another Big Fun Weekend

Saturday we biked everywhere. It was great. To my parents’; back home, out to the Y for swimming; to Casa Mia (after an hour and a half of swimming in the pool, Nels ended up ala “Sleepy Nacho” at the table); then back home again. It was fun. At one point Ralph, happily exercising serpentine-like motions on the bike trailer, flipped it over. Yes, the trailer with my children in it. I was listening to my iPod (Steve Earle) and luckily did not hear it go over, but I saw it go over. At which point I pulled to the side of the road, calmly removed my earbuds, and screamed,”Jesus Fucking Christ!” at Ralph. A group of guys out in their yard working on their 4×4’s averted their eyes as we picked.

The kids were completely unhurt, unrattled and barely registered anything had happened. Ralph solemnly apologized, kneeling down to them (as I calmed myself) and the kids were like, “whatever, nothing happened.” That bike trailer rocks, by the way, and it turns out when you use safety equipment properly it really makes a difference. I shudder to think of them unstrapped.

Speaking of profanity, my sister visited for three days and nights. My children love her; Nels especially desires nothing more than for her to constantly watch his every move, many of them no less impressive than shoving a whole banana into his mouth or splashing in the pool. “Root at me, Aunt Juliet!” Anyway, she ended up buying me a shirt I’ve found completely hilarious since my all-time favorite blogger did a little satirical commentary on it over a year ago.

maybe they need a little laudanum with their Froot Loops

Today I went to our County Library which has a very lovely preschooler story hour. There were so many friends and acquaintances there. Unfortunately for whatever reputation I may have, and for my own piece of mind, my kids were fucking savages while we were there. Nels sat for exactly two minutes, then wandered around fondling Mamas’ asses (accidentally, I hope), then found some wooden cars and skateboarded on them (quite well, actually. I may have to buy him a real skateboard). Sophie was great (if a little hyper) until the other parents and kids filed out of the room at the end of the event and she stopped in her tracks and yelled, “They’re leaving without me!” and threw her head back and her mouth opened into a big square and she HOWLED at the top of her lungs. I guess she wasn’t ready for fun-time to be over.

Hours later while at home I noticed she wasn’t wearing panties under her skirt. I wonder how many of the couple dozen PT Mama friends there today got an eyeful of Sophie’s punani.

These things made me laugh today:


Whoops!

and Me loves the Steve Carell. So much.

it’s funny because it’s TRUE

Sometimes my standards are pretty low. Like, this morning at about 10:25 AM. My standard of life was: keep fecal matter off of clothes and face (hands were out of the picture since I was changing a diaper and unfortunately you still have to use your hands for that). Five seconds later, as I tried to steady the boy and pull his pants up, even my modest boundary had to go. In case you, dear reader, are wondering how I could retain human feces on my hands or clothes let me just say that changing a shitty diaper on the shitty floor of a shitty rec center without a fucking changing table – on a 18-month old child who thrashes like a wolverine and screams like a torture victim whenver I lay him flat – is one of the worst things you get to do as a parent (so far, in my four years). If anyone needs a diagram or further exposition, email me and I’ll fill you in.

But you know, I had to keep going with my day. What would I like to have done? I would like to leave my children, go home, strip down, take a hot shower, dress in PJs, crawl into bed, and cry. God, I don’t even know what I’d like. It’s been a while since I had it, whatever it is.

This afternoon my husband doesn’t bother calling to let me know he’s going to be an hour late. He calls about fifteen minutes before he’s due home. While I’m cleaning Horrendous Fecal Event #3 of the day (the first being abovementioned incident; event Number Two was a delightful Hey-Why-Don’t-I-Shit-In-The-Tub incident from this afternoon – by the way, shitting in a tub which was also full of newly-sanitized bath toys) – as I said, while I’m cleaning up shit just to maintain a safe household – my son finds a full pound of rice and dumps it on the floor.

But then I realize this is perfect. My husband was supposed to be home five minutes before the rice got dumped. So, I’m not going to clean it. In fact, I’m not going to go in the room at all. This wasn’t the plan. Right now, I should be in the kitchen making dinner as The Boy and Babydaddy are tidying up the living room. Yeah. I’m not cleaning it up. In fact, I’m not leaving this room unless I hear breaking glass or my husband’s voice when he gets here. And then I’m not speaking to him for a while, either.

Some days are just like that.

wait, come back! i… don’t know how to love.

I mocked it. I taunted it. I made a small voodoo doll of it and stuck pins in it. But now that it’s gone, I kind of miss it.

My husband shaved the ‘stache this morning.

He’d been growing it to be funny and, due to a big job-related downer he’s had to deal with over the last 24 hours (yes, we are not the only sources of misery in his life!) he told me today, “I just don’t feel that fun anymore.”

A sad day for ‘staches around the world.

In other family developments, we were forced to gently usher our oldest child into the sobering discussions of race, poverty-related violence, and really, really gay dancing with last night’s viewing of West Side Story. I seriously cannot watch that film without a constant giggle in my throat. Most notable, I feel, is the package on Ice, as played by Tucker Smith. Nice lift and separation, and an excellent emphasis provied by the fact his trousers are white (separating him from the many other well-displayed crotchal regions in the film). My husband hates musicals, but gets a lump in his throat during a few numbers, especially “A Boy Like That”. Me, I just like watching the dancing and trying to ignore the orange pancake makeup on all the thirty year-old men potraying high school boys. “Rita Moreno is a stone fox,” I say to my husband. He comments on the unflattering lilac-colored frumpy frock she dances in (it’s true, it isn’t that great of a dress). I further comment that the look of the high-and-tight fabulous bums on all the dancing “gangsters” remind me of his too-tight slacks he tried on the other day (no VPL). Not sure whether I’m turned on or kind of repulsed.

The Hogabooms go to bed vaguely confused about their sexual identities and bewildered by the trouser stylings of yesteryear. Sophie exclaims of the Puerto Ricans in the Sharks gang: “They all match!”

Did my post get a little too link-y? Perhaps a little pointless to those who are unfamiliar with this particular 1961 musical? Well, too damn bad. It is MY life you’re reading about, anyway.

Sheesh.