Urine your backyard...

I'll admit sometimes I look at Middle C and wonder where she came from, and then hubby does something and all I can do is shake my head and shrug my shoulders.  Last weekend, we attended a party at our next-door neighbor's house.  I had some wine and hubby had one or two beers.  We came home around 8:00pm (gasp!) and put the girls down.  I sat down at my computer to do some work, and hubby went to finish up some yard work.  About an hour later, he waltzed in.  He glanced at me in the office typing away, and proceeded to give me a bear hug.  I pushed him away and wrinkled up my nose.  Stinky!  He started chuckling.  He came in for another smelly hug, and then started laughing.  I stared at him in utter confusion.  Seriously?  What is so funny about smelling like booty?  In between laughter, he managed to relay the story of what occurred the backyard moments before.  Let me clarify, that we do back up to a greenbelt with a short fence and have a sweet little burrow filled with two baby bunnies under one of our trees.  Hubby was attempting to protect them from the coyotes that we hear every night.  How could a six foot, four inch man, protect the sweet little bunnies...peeing the fence line of course, duh!  Well, while creating a human barrier, he was looking down and managed to forget about the bird feeder we had hanging from a low branch.  Yes, my brilliant hubby cracked his head on the feeder, showering him in congealed bird poop, seed, and stale rain water.  He was sweet enough to hug me and play "what's that stench?"  Sigh...

wax on, wax off

The other day my hubby and I had the state of our union briefing that primarily focused on the budget and spending cuts. He showed me pie-charts and graphs outlining our spending habits in the past few months.  We discussed where we could make some cuts in our spending.  I sat there feeling guilty at the spiking red line in the grocery spending, while sipping on box wine.  Hey, I am trying.  After the talk, I really needed to make some changes and there by forgoing a spa appointment that I had made.  Not spa like relax, but spa as in wax.  Our ten year anniversary is this weekend, and I though I would surprise hubby with some smooth skin.  I chose a nice place, versus the place I get my 8 dollar brow wax for obvious reasons.  I have never had anything waxed besides the brow before.  Well, the budget cuts forced me to rethink my choices.  After talking to a friend, she recommended doing the wax at home.  So, I bought the Sally Hansen wax strip kit.  The cheerful box boasted "quick and easy, works on short hair, and results lasting 8 weeks!"  I waited for hubby to go out for the evening, got the kiddos to bed, and downed a glass of wine to take the edge off.  I locked my bedroom door and preceded to lay out the items.  I began to read the directions and then at the bottom of the pamphlet I spy the phrase, "Must have at least 21 days of growth."  What??  Shouldn't that have been on the front of the box?  Who lets everything grow out for 21 days?  I couldn't return the box because I opened it, and I am too cheap to waste it, so I tried it despite my lack of 21 days of growth.  Not the brightest thing I have done, I guess you need 21 days of fur so you don't rip off a fine layer of skin.  Apparently, there are somethings that need to be budgeted for.  Happy Anniversary honey...

Tinkle

Just discovered that Middle C has been experimenting with urine collection. I found a bucket in her room this morning.  When I asked her about it she said,"Ummm...I am practicing being a nurse, they have to work with tinkle."  I shook my head.   "What?  They said on TV that trying things will help me know what I want to be when I grow up.  Seriously!"  My response was probably not one any parenting book would suggest. "Well try being a janitor and clean this shit up" (yes I shit, it just slipped, out it was 6:30 in the morning.)  Claire glared at me and stomped her foot, " It is not shit, it is tinkle AND you said a bad word."  Why yes, yes I did.

Lyrical Genius

This morning Middle C age 5, woke me up with a new song that she made up.
(to the tune of "I'm Sexy and I know it")
Your a Mommy and you know it,
You have boogers in your nose and your not afraid to blow it, blow it, blow it.
When you walk in the house, this is what you see
toys on the floor and you scream at me.
You have stink in your pants and you aren't afraid to blow it (she then made a toot sound with her mouth and shook her booty)

I am thinking she just might be the next Weird Al.  Seriously, there must be some sort of scholarship for her mad lyrical skills.

Cleavage Envy

If you have ever read my blog, you know that I suffer from T.T. (Tiny Tata's).   T.T. has been an issue in my life for many years , however after three kiddos, I now have T.T.T. (Teeny Tiny Tata's).  If you are cursed with my particular affliction you are required to wear a tank top under most of your shirts and dresses. There is not a line of clothing designed for TTT sufferers and so most clothes just hang down way too far.  Last night I was going out to meet some friends, I had a dress on and a tank underneath it.  I walked over to the kitchen table where E was sitting she looked up with a confused look on her face.  "Mommy, why do you wear a shirt under your dress?"  I told her that if I didn't, I would be showing off my bra.  "Really?" she replied,  "My teacher wears low things all of the time, but she doesn't wear a shirt under.  I can see some of her boobie, but not the nipple.  It sort of looks like a fanny crack."  I explained that her teacher has something called cleavage.  She looked at me confused, "So, will I have cleavage?  I really want some."  Sadly, I had to tell her if she has my genes she might be out of luck.  Middle C was listening in on the conversation and piped up.  "Yeah, well I DON'T want a fanny on my chest.  I bet it would get smelly and then people would call you smelly boob".  Things went down hill from there.

Roid Rage, Kentucky, and a Keg

Yep, that sums up my weekend...roid rage, Kentucky, and a Keg.  This weekend we hosted our 6th annual Kentucky Derby party. It was touch and go before the party.  I had been suffering with walking pneumonia and was taking steroids.  I was not bitchy, not weepy, but just plain mean.  I found immense pleasure crunching a beetle under my shoe and glaring at people.  My poor family...  Seriously not a good place to be in while getting ready for a party for 27 adults and 22 kids.  Hubby got a keg, and several bottles of mint julip and he was in heaven.  He taped the keg the night before the party and was giddy.  It annoyed the crap out of me that he was so calm and happy.  I finally gave up glaring and yelling and downloaded "Fifty Shades of Gray" on my kindle.  That seemed to tame the roid rage quite well.  The party went perfectly, there was betting, drinking, eating and plenty of lovely hats.  The following day we had to kill the keg.  Hubby was so proud of teaching the girls a new... life skill? The girls were fighting over who could fill up our cups.  Hubby would take a swig..."May I please give you a refill Daddy?" Middle C would call out.  This was usually followed by E screeching, "Hey, it's my turn. I want to do it, it's not fair!"  As far as I know, neither of the girls have gone to school bragging about their newly acquired skill.  Middle C, I'm sure is just waiting for the perfect opportunity to demonstrate her skill at her church run preschool.  She has already told me she wants to be like Jesus and turn water into wine because, "Mommy sure does like wine."

Shades of Brown

My girls have been giving me more material for my blog, unfortunately the posts are in my head and have not made it to my computer. So, I thought that I would once again reminisce about this time last year...

Painting with Pooh...I mean Poo

I am thrilled to announce that we have another artist in the family. Now two of my children, have chosen an organic medium to explore. Let me explain... It was a glorious day. My older children were out with daddy and baby A was asleep. I was making good headway on the three baskets of clean clothes that I had been ignoring for the past week. Sure enough, 3/4 of the way done I heard baby A babbling over the monitor. I figured that she was content, so I continued to fold. Baby A's babble turned to squeals of joy, I smiled as I folded the last pair to pet shop panties. I grabbed a basket of clothes, and trudged up the stairs. I pushed open A's door and my olfactories were accosted by a distinct odor. I sighed, as I quietly padded into her room. I wanted to see what she was so happy about...that's when I saw it. A soiled diaper lay mostly empty in the middle of her floor. Her beautiful pale pink gingham crib bumper was now streaked with a hideous shade of bluish brown (thank you blueberries). I gasped as soon as I saw baby A's little head pop up. My sweet little redhead now resembled a brunette. Begrudgingly, I peered into the crib to examine the magnitude of the smelly mess. There it was, an amazing piece of artwork streaked across the wall. My little avant-garde artist stared at me quizzically while I gagged. This was not my first child to attempt to be Poo-casso. Sadly, I have considerable experience attempting to clean a textured wall that has been smeared with Doo Doo Brown. The irony of it is, is that the only stuffed toy that she chose NOT to artistically embellish was Pooh.

My Middle C

I adore my middle C.  She has always keeps me on my toes and laughing.  I was looking through a few old posts and ran across this gem.

 May, 2008

You lost them mommy

Let me preface this by saying that my 2 year old has always been very curious. At a very young age, she was fascinated by nipples. She pronounced them "Nepal". Often times when she was younger, she would ask in public places who has "Nepals". She would announce who had them, speculate on the size of the "Nepals", and expose her own. I could easily spin the conversation by saying...Nepal is on the other side of the world. Not everyone has been to Nepal or is interested in discussing Nepal. One day, her interest waned and I was thrilled. Last week she reconnected with her burning desire to discuss them. Unfortunately, my two year old no longer uses such cute phrases as "Nepal". She has embraced the term "boobies". Today we stopped at the grocery store. I was holding her and she reached down my shirt. I was wearing a sports bra since we had just come from the gym. Ladies, as you know the sports bra does nothing to enhance an already pitiful size bra cup. So yes, I suppose I was looking unmmm a little prepubescent. My adorable 2 year old is determined to solve the mystery of the missing boobies. She announces in her tiny shrill voice, "Where did your boobies go mommy?" I gently pulled her hand out of my shirt and told her to not talk about boobies. That was my monumental mistake. Had I just made something up like...Victoria's secret has the day off, or the miracle bra is too tired, she would have probably let it go. Instead she began to literally panic.... "Oh no mommy, your boobies are missing, go find them mommy." There were several chuckles from the customers in line. I was mortified. C reached down for another investigative feel. I yanked her hand out of my shirt, no more Mr. Nice guy. She began to howl and scream. The cashier asked if she wanted a "buddy buck" to calm her down. She took a deep breath and took it. "Here mommy, go buy boobies." Nice...