipboard.

The big 0-5

has it been five years?
sweet baby now my sweet boy
except for his feet

The wee one is 5 today! Technically, he's not 5 until just after 7pm, but I'll spot him the few extra hours. I know it's cliche, but MAN I can't believe how fast time has gone by. I remember when he was born, looking down at him and thinking, "you'll be in kindergarten before I know it, won't you?" and sure enough, here we are.

But first we have a summer of Aqua Raiders Legos and Playmobil pirate ships and swimming in the community pool and time outs for not listening and so much more.

How did he get so big?

Happy birthday, wee one!

wee one-a-palooza

just so many things
perfect storm of craziness
will he recover?

Preschool graduation? Check.

Dance recital? Check.

Birthday party? On target for tomorrow.

Airplane ride to visit grandparents? Coming up in three days.

Could any more exciting things happen to an almost five-year-old in such a short period of time? No WONDER he's been a beast the past two days. A happy, spoiled, super cute beast.

I'd be living more in the moment right now if I hadn't spent the last four days coughing so hard I'm pretty sure I made one of my ovaries explode. Ouch. Two trips to urgent care have brought no relief and a referral for an ultrasound that I can't get until Monday. In the meantime I will continue to feel like my girly organs are being ripped out of my body every time I cough. And I will bake a birthday cake. And pack for our trip. And try not to pass out. Did I say ouch? Ouch.

I have my fangs in you, baby

misunderstanding
why we don't talk religion
or word origins

The other day, while I was driving the wee one home from school, he asked me what fangs are. Here's how the conversation rapidly went down hill...

[me, beginning the conversation genially] "Fangs? You mean like teeth?"

[the wee one, frustration setting in early due to what I call Tired Post School Temper Trouble or TPSTT] "No, FANGS, mommy. The things you have IN people."

[me, trying to stay genial] "Like 'sink your fangs into' something? Sometimes people say that when they mean to take a bite out of something."

[the wee one, bubbling over with TPSTT] "NO, MOMMY! Like we learned at school! Fangs. FANGS!"

[me, getting irritated that he's irritated] "OK. You shouting it at at me over and over? That doesn't make me understand you any easier, alright?

[the wee one, sighing dramatically] "I'm just talking about fangs. The kind of fangs that purple stands for."

[me] ????

[he continues, as if talking to the most pitiful, dumb creature on the planet] "At school, Mrs. Linda says that purple stands for fangs. And that we have fangs in God."

[me, ding ding ding!] "You mean faith? We have faith in God?"

[the wee one, thrilled I finally understand him, gets excited] "So we're like vampires for God?"

[me, giving up] "Yes. We're like vampires for God."

This is what I get for sending him to a quasi-religious preschool.

Little did we know...

telling future, past
it all seems kinds creepy
and expensive too

The other day, I was totally stressed with the move and the wee one and I were tooling around town, running errands, and I just had to stop the car and take a few deep breaths. Traffic was terrible, the wee one wouldn't hush and I thought I was going to have a panic attack or something.

So, I stopped the car. After my deep breaths, I noticed we were in the parking lot of this psychic I've been driving past for years. I thought, what the hell, let's go inside. Why not? The sign says walk-ins welcome.

The wee one and I walked in and instead of the velvety, musty, incense-filled movie set I was expecting, we were met with the grime, dirty baseboards and faintly tinged beer smell that I should have expected. At this point we should have just walked out, but we had been noticed by the uber-skinny, giant-eyed lady sitting in a ratty barca lounger, watching Montel on a staticky old TV.

She asked if we wanted our palms read or a tarot reading or what. I wanted to say we were just there to use the phone, but something compelled me to say "palms" and so we sat at a round table, not unlike the kitchen table I saw at a garage sale a few weeks ago and thought, "I bet that table weighs a thousand pounds."

The wee one and I each took a chair - at this point he was chattering on and on about Star Wars and light sabers and ninjas and something called a "power kick" and he barely noticed when the lady reached out and grabbed his hand.

Her brow wrinkled, her eyes closed, and she traced her fingers all around his palm as he giggled and squirmed and tried to pull away. She held on fast, though, and after a few moments she said, "This young man will always enjoy peanut butter."

OK.

"You will have to watch his consumption of bacon."

I laughed. "He's only eaten bacon once and that was last night. He liked it, but I doubt he'll eat it again. He doesn't eat a lot of different fooo---"

She held out her other hand to motion for me to shut up. "He likes music." she said abruptly.

And she was right. He's always loved music. From the time he was in the womb, to now when he hums the Indiana Jones soundtrack to lull himself to sleep. But all kids like peanut butter and music, right? Was I getting my money's worth here?

Then she asked a weird question.

"Has he ever mentioned Priscilla?"

I was ready to balk but then I remembered that he had actually mentioned a Priscilla a few times. When he was tiny and just learning to talk he talked about how he "wuved pwisilla" and I never really knew what he was talking about. I always thought it was a sesame street thing. I had forgotten about this until our "psychic" mentioned it. In fact, just the other night he was sleeping and yelled something about "Priscilla and the baby" but I didn't think much of it.

"Yes," I said, feeling just the beginnings of a hair-standing-up-on-the-back-of-my-neck zing.

She continued to feel his palm and study his face. I wanted to get us out of there. I'd only gone in and agreed to this whole thing because I thought I would be the one having a reading. I didn't want to freak out the wee one. He seemed to be having a blast, though.

She mumbled something about Memphis and the sun and a dead twin and that's when I stood up. "No dead twins here," I said quickly as I grabbed the wee one and we hustled towards the door.

"I would suggest a past life regression!" she shouted after us as we hurried out. When we reached the doorway, the wee one stopped and turned towards her.

"You make me happy." he said strangely. "You make my dreams clear." She smiled and I wigged. I grabbed his arm to drag him out the door.

"You know now that Vegas was a bad idea!" she shouted after us.

"I've never been to Vegas!" I shouted back.

"Say no to drugs!" the wee one yelled back as I wrestled him into his booster seat.

"Good-bye, Elvis," the lady said from the doorway just loud enough for only me to hear her.

Once we were in the car and spinning out of the gravel parking lot the wee one asked if we could listen to the "little less conversation" song.

Spooky.

And also completely untrue. Happy April Fools Day!

You got THAT right, little man

The wee one was prancing around the living room wearing underpants and a giant blanket cloak.

"I am the king of California!" he bellowed. "I am the boss of everyone!"

He paused.

"Well, except for my wife."

I guess the boy really does pay attention.

soccer mom!

black and white round thing
oversized shorts billowing
look! it's a flower!

The wee one has started soccer. This makes me officially a soccer mom. I find this both hilarious and wearying. For those of you out there who, like me, are an oozy mess that happens to drip outside of the "soccer mom" mold, here are some things I've learned.

1) Do not yell "kick it!" at your child. Soccer is apparently not about kicking. It is about dribbling. And while parents on the other team can yell things like, "Don't be lazy!" and "Are you PAYING ATTENTION?!" at their 4-year-olds, you can never, under any circumstances yell "kick it!" at your own kid without earning yourself lots and lots of dirty looks.

2) Learn the names of all the kids on your child's soccer team. Though you might think it's funny to yell, "Hooray, Small Boy With Red Hair! Good job, Cute Girl With Pink Bows!" other people will not think you're funny.

3) It doesn't matter if the game is located exactly on the equator, if it's set to begin at 8:45 am, the weather will be freezing, windy and drizzling, and you will leave your jacket at home and the picnic blanket in the other car.

4) Wearing your "WTF" t-shirt is inappropriate for the initial parent meeting.

5) There will always be one ringer per team. Even if the teams are full of tiny kids just learning how to play, there will still be one child with a budding mustache and muscles bigger than your own, who is ostensibly "5-years-old" and can play single-handedly against a troupe of five other kids, beating them easily. Except for on your kid's team. Your kid's team has no ringer. But they will be able to pick all of the dandelions on the soccer field in record time.

6) When you see someone riding on a motorized cooler you should not mutter loudly, "How lazy can you GET?" If you do, that person will hear you, and that person will end up being the uncle of a kid on your kid's team. That uncle will then obviously and continuously ignore your child as he gives every other kid a ride on the Dumbass Cooler For Lazy People, and your kid will cry.

7) Don't bring water for your kid to drink. Glow-in-the-dark sports drinks are the beverage of choice and you will be scored, SCORNED, by your child when you hand him a bottle of warm Ozarka and tell him cheerfully, "It's warm on purpose - and it's healthy!"

8) It is not a soccer costume, it is a soccer uniform.

9) Under no circumstances is anyone to urinate on the field.

10) Soccer is way, way, way better than tee ball ever was. Seriously.

when he's president...

I just picked up the wee one from school. He had a "book" that he made to help celebrate President's Day (in the book are pasted in silouettes of former presidents). On the last page he drew a picture of himself as president and dictated a message for his teacher to write:

The wee one would be the best president ever!

my belly hurts from laughing

imagination
some crazy shit up in there
some crazy great shit

This morning the wee one wanted to play ninja turtles.

"I've given them names!" he exclaimed with glee. "Here you be this one." He handed one to me and I took it.

"Yours is named Peacock Butthair."

"Peacock Butthair?" I asked, choking on my tea. "What did you name yours?"

"Doc."

here he is

survived hour in chair
won battle of straight razor
it's Super Wee One

the flat top shop

We walked through the door and this is what we saw: two pictures of Jesus hanging on the walls, a Coke machine, a corkboard full of business cards, a cash register, a checkerboard with only a third of the checkers, three barber chairs, one barber, one guy with a Marine haircut, sitting in a chair in the waiting area, and one guy sitting in the barber chair.

The guy in the barber chair had the kind of comb-over that starts at the top of one ear and goes all the way over the head, rainbow-style, until it reaches the top of the other ear. If there was a stiff breeze, this dude's hair could stand up straight for about a foot and a half. He was having the non comb-over part of his hair trimmed. And his goatee maintained.

So the wee one, the wee-er one, and I all sat down and I began to rethink my brain wave to go see a real barber. Initially I was like, hey, this will be cool. A real barber will be impressive, the wee one might get a spray of manly hair spray or something (thus smelling like "man stuff" - aka what he calls deodorant or aftershave) and it will be fun for all. Plus, I could save a few bucks. The place we usually go is one of those kiddie haircut extravaganza places with motorcycles you ride, and movies to watch. Cool, but not cheap.

Anyway, as Barber, Combover and Marine began somehow simultaneously discussing the war and broadband internet, I started to feel a little uncomfortable. For one thing, they could probably smell my commie pinko liberal blood from a mile away. For another thing, no one had acknowledged us when we came in, and ten minutes later there was still no nod of "I see you over there, be with you in a second."

We sat. The wee one fidgeted, begged for a Sprite, tried to play checkers, ran around and eventually it was his turn.

The barber put a big cushy block thing in the chair and the wee one sat on it. The barber ran his fingers through the wee one's crazy rat's nest mop and said, "How short do we go? A 2? A 3?" I was like, "Uh, 2 inches?" And then he showed me the clippers and I still didn't really understand the whole 2 3 thing, but I agreed to a 2 on the sides and a 4 on top. The barber said it would be a Howie Long flat top. "Do you know who Howie Long is?" He asked. "Indeed," I answered, smartassedly, because even though I'm a girl I know about football. "Just don't make it a Howie Long mullet." He gave me a sideways look, but didn't say anything.

The barber got to work, shavin' shavin' shavin'. The wee one stayed very still, even when he was giggling. Then the flat top part began. "It's like a carving," the barber said, as he buzzed and snipped and measured and combed. He had to put some kind of gel in the wee one's hair, then blow dry it, and then comb it and then shave over the comb to even it out. He must have done this six times. The wee one was in the chair FOR OVER AN HOUR getting this damn flat top.

As the barber worked, he kept shaking his head. "There are a lot of cowlicks here. And tufts." He would shake his head some more and keep working. After a while, a kid appeared from a back room, carrying a math book and talking about dinosaurs.

"If the dinosaur could breathe fire, he wouldn't have to use the microwave to make bacon!" the kid said gleefully. Then he bought a Coke and went back into the back room.

I wanted to say, "Are we in a David Lynch TV show?" But I said nothing. I was afraid if I spoke, the magical charm that was holding the wee one still would break and he would accidentally get his head chopped off, as it was at about this time the barber whipped out a STRAIGHT RAZOR.

"Uh," I said. "Be still, wee one." And I closed my eyes.

I heard giggling, and a sharp admonishment to be still, and I slowly opened my eyes. The wee one had survived. Hooray!

Finally the flat top was finished. "You may want to rethink this haircut in the future," the barber told me. "This kid's head has all kinds of tufts and cowlicks and bumps and his hair is very thin. You'll be very busy every morning making this haircut work." He looked at me accusingly, as if my child's abnormal head was all my fault (which it is, I guess). I smiled, paid the bill and tipped him 25% because he worked very, very hard on his "carving."

The wee one got some pink lemonade Double Bubble for his trouble. He was quite happy.

His hair has not been flat since it was designed by the barber. I mean, are you kidding me? Use a blow dryer on a four year old every morning? Who knew flat tops were such trouble.

It's damn cute, though.

beam me up

jumping out of skin
no big deal for snakes, crickets
big deal for people

The wee one is worrying me. Not because he's toying with fast cars and faster women (though that would be worrisome)... but because of his new affinity for teleportation.

Yes. Teleportation.

It would be nice if he'd use his gift for good instead of evil. He could pop into the wee-er one's bedroom and grab an appropriately-sized diaper and then pop back to Target where I'm struggling to change her with the newborn diaper that I found at the bottom of the diaper bag.

Instead, he has embraced the Dark Side. I'll be standing in my room, trying to remember why I walked in there and BAM, there he is, standing right at my elbow. He shows up immediately and silently. I remember why I'm in there (socks!), turn, trip over the large-headed, skinny-armed creature hovering at my side, scream, clutch my heart, and watch the room spin. Then, a few hours later, I go into the bathroom (thankfully, I remember why). I sit down, close my eyes for a millisecond and BAM, the large-headed, skinny-armed creature is back, standing right at my elbow. I scream, clutch my heart, and watch the room spin.

Of course, he thinks this is all quite hilarious. I, on the other hand, am not so amused. His teleportation has shaved YEARS off my life - and added a gray streak to my hair. I can't handle this kind of surprise attack four times a day. I'm beginning to show signs of post traumatic stress disorder, I think. Everything makes me jump - loud noises, giggles of small boys, baby farts... everything.

I wonder if someone has invented a device or outfit or tin foil hat or something that I can use to prevent his teleporting - or at least slow it down. I'm going to try the "DO IT AGAIN AND YOU GET NO DESSERT TONIGHT" tactic. I hope it works. Otherwise, I'm going to have to keep doing my Fred Sanford impersonation, and why punish innocent bystanders?

The afternoon where I briefly consider changing the name of my son to "Power Pole"

if I was famous
I could name my kid Frito
but folks would still laugh

The family was in the car today making our weekly pilgrimage to Target, when the wee one asked if he could have a fishing stick.

"You mean fishing pole," my husband said.

"No, stick. A fishing stick. The thing you catch fish with." The wee one said patiently.

"Right," said my husband. "That's called a fishing pole, not a fishing stick. But it's sometimes made from a stick, so I can see why you'd think that."

"Is a stick the same as a pole?" the wee one asked skeptically.

"Sort of. They can both be made of wood. Like that power pole right there. You wouldn't call that a power stick would you?"

"Power pole????????" the wee one asked excitedly.

*pause* "Uh, yeah. All those poles out the window - they're power poles."

"Power pole is a great name! Mommy! Why didn't you name ME Power Pole?" The wee one's tone was very excited and very accusatory all at once.

"Uh, I guess I just didn't think of it. That would be a cool name, though, huh? Power Pole Roy."

"You could have your own TV show," my husband offered.

"Yeah," I said, stealing the wee one's accusatory tone. "On Cinemax."

"Could you please call me Power Pole all day today?" the wee one asked as we parked and unbuckled our seatbelts.

"Sure, Power Pole," I answered. "Now hold my hand while we cross the street."

wee one takes over the world, one run-on sentence at a time

it has been one year
now the only freaking out
is when there's NO school

A little over a year ago, the wee one started at his mother's day out pre-school program. If you remember, the first day was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. Now that we're a year into it, though, I can officially say it's one of the best things I've ever done for him.

Yesterday was the first day back after a long, long holiday break. In the morning, he woke up all excited - he ran to my room, snuggled up in the bed with me and said, "I'm so happy school is today, mommy. I love it so much." That's quite a difference from his fierce, screaming, body slamming freak-out of a year ago.

I can't believe he'll be in kindergarten in the fall. I talk about how I'm so excited about it and how I'm counting down the days, but.... wow. Real school. In only seven months. I guess I might be the one having the freak out meltdown when the day comes.

Hahahaha who am I kidding? I'm so friggin counting down the days. I mean, come on, it'll be the first time in years I'll have an actual reason for buying school supplies.

Right on.

The story of how the movie Zathura won't be watched at our house for a few days

The wee one just came up to me, grinned and said, "Get me a juicebox, dee-otch."

"Excuse me?" I said, eyes narrowing.

He laughed merrily. "Get me a juicebox, dee-otch!"

Oh no he di'int.

"Where did you hear that?" I demanded, struggling against my instinct to correct his pronunciation.

"In the movie with the robot."

I briefly debate blowing it off and telling him it's "Please get me a juicebox, dee-otch." But then I worry he may say this to someone else one day and they won't think it's as funny as I do.

So the movie with the robot goes on the shelf for a while.

I know, I know. That's a real dee-otchy thing to do. Alas.

the fantasy shattering freezer

yay field trips are fun
help out the community
insult the freezer

Earlier this week the wee one had a field trip to our local food pantry. The wee-er one and I went along to help wrangle the kids (well, actually we went along because I can't get the wee one's booster out of my car so I had to drive him. Yes, yes, I'm Mother of the Year.).

The kids got to help sort the cans they brought and they learned about the color-coded system of filling food bags. As I'm sure you've guessed already, this was, shall we say, less than scintillating for a group of 4-year-olds. But they were all very well-behaved and the trip was short.

At the end of the visit, we were all invited into the walk-in freezer to take a gander at the gazillions of frozen turkeys. Most of the accompanying mommies declined a chance to freeze our butts off, but the kids jumped at the chance. As they filed into the freezer I made a crack to the other moms about how we should shut the door and high-tail it to Hawaii for an impromptu vacation. Didn't get a super response from that joke. What? Can't a mom joke about locking kids in a freezer?

Anyway, the kiddos came filing back out, shivering and giggling - except for the wee one. He had a trademark scowl and eye roll going on.

"What's the matter?" I asked. "Wasn't it fun to see all the turkeys?"

"They didn't even have feathers!" he exclaimed indignantly - as if we had all pulled some kind of mean joke on him. "They were all cut up or something."

I guess that would be kind of disappointing. I mean, if you're expecting a bunch of regular ol' feathery turkeys frozen in suspended animation, it might suck to see a bunch of Butterballs.

So our trip ended with disappointment - there were no "real" frozen turkeys, and I missed my chance to skip town for Hawaii. Overall, though, the food pantry was surprisingly entertaining and educational. They do good work there, even if they refuse to lock children in their walk-in freezer.

experimentoween

so much already
could fill bathtub with candy
and that's just from school 

OK, so we're trying an experiment this Halloween. After trick-or-treating tonight, the wee one is going to pick out a handful of his favorite candy and then leave the rest as an offering to the Halloween Fairy. The Halloween Fairy will then take it all and leave a new toy in its place. A non-tooth-rotting, non-hyper-inducing, cool new toy.

Think it'll work? The wee one already has about twenty pounds of candy from preschool today (they trick-or-treated at the school district headquarters across the street from school). As a test, I asked him to take out a few piece to save, and, well, 19.75 pounds have been deemed "favorites" while the lone butterscotches have been left for the Halloween Fairy. This is to be expected, I guess, because I didn't give a specific amount of candy to keep. I'm still trying to figure that out. Is five not enough? Maybe ten - two pieces a day for the rest of the week. Oh, I don't know. I don't want to completely deprive him of crap, because crap is fun - I like crap, too. We just don't need so much of it.

Maybe I'll just sit down with the Halloween Fairy and eat all the candy tonight and leave nothing behind. My stomach already hurts for no apparent reason, why not feed the fire? (It's that gut-punch ache you get just before and during barfing. Awesome.)

Or, we could forget the Halloween Fairy and just have a traditional tooth-ruining, hurl-causing, uproarious good time.

Nah. Experimentoween is ON, baby. Let's see how it flies.

not so wee

tomorrow's big plans
profess love and eat ice cream
sounds like a good day

I finished reading the wee one a book tonight and I leaned over to kiss him goodnight. "I have a secret, Mommy," he said, with droopy, sleepy eyes and a crooked smile.

"What's your secret?" I whispered back.

"Tomorrow at school I'm going to tell Kaiah that I love her. She can be my wife when we grow up."

Then he rolled over and pulled the covers over his ear and closed his eyes, smiling.

My baby boy... the one who still prefers to eat Gerber chicken sticks over "big-boy hot dogs"... I can't believe how fast he's growing up. I'd like to tell him to stop it, or at least to slow it down, but I don't really want that.

The problem isn't that he's growing up too fast, it's that I can't keep up with him. He is my Tazmanian Devil Time Vortex Tornado Of Unconditional Love. And man can he drive me crazy. But he also drives me to distraction, I love him so much.

I hope Kaiah accepts his proposal. Or agrees to a playdate at least. I am just not ready to mend a broken heart. Not yet.

woo woo woo woo

fire trucks are super
especially in driveway
at nine in morning

OK, the top five reasons why, when you start doing laundry on Sunday, you should finish doing laundry on Sunday:

5. So when you have to call 911 because your kid has his knee stuck in the wooden slats of the glider's armrest, your kid can be clothed in something other than underpants smeared with peanut butter and poster paints.

4. So when you're talking to the 911 dispatcher you don't have to shout over the obnoxious noise your dryer makes (well, to be fair to the dryer, you'd probably still have to shout over the screams of your child).

3. So when the firemen arrive they won't trip on the piles of dirty clothes littering the hallway.

2. So you have something clean to dry your freaked out child's tears as you lube up his knee and try to slide it out of the glider armrest slats.

1. So the firemen don't have to sit on your piles of unfolded laundry that cover the sofa as they take your personal information and relay to the ambulance guys that your kid is OK and the paramedics don't need to come after all.

MAN.

What a scary and crazy and funny and adrenaline-y thing to happen this morning. My hands have finally stopped shaking enough to type, and the wee one has chilled out enough to watch a little TV.

For a while there, though... it was pretty intense. I was on the phone with 911 dispatch, the wee one was crying and screaming "GET A KNIFE FROM THE KITCHEN AND CUT THE CHAIR" and I was frantically trying to give important information to the dispatcher, calm the wee one down, and find some kind of lube. (Olive oil and dish soap worked great, FYI.)

How does one get one's knee stuck in the slats of the armrest of a glider? Only God and the wee one know, because I missed the actual insertion. But it was stuck in there good. I thought the fire guys were going to have to saw through the chair, but luckily they just distracted the wee one, and then squirted his knee out with a quick yank.

He's fine now and I'm fine now, and the wee-er one just watched the whole thing, amusedly, from her bouncy seat, and Newman missed it all because he never stopped licking his butt.

I have since informed the wee one that if he wants a tour of a fire truck (which he got afterwards) and a cool 911 sticker (which he also got afterwards) all he has to do is ask. Nearly crushing his knee in a chair is not a prerequisite.

Is 10:32 AM too early for a margarita?

 

Priorities

priorities straight
any kind of stinging bug
always the winner

Last night a kiddo of indiscriminate age (maybe 7?) was playing in the cul-de-sac with the wee one and some other kids. This little guy hauls his skateboard to the top of a very steep driveway, lays down on it - belly down, head first - and sails down the driveway at mach speed.

This is, like, the exact way one could scrap off one's entire face as one careens forward off the skateboard and is forced to use one's nose as an emergency brake across the asphalt.

Anyway, the kiddo sails down the driveway, manages to stay on the skateboard, and comes to a shuttering halt at the feet of the wee one (who is coloring with some sidewalk chalk). The wee one looks up at the exhilarated daredevil and says, "Whoa. You better be careful. There are fire ants over here."

Fire ants, indeed.

is that snow?

put away dark clothes
something wicked this way comes
evil cradle cap

I must preface this story with the fact that we've suddenly found ourselves combating some pretty gnarly cradle cap that's settled in on the wee-er one's head. In order to win the battle, I've been greasing up her head with olive oil like she's a Sunday goose. It's hell on MY complexion (nuzzling olive oil = crazy ass zits) but it seems to be working against the Gross Head Stuff.

Anyway, this morning, the wee-er one is in her swing and the wee one is playing with his "indoor sandbox" (a shoebox partially filled with really old Rice Krispies and some spoons) and I decided it seemed like a good time to go to the bathroom.

When I get back, the wee one is smirking. I take note of the smirk but I don't question him. I do, however, notice that his sister is awake. I grab her up out of the swing to nurse her and I notice that the vaguely pasta-ish smell she's had since we began the olive oil regimen is now a kind of fruity smell. Huh.

Then the wee one comes over and pats her head. I notice his hand kind of sticks there. He smiles at me. I give him that sideways, "Whatchoo been up to, Willis," look. Then he says brightly, "I put fruit punch in her hair so her head will be soft."

A-ha.

click-talking

those click-talking tribes
not the best time to mimic
when mom's sleep deprived

I have glorious plans of writing down my sweet baby's birth story, and I will, I just don't have the time or brain power to do it yet. What I CAN write about is the wee one and how he's suddenly become enamored with those African (or aborigine?) tribes that use clicks as their language.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm happy he's broadening his horizons (cough awayfromstarwars cough), but being clicked at all day, with the expectation of understanding said clicks and the frustration that ensues when I don't follow... well, you can understand how this might drive a sleep-deprived mama a little crazy.

Ah, well, at least this gives him a distraction from constantly smothering his new sister with sloppy kisses.

Until later... click pop clickclickclick click.

But I don't want a CAR!

We were driving around this afternoon and I very much enjoyed the Wee One's perplexed expression when I explained to him that the Toyota commercial he just heard on the radio was for cars, not actual toy yodas.

weeeeeeee're allllll goooooooiiiing craaaaaaaazy

took a break today
now we're back on the star wars
that's SO not better

For the past week or so, the Wee One has been trying to communicate with whales. This was totally fine by me, and due in fact to my taking the Wee One to the 3D Deep Sea Adventure movie at the Imax for his birthday. (Well, it's also due to watching Nemo.)

So for days on end now, he's been talking like Dory: "Mooooooommmyyyyyyyy. Leeeeet's goooooooo plaaaaaaaay ouuuuuuuutsiiiiiiiiiide." This is not because I'm a whale (but may be because I look like one now. 40 pounds I've gained in this pregnancy. That's 10 pounds less than before, but I still have three weeks to go. Lord.)

At first this whale talk was endlessly amusing, especially when it migrated to the bathroom. Now he only talks like a whale while going potty. This adds in some grunts and whines which seem all the more authentic to me. But like I said, it's been going on for a while now, and it's starting to get a bit annoying. Plus, the Wee One reported that a teacher had to come into the bathroom at school to tell him to please be quiet because he was waking the babies from their naps. (And the babies are not whales.)

This morning, in something of an effort to stem the whale talk (but in a more likely effort to stem the flow of cartoons before coffee), the Wee One's daddy decided they would watch Star Wars.

Now let me say that Star Wars has been strictly forbidden from our TV for a few months because of the non-stop Star Wars talk and questions about whether or not there are other Yodas, why Luke and Leia are brother and sister, how does Darth Vader eat, etc. These are all great questions, but when they are shouted at you in the car over and over EVERY SINGLE DAY for endless amounts of time, you have to go to X-TREME parenting and forbid Star Wars from the TV - at least for a while.

So this morning Star Wars was welcomed back into the DVD player. And chaos ensues. Because, not really thinking this through, the return of Star Wars coincides with the Wee One getting a sword (from a third party) for his birthday. This morning has been one of thrashing and slashing and loud humming of Star Wars music and torturing of the dog and torturing of the mommy and accidental whacking of the self in the head.

In an effort to stop the madness I allowed the Wee One to play with some blue stretchy stuff I was using to put up some of his artwork on the wall. It's not really made for playing with, but it did briefly distract him from Star Wars. In fact, it distracted him long enough for me to mention something about going to Target to possibly pick up some Silly Putty.

"Sticky Pud?!" the Wee One asked excitedly. "That sounds GREAT!"

Now he's humming the Star Wars song, swinging a sword, and hollering "Sticky pud! Sticky pud! Sticky pud!"

Why must my best efforts always end in vain? And WHAT are the teachers going to say when he's yelling "sticky pud!" in the bathroom at school.

We should have just embraced the whale talking. It wasn't so bad now that I think about it. Cooooooome baaaaack whaaaaaale taaaaalking. I miiiiissss youuuuuuuu.

Shew!

robot birthday done
no stitches, just two meltdowns
another success

Too tired to go into all of the details, but here are the highlights from the Wee One's birthday party today:

1) Oscar statue pinatas can be successfully morphed into robot pinatas (at least well enough to please four-year-olds)
2) Aluminum foil makes excellent camouflage for chip-holding bowls that don't match
3) Seven kids dancing the Robot to TMBG's "Robot Parade" is certainly the most awesome thing I have seen in years.
4) For some reason, when you get a bunch of four-year-olds together, the room begins to smell like popcorn even though there is no popcorn. Anywhere. Within 5 miles.

And the cake! It turned out super duper bad ass (click to enjoy it in a ginormous state):

Wow

a whoosh past my eyes
time flies as fast as they say
the wee one is four!

Today is the Wee One's birthday - he's 4! I know it's cliche, but dang the time has gone by quickly. I can hardly believe that the kid sitting next to me in his underpants, playing with a wooden snake and a toy Yoda was trying to make his way out of my belly this time four years ago. Amazing.

Happy birthday, dude. You're one helluvan awesome kid.

t-ball blues

an experiment
and now we have our answer
tee ball - not for us

For anyone looking for a well-organized, affordable entry into baseball for their kiddo, I highly suggest AVOIDING the Leander/Cedar Park Youth League AS IF IT WERE THE BIRD FLU.

If you remember, we were doing the "no rain" dance around here a few weeks ago so that the Wee One's last tee ball game and trophy ceremony wouldn't be canceled. Alas, our dance didn't do the trick and there were storms all night. The game was canceled and supposedly never rescheduled. I was told (after contacting the "commissioner") to wait to hear from our coach about when the closing ceremonies would be held.

I found out TODAY that closing ceremonies were held on the 14th. NO ONE CALLED. NO ONE EMAILED. No one made any attempt to contact us and let us know.

Now, I realize that most of the other kids on the Wee One's team have older siblings in the league and thus are somehow privy to important and yet secret information like WHEN THE SEASON EFFING ENDS, but come on. Should we be penalized because we don't have an older child playing? Is it my responsibility to hound the coach and leave a cell phone message every single day until I hear what's going on? I thought the coach and/or the "team mom" were in charge of letting parents know what was going on. Silly me.

Now the wee one has no closure. And that sounds a bit ridiculous, I know, but he doesn't understand why tee ball is spontaneously over. He was expecting at least a trophy. And so was I. I guess I'll have to waddle myself down there and raise holy hell so he can get his trophy and I can let them know just how poorly organized their "league" is.

I'm pissed, because we liked the coach (when he bothered to tell us what was going on) and we enjoyed the games (that we knew about), and we really liked the quality of the Wee One's snazzy tee ball cap. Was this "half-season" worth $75, plus the cost of a bat, a glove, pants, etc.? I don't think so.

You suck, Leander/Cedar Park Youth League.

You suck big, sweaty donkey balls.

And you owe us a trophy.

tree in the forest

it's down to the wire
but let's pretend that it's not
except that it is

The Wee One has made a sacrifice, but he doesn't know he has, so maybe it doesn't count. I have RSVP'd no for a birthday party that's tomorrow. It's the first time we haven't gone to a party we've been invited to. And this one's gonna be a doozy - water slides, pony rides, the works. But I said we weren't going and so we're not, even though I'm feeling guilty about it now.

The thing is, we have so much to do this weekend... in anticipation of the baby... in keeping the house from being condemned by health inspectors... in taking care of the yard... in about a million other things. And my husband, lucky bastard that he is, is getting to take care of most this single-handedly because I have about three hours of energy a day and then my legs collapse in on themselves and I'm done.

What does this have to do with the party, you ask? Well, the only way for us to be able to go to the party would be for me to escort the Wee One alone, while Super Daddy stays home to do a bunch of stuff. But I just can't do it. Not right now. Not when it's 95 degrees outside. Not when I have to smell pony poop and listen to kids scream. Not when I won't know any other mommies at the party and will end up standing alone in a corner of the yard, sweating into my drink.

So it's a selfish thing, the RSVP-ing no. I know the Wee One would have a blast - or at least I think he would. I do wonder, though, if maybe I'm making that up, because I remember going to big blowout birthday parties as a kid and generally there's crying and barfing and a bit of fun and that's it. Nothing spectacular. But still, I feel bad. Not THAT bad, but a little bit bad.

Anyway, the Wee One's birthday is coming up and yes, he will have a party, and no there won't be ponies, and yes I'm worried about some kind of birthday party karma biting us in the ass. But I'm not THAT worried. I'm mostly worried about talking my crotch bones into allowing me to wander around Terra Toys and/or Toy Joy long enough to find some seriously bad ass birthday presents. But I think that's another post.

So no birthday party tomorrow. But we will do laundry and try to turn our disastrously unorganized office into a nursery. If that doesn't doesn't sound like a party, I don't know what does.

Porcupine cake!

quickly assembled
porcupine cake tastes quite good
and not too stabby

The Wee One's birthday is in just less than two weeks, and because we've (well, I've) decided to not have gabillion kids at his birthday party, we brought a cake to school today so they could celebrate during snack time. Conveniently, it was also the last day of school, so we celebrated that, too. (Do parents really celebrate the last day of school? It's more a porcupine cake of mourning. I jest, of course. Not really.)

Anyway, the Wee One woke up with a spectacular hairdo this morning. It totally matched his cake and I couldn't resist recording it for posterity. So here you go:

The Wee One and the Porcupine Cake... Separated at Birth
(Click on the pic for a ginormous version)

no rain mojo

so long and so short
tee ball half-season ending
won't miss the sunburn

The Wee One's very last tee ball game is Saturday morning at 8am. At 9 they have closing ceremonies and all of the little players get trophies. It should be a blast.

The problem is, we have a 70% chance of rain for Saturday. And we're going to Frisco (a four-hour drive) later that afternoon. If there's a washout on Saturday, the game is moved to Sunday and the Wee One won't be there to accept his trophy. Have I mentioned that ever since he started tee ball he's been talking about the trophy he'll get?

So.

I need you to squash together all of the anti-rain mojo you can muster. We must chant together "No rain on Saturday morning! No rain late Friday night! No washout for the Wee One!"

Or, if it rains, maybe we can call the coach, set up a clandestine "closing ceremony" at the Dairy Queen, swipe the trophy, and have a dipped cone.

That actually sounds better, doesn't it?

play ball!

dressing in the dark
saturday mornings have changed
not happy with this

When I got up this morning it was still dark. Staggering out of bed, I turned off the alarm, pried my eyes open and took a fast shower. I dressed, prodded my husband awake and then spent another ten minutes trying to get an exhausted three-year-old out of bed.

We sat in bleary-eyed silence munching cereal and then spent a frantic extra five minutes trying to find clean socks. Then we were out the door.

Were we on our way to work and school? No.
Were we on our way for an early flight to take us on a tropical vacation? No.
We were on our way to a tee-ball game.
At 8 am.
On a Saturday.

This is why right now, at this very minute, while my over-tired kid is literally bouncing himself off the wall and my husband is asleep on the sofa, sports can officially bite my growing ass.

Oh, the learning

learning can be good
a growing brain is helpful
well, most of the time

I think I've written about this before, so this may be an update. Or maybe I didn't write about it before and only thought about writing it before and so it is all brand new. I really can't keep track anymore. Anyway:

Things The Wee One Has Learned At School Other Than School Stuff

1. Pretending to hit still gets you in trouble, but not as much trouble as actual hitting, and therefore can be repeated ad nauseum until mommy freaks out or you get bored and Zoboomafoo comes on.

2. Sticking one's tongue out doesn't get you in trouble right away when you smile cutely while doing it.

3. A lunchbox is not for holding your lunch, rather it is a receptacle for snatching other people's funyuns (which you won't even eat) and bringing them home like crunchy, onion-flavored pets.

4. Pasta is not just food.

5. Glitter, when accidentally stuck to your eyelashes, is a pain in the ass.

6. Everyone is your friend until one day someone says they are "super super man" and you are only "super man." Then it is all out war.

7. It's all fun and games until you wear open-toed Buzz Lightyear sandals to school and someone drops a rock on your toe.

Stay tuned for more Lessons From School. I can sense that karate-chopping your peanut butter sandwich and snot as an actual snack might be making the list soon. I can see you're on the edge of your seat with anticipation.

[taps playing]

porcelain heaven
not a SXSW band
it's where our fish lives

First of all, can I state how tired I am of antibiotics? First the dog has to take them because his ears are festering holes of slime and decay. Then I have to take them and they give me a foul, white furry tongue, for which I have to take OTHER medicine to fix (FYI: oral thrush blows). THEN the wee one is on them for an ear infection (but with much less festering than the dog's, thankfully). NOW, NOW the EFFING FISH are on antibiotics because of fin rot, which means they look like little Pirates of the Caribbean skeleton fish swimming around.

Our house has become the Lair of the Antibiotic Beast. We cannot be rid of it. Maybe there is a sacrificial Druid ceremony I can look up that will cure us of the curse of the weird and funky germs that plague us.

Anyway, the blue fish has succumbed to either the antibiotics, or the fin rot, or possibly being nibbled on by frogs when he was just kind of chillin' on the floor of the aquarium figuring out whether to live or not. He's officially dead, though. And this is now officially a Teaching Moment.

The wee one isn't really attached to the fish. He likes them and all, he's just not all that into them (there's a joke here somewhere, but I'm too lazy to figure out). So when I pointed out the upside down, partially eaten carcass of the Fancy Blue Guppy, he wasn't that disturbed. Until the D-E-A-D word was uttered. Then I had his attention.

For some reason the wee one has been asking a lot of questions about death and dying and heaven and things like that. I think it has something to do with the Jesus talk at preschool, either that or it's a Star Wars thing. I'm not sure. I've been doing my best to give him honest answers. But saying things like, "Some people believe we go to Heaven when we die, and others believe we are turned into another person or animal, and still others believe our spirits can stay on earth," etc. isn't really helping. For now I'm sticking with the heaven thing.

As I, uh, fished out the dead fish the wee one asked if the fish was going to Fish Heaven and whether or not Fish Heaven is in Texas. I told him, in fact, fish heaven IS in Texas, and the express train to get there is directly through our toilet - convenient, eh?

There was some confusion from my explanation, though, and now the wee one thinks the toilet is Fish Heaven. I can't wait for that to come up at preschool.
"Anybody know what heaven is?"
"It's our potty and it's in Texas!"
That should go over extremely well.

We're still working through a lot of dead fish and religion-based questions, but there isn't a lot of grief, so that's good. I think. And I also think we can stop the fish antibiotics now.

Thank-you Fish Jesus for the mercy you bestow.

t-ball

baseballs called "soft-strike"
kind of soft but not really
when they hit your face

This is my interpretation of the wee one's first t-ball practice:

"HUNTER STOP THAT"
"HAYDEN DON'T HIT YOUR BROTHER"
"RYDER GET OFF THE FENCE"
"HUNTER DON'T PEE THERE"
"HAYDEN STOP SMOTHERING HIM"
"RYDER WATCH THE BALL"

In between the repeated screechings above, I managed to catch a glimpse of the wee one looking a bit worried as the coach nicely implored him to please follow through with his swing so the ball would, you know, be knocked off the tee. (I think we have a really good bunter in the family.)

But I only got a few glimpses because I managed to seat myself on the bleachers just behind a poor haggard mama with approximately 8 million boys, none of whom were particularly concerned with a) listening to her b) avoiding bodily harm or c) getting out of the way so people could watch the practice.

I don't fault the mama. I mean, there's only so much control you can have over 8 million kids. But I hope her husband had an excellent excuse for not being there to help her.

When I caught a glimpse of the practice, the wee one seemed to be having a good time - especially when one of the haggard mama's boys showed him how to throw the red baseball diamond dirt.

Then, after 45 minutes of hitting and catching (well, scooping up) soft-strike t-balls, no one had any major injuries and practice was over. The parents were then hit up for money (I shake my fist at thee, fund-raising), and all was well. Well, sort of all was well. The wee one was quite displeased that none of the other boys wanted to share hugs after practice. This broke my heart and amused me immensely. I explained that maybe they didn't want to hug because their batting helmets are all so big that everyone might give each other whiplash if they tried to embrace. The wee one shrugged and we headed home.

I lost site of the haggard mom, but I'm kind of afraid she's still at the baseball diamond trying to get her kids to climb off the roof of the concession stand. I'm pretty sure I can still hear her yelling.

accusatory

finger-pointing starts
expectations are not met
I am just not pink

The wee one just asked me quite accusatory-like, "Mommy, why aren't