Whatever Happened to Mary and Her Freakin Lamb?

Maybe I'm just being overly dramatic (completely out of character, I know) but I'm thinking that these little cd sets featuring kids singing mainstream music are sort of....inappropriate.

I don't know about you, but lyrics such as these just don't sound right coming from singers who still need help wiping the doodie from their behinds:

Ain't got a care in the world
But got plenty of beer
Ain't got no money in my pocket
But i'm already here
And now the dudes are lining up cause they hear we've got swagger
But we kick em to the curb 'less they look like Mick Jagger

I'm talking 'bout everybody getting crunk, crunk
Boys wanna touch my junk, junk
Gonna smack him if he's getting too drunk, drunk

Superman loves to sing along to the commercials for these cd sets and for some reason, it disturbs me when I hear my first grader belting out:

her booty was bootylicious
we hit da club
and she tasted delicious
foshizzy
Nothin like drinkin Crown Royale
up in this hizzy*

I'm not sure what to think.
Maybe I am overreacting.
Music is completely harmless right?  I mean, Britney Spears turned out okay....and Kurt Cobain......and um, hmmm.....Elvis??

Now that I think about it, maybe it's time I explore different genres in my kindergarten classroom.  Yes!  I think I'll bring in my old Madonna cds!  Nothing like a little "Like a Virgin" during circle time to get the 'ol six and under crowd going!

In fact, if we play our cards right, my class could be featured on the next "Shake Your Rump and Other Bootie-Related Classics, Volume 10."

Now if you'll excuse me.
I have some explicit lyrics to gather lesson planning to do.

*Original lyrics.  PDiddy:  Call me!

Mommy Math: Preventing Teen Pregnancies, One Equation at a Time

5:35 a.m.

plus

2 cranky and starving offspring

minus

4 hours of sleep

multiplied by

3 overflowing laundry hampers

divided by

0 nannies and/or housekeepers

raised to the power of

10 short order meals

carrying over the

2 cases of Impetigo

quantified by

x( "MoooooooommmmmmmyI'mBooooooooooooored.")
___________________________________________
y("Iswearifyoudon'tSHUTitI'mgoingtocomedownthereand....")

equals

the

"Imayhaveglorifiedmytwoweekspringbreakjustatadandnowi'mstuckwithtwoveryneedyshortpeoplesopleasesendhelpandifyouareahorny
teenagerreadingthiskeepyourpantsonfortheloveofGodTheorem."


I think this kind of math is way more useful to the 13-19 year old crowd; Algebra II just doesn't give the whole picture, you know?

I tell ya.

Give me enough time and I can solve just about anything via a horrifying glimpse joyous illustration of motherhood.

Therapy Talk

If there's one thing we really strive for in monchichi's therapy program, it's to generalize his new skills and use them outside of his immediate community, so that we know he has mastered a particular task. 

Lately, I find that I too have begun to generalize some of  the things I have learned in his program.

On the plus side, I find myself saving some serious time by not engaging in frilly conversations.
Also, people no longer make eye contact with me and back away slowly as I approach.

Either way, I win.

Below, some examples.  Add a singsong voice to each statement for that added condecending tone; fun times for everyone.

"Not a choice."
This is a great phrase to use on the telemarketer who calls to harrass you about purchasing that extra ironclad life insurance policy for your loved one/next door neighbor/pet.  Also comes in handy when the husband asks to have the guys over for poker night.

"Good listening."
Comes in handy when you notice an eavesdropper lurking nearby as you share the latest gossip with your shallow mommy friends.  May be used liberally with your kids, husband, pastor, in-laws, sponsor.  Best used sarcastically.  Add a dramatic eye roll to really drive home your point.

"Nice waiting."
Also a gem, this one is pretty much appropriate whenever someone is being a dung-hole and trying to push their way through line or whip into your parking spot before you've even had a chance to fully back out.  Comes in handy in overcrowded waiting rooms and the DMV.

"Quiet hands."
Perfect for when your husband comes home and thinks that, after you've spent the day refereeing your insane adorable children, almost broken your right pointer finger cuticle while watching a workout dvd, eaten steamed brocolli and kale for dessert, and accidentally stepped in cat barf, that you're still somehow in the mood to rock his socks off. 
As if.


Stay tuned for more.

Until then,

"Use your words."

The Evolution of Playdates

2004:
Superman:  fart..........spit up..................poop................."waaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!"
Friend:  fart.............belch.........................spit up............"waaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

2005: 

Superman:  "mama, up, uh oh"

Friend:  "mama, down, bye-bye"

2006:

Superman:  "Wheeeeee!  Down the slide we go!"

Friend:  "Try to catch me! Hee Hee Hee!" 

2007:

Superman:  "My tricycle is faster than your tricycle!"

Friend:  "I'm telling!"

2008:

Superman:  "Okay, I'll be the blue Power Ranger, and you can be the red one."

Friend:  "Okay, but I'm gonna wear the Red Power Ranger costume with your Darth Vader cape!"

2009:

Superman: "Let's play Monster Tag but everyone has lightsabers and the bad guys come out of the bushes but the good guys defeat them and win!"

Friend:  "Okay, but the lightsabers are made out of fire and the good guys have special powers that they can only use if the bad guys sneak up on them from the top of Doom Mountain."

2010:

Superman:  "The wrath of hell has decsended upon you.  Look I just killed you!  You're dead dude!  Dude, check it out, your blood is splattered everywhere!  Wait, how did you just make your guy chop off my head?  You just totally killed me.  You've gotta show me that move dude.  Here comes DarkDevilSpawnHellRaiser with his double-blade killing machine....wow, he just totally made you DIE!  You are DEAD!!  That. Is. So. Cool!"

Friend:  "Dude, I'm so over this game, there's like not enough Death and Killing and Blood.  Let's put the other one on, the one with the guy that comes out and eats baby kittens and skins baby polar bears while he shoots those people in the head and makes the blood gush out all over the place and then the car crashes into the church and sets it on fire and everyone is screaming and bleeding and then he shoots death lasers from his eyeballs and everyone EXPLODES!"

Both:

"Cooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooool."

Not THAT talk.....the OTHER one

As I went to feed the kids' two behemouth goldfish Friday morning, I noticed that the one dubbed Captain Catfish was pressed strangely against the tank.  I gave the tank a little shove and, like a scene straight out of an Alfred Hitchkock horror movie, (or an R-rated version of Nemo) both fish began violently bobbing in the water until finally coming to rest at the surface of the tank.  Upside down.

Now, I'm no vet, but something about the way they looked so dead told me that they were.....no longer alive.

When my husband came home from work he properly disposed of our late pets by dumping them into the toilet and sending the little rascals

We decided to postpone telling Superman (Monchichi could have cared less, probably having forgotten that we even had the damn fish minutes after first meeting them over a year ago) until after our Friday tradition of pizza and a family movie (somehow the whole "your pet fish ate it this morning but shhhh, let's see what Astro Boy will think of next" just didn't jive well in my head).

Then Superman had to pee.

Which turned out to be rather inconvenient. 

Because he ended up seeing the empty fish tank that his daddy accidentally left behind on the bathroom sink.

My adult brain was telling me to shout "They.  Were.  Just.  Stupid.  Fish." 
But my mother's intuition warned me that if I took that route I may be jeapordizing my Mother's Day gift and I'll end up with something made out of macaroni and heart shaped doilies and screaming "homemade" (insert shudder) when what mommy really wants is a shiny, plastic, impersonal giftcard.

So I scooped up my heartbroken son and snuggled up to him in my bed. 

I tried to cheer him up by telling him about the time I fishsat for my friend who had to go on a trip and she had at least 20 fish in her tank and so I decided to clean the tank and surprise her and so I transferred her fish into a plastic bin and scrubbed the tank out and replaced the filter and made it all purdy and then I went to retrieve the fish and they were all dead, all 20 of them, because I had put them in a bin that had residue from our laundry detergent and isn't that just the funniest thing, me killing all of those poor, helpless, little fishies and then having to tell my friend that I was a fish murderer and hahahahahah Superman, see?  It all works out in the end.

"That's not very funny mommy," he whispered, his eyes wide with fear/disgust/confusion/more fear.

I tried to reason with him and explain the life cycle of a fish and that like all living things fish go away and so he asked if everything dies and I said yes, eventually, everything that is alive dies and so he asked about our cats, Charlie and Lola, and I said, yep, when it's time for them to go back to nature they too will die and then he asked about his brother, his daddy, me, his grandma, his aunt, his teacher, his best friend, his godmother, the entire cast of ICarly and the tooth fairy.  Being the chicken sh!# sensitive mother that I am, I answered with, "Of course not dear."

I stopped myself from revealing that "Haha, in fact, that was not even the original Captain Catfish anyway, because we had to replace him just weeks after getting him because he went belly up and see, you didn't even notice that it wasn't the same fish because. they. are. a. dime. a. dozen."

I toyed with the always popular "Get over it."

I finally settled on a promised trip to Petco for more fish that will also eventually die wreaking continued pain and anguish that we will unconditionally love for the duration of their unpredictable and frail lives.

The Darwin vs. God debate did little to ease the difficulty of a mom struggling to teach her son about loss, acceptance, and that certain things, like fish and obnoxious relatives, are easily replaceable. 

I vote for more fake pets, like those creepy little hamsters that keep selling out at Toys R Us.

Then I can just ignore the whole life/death conversation altogether and hope that Great Aunt Edith hangs on long enough for him to learn the facts from some loud-mouthed classmate named Buck whose parents have the nerve to tell him the truth.

I mean, how else do you think Superman's going to learn about all of the other uncomfortable topics I have no intention of discussing with him?

1 in 100 (Or Something Like That)

There is a mommy-to-be
out there
somewhere
rubbing her belly
stocking up on antacids
because she's
eating for two (and maybe, sometimes, when no one's looking, for three)

She
spends hours
researching the best carseat/stroller systems
daydreaming while doing the dishes
about walks in the parks
letting strangers take sneak peaks
at the most gorgeous baby ever to be born

Her husband
dutifully goes to work each day
socking away dollars and cents
daydreaming while driving towards the office
about teaching his son
to play catch
trying to keep his cool
as he maybe, sometimes, (okay, often)
brags to his co-workers
about his boy's God-given natural talent

They welcome
their future
in the east wing of their local hospital
possibly the most perfect afternoon of their young adult lives
ten tiny toes
an even tinier nose
and the doctor assures them there is nothing wrong

they have no reason to doubt
what he says
and feel giddy through the exhaustion
that this is the first day
of the rest of their lives
sure that everything will
always fall into place
for this shiny brand new family of three

They have no way of knowing (and this is probably best anyway)
that
something stealth and silent
will sneak upon their joyful plans
and test their faith
and love
for each other
for God
(and yes)
even for this little person (I learned long ago that it's okay to admit that)
wrapped like a burrito
tucked in between his
blissfully ignorant parents

Too soon
a new reality will set in
as milestones are ignored
and almost two years later
the camera still can't catch his eye
and they realize they can no longer blame
the photographer

So they begin to blame themselves
(that is the natural order of things, after all)
and sometimes
they go to bed
without saying goodnight
to one another


They finger point
and use four letter words
until one hits rock bottom
and the only thing left to do
is make the kind of decision you never even considered
as you exchanged love-soaked vows
in front of
165 of your closest friends and family

He picks her up
and
through the kind of embrace that signals a fresh start
they make a new vow
to
FIGHT
for a future
they did not plan
but
are willing
to save


1 in 100
(or something like that)

that's an awful lot
of dreams
being broken


beyond the east wings
of local hospitals

everywhere

I'm Older Than I Look

The good news is that apparently, I won't be bothered with a mid-life crisis.

The bad news is is that it's because I'm skipping mid-life and going straight to the Depends aisle and 10% Sizzler discount on Senior Saturdays.

This morning I woke up a young, vibrant, happy-go-lucky 32.
Then I went to the Optometrist; the thin, flawlessly-skinned-know-it-all-bitch Optometrist.
She told me I have what appears to be the beginning stages of cataracts; aka, anyone know where I can get a tightly rolled perm and some sensible shoes?

I tried to maintain my composure but I may have frightened her when I somewhat erratically shrieked "Are you high?"

She didn't seem the least bit concerned (about the cataracts; she was quite visibly afraid of me) but then again she's not the one that's going to have to learn Braille (does People magazine even come in braille??)

I left her office leaning on my six year old (I have to preserve my strength, at least until my bedazzled cane comes in the mail) wondering how my grandmother would feel about sharing her dentures and bedside commode (hey, a penny in the hand is worth a bushel of toothless birds, and so forth).

Anyway
that's the latest around here.
Now excuse me while I go shake my finger and scowl disapprovingly at young people.

Happy Prune Juice and Pizza Friday.

Or You Could Just Shut the Windows

I just got off the phone with my next door neighbor....

"Did you hear the fight?"

"How could I not hear it?"

"The wife and I kept trying to find the best acoustics.  The laundry room made for better sound quality than the garage."

"I had just come back from the grocery store and got the driveway showing.  Who was he kicking out of the house, anyway?"

"I don't know, but I stopped counting the F-bombs after 44."

"Was he talking about his wife, or his dog?"

"He's got that New York temper, that's for sure......"

"Okay.  Well, if anything new develops, call me."

"Night......."

Obnoxious, foul-mouthed, jackasses.
Bringing neighbors together since the dawn of fences and property lines.

I've Been Demoted. At Least Until the Anger Fades.

"You used to be the best mommy, but not anymore.  You're not being the best mommy at all.  Daddy is still the best daddy though."

The insecure, guilt-ridden, people-pleasing mommy inside of me, the one that fills my head and heart with paranoia and doubt, wants to plead with you to take it back, to promise me that you don't mean it; to validate me and all that I do for you, my beloved Superman, while I give you a big warm hug and whip up a batch of your favorite meal du jour.

The tired, overworked, overwhelmed mommy inside of me wants to yell back "Oh yeah?  Well you're not exactly poised to win any awards right about now either, so there!" (insert hands on hips and tongue sticking out in order to drive home the point).

The quasi-rational mommy inside of me, the one that somehow manages to squeeze past the other two, bites her tongue and stays silent, letting you ramble on about how unfair your six year old life is, how I demand too much of you, how utterly hopeless the circumstances are.  I consider this evening's exchange not unlike a scrimmage before the big game.  Each time you push my buttons son, and I manage to grit my teeth and rise above it, I am fortifying myself for the years when your testosterone levels flood your body and paralyze the brain cells responsible for human-like-behavior and all I am left with is a hairy sixteen year old with the personality of a doorknob.


And not a fancy doorknob, like this:

But a regular, run-of-the-mill doorknob, like this:

I can hear you thumping around in your room, stomping your feet in protest as you put away toys your friends left behind.  You know the rules my darling.

I have to take several deep breaths because this is hard for me son.  I can't stand anyone mad at me, least of all my you.  My blue-eyed wonder, the best BIG brother, a boy with a heart capable of love and compassion far beyond your chronological age. 

Plus, when you're grounded from t.v., I have to fill the time with, gasp, parenting. 

You are testing me.

Like the red-blooded child that you are, you are on a quest to find out just how far you can go before the poop hits the fan. 

Well, the poop has hiteth, my love.

This defiance in you.

This passionate need to argue every point I make, push against every boundary I set; I have to say, I preferred being spit up on and having to change neck-high diaper explosions in the middle of mommy group meetings at Starbucks.

But we will get through this, you just wait and see.

Because.

You can't resist my unconditional, unwavering, codependent love forever.

I'm a mom.

I have Hallmark on my side.

I Spent My Sunday Saving the Future. Or At Least Two Girls Being Overlooked By Their Parents.

Dear Young, Attractive, Visibly Self-Absorbed Couple:

Yoohoo!  I'm over here.  In the private school booth, which is located directly across from the massage booth that you are standing in.  What lovely little girls you have.  They must be about 6, 7 years old, am I right?  Oh.  I see that you're too busy to come over and talk about your children's academic future because you're partaking in the free five minute massages they're advertising over there.   The ones that are given by those underage boy toys who claim to work for their pimp mother who happens to be a "chiropractor".

Inte-res-ting.

Just wondering if you've noticed that your girls have walked a few feet to the right and are now standing smack dab in the middle of the Passion Party booth? The one adorned with pink feather boas, glittery banners, and pastel-hued personal lubricants?   No?   Oh yeah.  They're over there right now getting a hands-on education about the kind of stuff that's typically omitted from the California State Standards (I can't speak for other states though). 

Anyway, I've managed to convince your girls to come on over to the G-rated section of the Expo and I'm giving them a bright yellow bag filled with our pamphlet, website information, playdoh, and a good old fashioned lollipop (for the record, the um, various samples the girls threw in there are NOT affiliated with our school).

Should you decide that BestPrivateSchoolThisSideofOrangeCounty is the right fit for you, please contact us at the number listed on the brochure to schedule your tour.  It is a worthy investement; one that will yield high returns for many years to come. 

Well, I  hope you enjoyed your massage.  By the way, I just saw your daughters again.   They're headed towards the stripper pole lessons, located at the end of our aisle, right next to the Orphans for Christ tent.

I look forward to your call.


*So much of this post is NOT exaggerated, it's scary.  The private school where I teach participated in a "Family Expo" this weekend and our booth was located across from a seedy massage joint and a sex toy distributor.  I swear.  It's as if the Blogging Gods themselves were smiling down upon me.* 

Tonight We Will Sing Happy Birthday For the 1,356th Time This year. But Really Mean It This Time.

I imagined you a thousand times
as you rolled in my belly
while I read Dave Barry books
and ate pancakes that resembled
a mid-size sedan

You signaled you were ready
while I was pumping gas
into a car that had an empty (and clean) backseat
and I begged daddy to get me that giant burrito
but he floored it and got me to the hospital in record time
(I got ice chips and lime jello instead)

Oh Son.
Thank God the euphoria
and the unconditional love
flooded my insides the minute we met
because it
Hurt.
Like.
Hell.
getting you here
and I might have held a grudge otherwise

I fumbled
I tripped
I felt like a failure
those first few days
your skin wrinkled like a little old man
your tiny body disproportionate to your Giant needs
as I wondered what on earth I was doing
taking care of YOU
when most of the house plants I'd ever owned
um, didn't fare so well

You were my first
so I had no one to compare you to
but I knew something was wrong
as I kissed chubby fingers that wouldn't point
stared into endless blue eyes that were always looking beyond me
towards something I was beginning to dread
an emptiness that flickered
inbetween perfect smiles and soft lullabies

You defined motherhood for me
then the doctors redefined it
as they finally named your struggles
on an ordinary Spring afternoon
so I held you tighter
kissed you harder
tried to break through your gaze with my love on the way home that day

Eight years.
Eight years
filled to the brim
with triumphs
sorrows
hope
forgiveness
despair
the kind of laughter that threatens to never stop
Eight years
of the kind of Love
that only God is capable of creating
when he blesses a family
with a child like you

I write son because it is what I do
but I have yet to find the words
that would do justice
to what I feel in my heart
when you are in my arms
your sweet breathe in synch with mine
when you dot the house in mystery cans
and pull out the blow-up snowman in mid-June
when you steal pillar candles from unassuming hosts
and use string cheese as an accessory

when you enter a room and fill it with your light
and remind everyone around you

that love
and joy
and all that is good and pure and true in this world
can be felt
in the presence
of an amazing
little boy
like you


Happy Birthday Monchichi.


I love you.

I Demand A Raise. Or Something.

Listen.

I'm all for taking care of your kids and crap.
My two are usually not hungry, not thirsty, not cold.
For the most part, they're listed as stable.

They're doing much better than my mother predicted they would when we announced that we were starting a family (and by starting a family I mean, "Hey mom, hey dad, guess what? Ooops!")  She was convinced (and, based on current daily phone calls that begin with a panicked "Did you feed the kids?" still is) that I was going to misplace, malnourish, and mangle my offspring (though I will admit, albeit grudgingly, that I may have misplaced them a time or two.  What?  Not hard to do when Target pulls a stunt like putting randomstuffthat'smadeinChinathatIdon'tevenremotelyneed on clearance.)  
Stop judging me.  No one likes a parenting snob.

So, like the sucker I am, I do this mothering bit for free because I love my kids and because no one has offered to pay me yet.  If they did, I would say Hell Yes, hand over my social security number and take a long, overdue lunch break.

But where does it end?

I'll tell you.

It ends right here:

Don't let the colorful tubes fool you. 

This is not a taffy-making kit.

A few days ago I briefly mentioned that monchichi was having some potty issues here.

Things have continued to spiral out of control and we are now fully engulfed in Poop Watch 2010.  His doctor, who I was fond of up until yesterday, merrily announced that we have to take some stool samples, and when I asked what our barstools had to do with anything, she wrote something down in his chart and sent us home.

With this handy dandy $#it Kit.

So while you're watching your Tuesday night lineup, I'll be hiding in my closet so that my husband has to deal with a situation that can only be described as "omg, ewwwwwwwww!"* 

He already cleans the litter box.  How different can it be?

On a side note, I found this written on the instruction sheet:

Are you kidding me?

How many careless morons did it take before they had to add this in there?

*Don't try this literary superiority at home.

There Are Certain Things I Wouldn't Want to Change

It is no secret
that I loathe you
and all that you take away
from my little boy

That he cannot
tell me
when his tummy hurts
or mention his boring day at school
recall the scary dream he had last night
or pout at the dinner table, and tell me that he hates my cooking
(I wouldn't even care if he said that, by the way)

That he cannot
ride a bike with his brother
or play tag with his friends
(the ones he made himself; the ones that call and invite him to movies,
 and trade snacks with him during lunch)
that he will not tease a girl because her smile makes his heart swell and she smells like strawberries

But
(and this is such a tiny slither of a but)
there are these moments
where he does something
and I know
you play a part
and it's something
I wouldn't change for the world
because they are the moments
that suspend his
red-inked diagnosis
while for a few giddy seconds
we are given something
to talk about

There are certain things
I wouldn't want to change

This
is not
a peace treaty

We
will never be
friends

I still
plan
to
run you
out of town
one
stubborn step
at a time

I just may
giggle
while doing it
every
once
in a little while

Oh Hellll No.....

The phone rang Saturday morning
and I was taken aback
when a young girl's voice
asked to speak with Superman
(sweet, innocent, six year old mama's boy Superman)

And so it begins.
Me vs. The Tramps


Luckily
he was at Polish school
and after a two minute polite conversation
I promised the little hussy
that he would call her back when he got home


As If.

I Swear This Post Is Not Just About Poop

Monchichi has diarreah.

Hey.  It's no picnic for me. 
Why should I sugarcoat it for you?

We are on what feels like day 56, but really it's been about 72 hours.
Today I decided to call his doctor's office, so that I could once again be reassured that there was nothing they could do and that eventually he would either poop himself invisible or run out of ammo.  When I realized the phone number was not programmed into my cell phone, I called a specific agency (who shall remain nameless and who may or may not be reached at 1-800-Goog411) that is supposed to specialize in locating this type of information. 

"Welcome to ___________.  Please say the name of the person or business you are trying to reach, along with the city and state."

"Dr. Jennifer Rhodes, Tustin, California."

(clicking and beeping sounds, while the computer masterfully retreives the information I so desperately seek)

"You said, Tom's Toyota Dealership in Glendale, California.  If this is correct, press 1 to continue.  If this is not correct, say 'Go Back.'"

(slight tension in voice) "Go.  Back."

"Please say the name of the person or business you are trying to reach, along with the city and state."

(increased volume and careful pronounciation) "Dr.  Jennifer.  Rhodes.  In.  Tustin.  California."

(more beeps and clicks, while the computer works diligently on retreiving said information.)

"You said,   Gvida Vardas in Vilnius, Republic of Lithuania.  If this is correct, please press 1.  If this is not correct, say 'Go Back.'"

(Through gritted teeth and dangerously high blood pressure)  "Gooooooooo.  Baaaaaaaaaack."

"Please say the name of the person or business you are trying to reach, along with the city and state."

(Because I am no longer capable of rational thought, and have forgotten who I was looking for in the first place)  "Beatrice Rosemblum II, Podunk, Missouri.

(a series of what are clearly sarcastic clicks and beeps, and, I swear, faint evil laughter)

"You said, Dr. Jennifer Rhodes, Tustin, California."

Now I've got two pairs of pants to burn tonight.

Monchichi's

and
Mine.

A Tiny Glimpse Into the Inner-Workings of a Miracle

"Did you have a good day at school today baby?"
"No."

"Do you like riding on the bus?"
"No."

"Are you hungry?"
"No."

"Do you love mommy?"
"No."

"Do you want to go potty?"
"No."

"Do you want to watch Lightning McQueen?"
".........yeth"

Unconcerned with how much he really understands
Marveling at how perfect the little stinker's "No" sounds
Sort of misleading
As if he can utter any word he wants, at any given time

He was three when I finally heard the sound of his voice
Outside of a whine or cry
A fleeting glimpse
of
endless possibilities

and the next morning
I rose from the bed
Hope and Determination intact
instead of hiding inbetween ignorant sheets
waiting until the last minute
to face a day I was not grateful for

Now, here, in a living room messier than I care to admit
He sits on my lap
His curls dancing across my cheek

We are
engaged in

A conversation
I never thought would be possible

A conversation
I will never take for granted

A conversation
I have been waiting for
his entire life

There Are A lot of Pissed Off Kids at the Happiest Place on Earth

Two weeks ago our family indulged in something we have wanted for some time:  annual Disney passports.
It cost almost as much as an average SoCal mortgage payment, but we justified it by stomping our feet and proclaiming that we "really really really really want it NOW!"  That seemed to work so I am considering adopting this method in all areas of my life (weight loss, finances, the last parking spot at Target before you have to take a city transit bus back to the store).  I'll keep you updated on my success.

I knew we would have fun once we started going.  I mean, it's Disneyland, for pete's sake*.  What I didn't count on was the insane amount of angry miniature human beings running around throughout the park; yelling, screaming, arching their backs in protest.  And no, I'm not talking about a mob of midgets with anger management issues.  I'm talking about children.  YOUR children.  Children who are supposed to be having a magical time in the land of fairy and fluff.  Children who should be basking in all that is mass-marketed and trademarked.  Children who ought to know that this grown up spent a significant amount of money to enjoy some well-deserved peace and quiet.  Sheesh.

Instead, for every two kids that are smiling there are ten that look almost homicidal.  Seriously.  Who wants to stand in a two hour line with Children of the Corn?

Since I would rather not touch the dishes in my sink or pack lunches conveyer-belt-style for tomorrow, I have snuck into the computer room and come up with a list of ways to prevent a total meltdown on your next trip to Disney.  So pay attention.  Because trust me; my meltdowns are known to leave marks.

1.  Your baby is 2 hours old.  It doesn't even know it's alive yet.  Please exit the park and don't come back until after the umbilical cord has been cut. 

2. You know how everytime you shove your kid next to a gigantic 8 foot replica of a cartoon he watches from the safety of his couch at home and he looks like maybe he's having a mild coronary while you adjust your lens and bark at him to smile and he maybe pees and/or poops a little in his pants and begins to sob uncontrollably?  Are you high?  Knock it off.  A life-sized Goofy scares the #$%% out of most adults, let alone a toddler with incontinence.

3.  Sticking a 6 year old on Barf On Me Mountain is funny when I'm watching it on YouTube, not when she's sitting right behind me on the ride.   Just because your child meets the height requirement for riding DeathByShinyCatapult doesn't mean you should actually put her on it.  A good indicator that she's probably not the best candidate: she gets motion sickness from earth orbiting the sun.

4.  If there's anything flourescent coming out of any orifice, please leave your child at home, your local grocery store, or the nearest well-lit street corner.  I don't care.  Just don't bring him near Mickey and friends.  Given the state of our economy, they may put the old mouse down rather than pay the deductible on his health care plan if he happens to get a bad case of the sniffles.  Let's not risk it, okay?

I think that just about sums it up.

I'm sure though, that as the year progresses and we have more opportunities to visit America's favorite playground, new and improved tips will be coming your way regularly.

You're welcome.

*Who the hell is Pete?

**Disclaimer
Disneyland did not pay me for this review.  In fact, it cost a #$#%load of my own money to come to the conclusion that I'll have way more fun after you leave.**