Warning: session_start() [function.session-start]: Cannot send session cookie - headers already sent by (output started at /home/chris/public_html/wp-includes/version.php:10) in /home/chris/public_html/wp-content/plugins/wordpress-automatic-upgrade/wordpress-automatic-upgrade.php on line 119

Warning: session_start() [function.session-start]: Cannot send session cache limiter - headers already sent (output started at /home/chris/public_html/wp-includes/version.php:10) in /home/chris/public_html/wp-content/plugins/wordpress-automatic-upgrade/wordpress-automatic-upgrade.php on line 119
2006 March

Join Us Here Each Week My Friends

March 21, 2006

Sit right back and you’ll hear the tale
the tale of a fateful trip
of going to the doctor’s
for kids that felt like shit.

The father person had the strep
The mom she knocked on wood,
brought her sick brood to the doctor like
a good mother should
(a good mother should)

We sat in the tiny waiting room
a festering petri dish
For two long hours we did wait
before we had our turn

The kids they touched every single toy
every handle, every knob
they used the bathroom, licked the chairs
my head began to throb
(I’m glaring now at Rob)

Finally they all went in
had their throats swabbed one by one
It was by this point we were having
so much goddamn fun
(so much goddamn fun)

Fifteen dollars for each kid
A hefty check I wrote
And sat back down in the petri dish
while waiting for results

No strep! No Strep!
the doctor said, “Not a single strepy germ”
and so the seven circus clowns
went a tumbling out the door

We said good bye, but do not fear
I’m sure we’ll soon be back
to give our dying bank account
another good ole whack.

And now I wonder what they’ll get
from the germy waiting room.
Can I dunk the kids in a vat of bleach
to disinfect them good?
(like a good mother should)

Posted by Chris @ 7:40 am | 32 Comments  

In Which All My Male Readers Will Feel My Husband’s Pain And Rejoice That They Are Not Married To Me

March 20, 2006

Last night I finally tried on my dress for the wedding we are attending this weekend with the new expensive bra that I bought. A bra that ended up costing way more than the dress.

I went with one of those convertible bras, which judging by the name and the price, should really do much more than it does. Like melt twenty pounds off of me and lengthen my legs 6 inches. And give me a tan. I could use some color on my pasty white skin.

I tried it on in the halter strap position and it won’t work with the dress, unless I want to look like a two bit street walker with the straps all hanging out. I never thought I would ever say this, but my boobs are almost too big for the dress. I’m busting out of it, pun intended.

It’s not like I have halved cantaloupes on my chest, nor would anyone confuse me with a centerfold for BIGGG JUGGGS magazine, but these nursing boobs are such a novelty to me I have to resist the urge to touch them and talk about them. But I have spent my life with much much smaller produce on my chest, think kiwis, or possibly grapes. So what if I have to strap them down in a specially engineered harness to be able to run.

Honestly, I don’t think I am ever going to stop nursing. I haven’t had a period since July 2002 and I have these great boobs. Really, what is the incentive? Menstrual cramps and shriveled raisins for breasts?

I tried the dress on and came downstairs. Rob like the dress. He thought it was especially fetching with my socks and Birkenstock clogs.

As I was standing there he reached out and touched my stomach. Touched my stomach, people. My stomach which has expanded to the very limits that my skin can stretch seven times and has never quite recovered. He almost pulled back a bloody stump.

Then he said, “Are you sucking your stomach in?”

He said he didn’t mean the way that it sounded, that he was astounded by my slimness. But I know that he was just trying to save himself from a slow and torturous death. Just to be on the safe side I went up to him, blew on his bald spot, and shined it up with my forearm. So astounded I was of his forehead.

“I can tell you have been working out. You look… strong.”

“Strong?” I questioned.

“Yeah, strong.”

“Well, thanks, I guess. I was feeling rather like uncooked dough.”

“No, you look big and strong.” And with that he struck a pose reminiscent of the Incredible Hulk.

“You know this is sounding less like a compliment and more like I should be pushing a plow in a potato field somewhere.”

Rob sighed heavily. He realized that yet again his compliment has fallen short of his expectations.

My daughter came over to me. “Mommy, you look like a Princess. You look like Cinderella.”

“Oh, thank you sweetie. At least someone can give Mommy a nice compliment.”

“Well, she didn’t say if you looked like Cinderella before or during the Ball.” piped up my eleven year old.

Is there a charm school somewhere to send him to? Maybe we can get a father/son discount.

Posted by Chris @ 6:58 am | 36 Comments  

A Riddle For You

March 17, 2006

What is stronger than the will of a two year old?

More powerful than the jaws of a one year old near a medicine dropper?

Able to wipe out your bank account in a single day?

Cry over your empty wallet!
It’s not a cough! It’s not the flu!


Posted by Chris @ 3:19 pm | 16 Comments  

If You Never Hear From Me Again, You’ll Know Why

I got this in the mail yesterday:

Why I Love My Internet Friends

Prompting the following conversation with my husband.

“Who sent you this package? How do you know you can trust her?”

“Oh, I am sure she has been pretending to be my friend for years, just plotting for a time when she could bake batches of poisonous cookies and mail them to me. Her blog, her family, her entire online personality has all been a rouse which she hid behind so that one day she could kill us all.”

“It could happen.”

“You didn’t feel that way about the huge stack of books I got two weeks ago from Miss Peach. There could be anthrax or something similar lurking between the pages slowly poisoning us all.”

“Well, that seems unlikely…”

“Just to be safe you had better not eat any of the cookies or read any of the books.”

Posted by Chris @ 8:02 am | 16 Comments  

They Can Polish It Up and Screw A Little Gold Chain Onto It

March 16, 2006

Living in an old house we have more than our fair share of mice, especially this time of year.

Do you know how fast mice reproduce? I don’t know exactly either, but I remember reading that it is really quickly. And they are not bothered by incestuous relationships. So basically one day you have two mice and three weeks later there a million. No, I’m not exaggerating.

Last week we set four traps, and caught three mice. Or so I was told since I refuse to look at them. The fourth trap, which was still set but had not caught anything, Rob decided to hide behind the freezer. That way none of the little children would be able to reach it, but should one of the little mice be brave enough to come out during the day the trap would be ready for it.

I felt a bit queasy at the prospect of hearing the trap go off during the day since I like to convince myself that they are purely nocturnal creatures, that they can not climb stairs, and can not ever enter a bedroom. Yes, those are the lies I tell myself so that I survive in an old house.

At some point during the day we caught a mouse. One of the kids noticed it and then had to call everyone into the room to peek behind the freezer and have a look.

My two year old daughter, who has been badgering us for a cat, or dog, or penguin, pushed everyone aside to have a look.

“He’s so cute. I keep him?” she asked.

“He’s dead.” I informed her.

“When he wakes up, I keep him?”

“He isn’t waking up. He’s dead.” I said, a bit more emphatically.

“When he not dead anymore I keep him?”

I didn’t know how to fully explain it to her. I wanted to say, “Look at his head, it is all squashed and flattened. And his body is all stiff and hard. There’s no coming back from that.”

Instead I said, “We’ll see,” which is parent-speak for, “It’s never going to happen but I can not deal with the tantrum right this moment so let’s save it for later.”

I’m not a complete monster. We have had pets before.

We had Sea Monkeys for a while and I thought they were the perfect pet. Ranking right up there with a pet rock.

Until one day my husband saw the container sitting on the counter and thinking it was just a container of cloudy water poured the contents down the drain. I quickly filled the “aquarium” back up with tap water before any of the children noticed and pretended the sea monkeys were still in there.

I did feel slightly bad when they would peer inside day after day wondering why they couldn’t see anything. And when they broke out magnifying glasses for a better look, well if I had a soul and could have stopped giggling behind my hand, I would have felt really bad.

Eventually they got bored of the sea monkeys, because who wants an invisible pet, and I was able to put the “aquarium” away. Poor children, they are so deprived.

Now we have a cat that keeps visiting our yard. The kids love him (her? I’ll admit I haven’t looked closely) It is obviously pet of someone in our neighborhood and not a feral cat because it is fat, well groomed, and picky about it’s snacks.

So the kids have been whining about getting our own cat, which is not going to happen since I have cat allergies as well as a general dislike for cats in general. I told the kids they should just pretend the cat is their own. It’s like having a pet, but only the fun part. You get to play with him, feed him snacks, pet him, but you never have to clean out a litter box or clean cat vomit off of the floor. They even named him. Really, what else is there?

And if that doesn’t make them happy, we have lots of rocks in our yard for them to chose from.

Posted by Chris @ 9:45 pm | 35 Comments  

Help Me

March 15, 2006

Nothing strikes fear into the heart of a mother of an ADHHHHHHHD (no, not exaggerating that is what the doctor said, really) child as hearing him loudly say, as he opens his bottle of pills, “Hey, I don’t have any more medicine left!” and knowing that you just ordered his three month refill from the mail order pharmacy and it will be several days before it arrives at your house.

And if you are wondering why he didn’t mention this before the bottle was completely empty, I don’t know you’ll have to grab him off the couch he is jumping on and doing back flips off to ask him.

Why didn’t I notice, you ask. Well, I just recently started ordering all our prescriptions from our mail order pharmacy (doesn’t that make us sound like a bunch of druggies? We’re not, I swear.) I have two weeks left of my thyroid medication and assumed that he had two weeks left as well. So certain I was of this that I didn’t even pay the $9 expedited shipping fee.

But I failed to take into account that I had more medication left than he did when we began doing mail order. It’s only 9:30am and if it were possible I would drive 5 states away to try and intercept the mail from the pharmacy.

If anyone wants to debate the issue of giving stimulant medication to children I invite you to have my son come stay with you a few days. Please. Anyone?

Posted by Chris @ 9:12 am | 33 Comments  

Master of the Manipulators

March 14, 2006

My daughter has turned into the master manipulator. It all began innocently enough with potty training. I did the same thing with all five of her older brothers. Use the potty, get a candy. Eventually no candy was necessary. It was never the big of a deal. In retrospect, I guess they didn’t really think that much about it.

My daughter, on the other hand, negotiated the kind of candy and how many she should get. Chocolate (Shlock-late) is for when you make poopies (ummm, okay and ewwwww) and skittles, starburst, or gummy worms are for peeps. She will sit on the potty and loudly announce through the door for all to hear, “That’s a M&M!”

I should have known better than to try and bribe her to do anything. I should have known that she would see through it and turn it around to use it to her advantage.

Lately she has been VERY into princesses. She even has pictures of some godforsaken princesses hanging up in her bedroom. I tried to get her to hang them up behind her bedroom door, but she didn’t like that idea. She wanted to be able to see them.

I have found myself saying things like, “Princesses like skin on their apples” or “Princesses eat the crust of their sandwiches” or “Princesses like to take naps”

The last example caused her to respond, “I not a princess. I just a little girl… with no penis.” I am not sure why the penis part is important, but it is.

Today I found my daughter painting her body with her paint set, instead of painting on the paper. Before I could say anything she looked up at me and said, “Princesses like to be colorful”

Indeed they do.

Posted by Chris @ 1:37 pm | 26 Comments  

Fifteen Months

March 12, 2006

Fifteen Months Old

Today you got your first haircut, given by yours truly. No, I am not a hair dresser nor do I have any particular skill in this area.

I am thinking of becoming a Hassidic Jew just so I don’t have to cut the hair in front of your ears. Putting you in a headlock while wielding sharp scissors near your face was not one of the most fun things I have ever done.

Now you look like you had your hair cut around a bowl on your head. If the bowl were handmade by a kindergartener.

You have learned some important and useful skills this month, like how to take apart an Oreo cookie and scrape the filing out with your two front teeth. No one ever showed you how to do this. You figured it out all on your own. You then throw the chocolate cookies on the ground and stomp on them. Sometimes you like to eat the crumbs, going so far as to try and wrestle the dustpan away from me.

You climb onto everything. Every chair, couch, and bench has been scaled and scaled again. So far you haven’t figured out that you can push them around the room to have the ability to climb on them and reach things that you want. Once that happens we will be sporting the oh-so-attractive look of chairs up on top of all the tables, like we are an elementary classroom gone home for the night.

Trying to feed you will invoke your fury. You want to feed yourself, at all times. You want to feed yourself my food and will try and crawl across the table to get to my plate. You must have your own fork, though you only use it for flinging food out of your bowl and on to the floor for later. I rarely serve soup.


You still don’t say Mama. C’mon, I carried you around inside my body for nine months and pushed you out of my vagina. Surely you can say mama. When I tell you to say Mama, you giggle. Why must you torment me? Why?

Your vocabulary consists of many words, almost all of which begin with the letter “B” and therefore sound the same.

water bottle: bah-bah
milk bottle: bah-bah
ball: bah
banana: bah
bath: bah
bye-bye: bah-bah
bagel: bah
bread: bah
cracker: bah
cookie: bah
eat: EEEEEat

Clearly we do not need to contact MENSA yet. We are hoping that the Oreo opening ability is significant of some higher reasoning skills going on and not indicative of a future career spent sitting on a couch, smoking a joint, and having the munchies.

You love to spin around and then walk across the room like a crazy drunk, tripping and banging into things.

Here you are doing a shot. It’s a shot of Tylenol for you teething pain, or whatever pain it is that is causing you to wake up every hour on the hour all night long to nurse. The boobies, they are getting tired and might have to be retired soon.
Doing a shot... of tylenol

You get excited when I take the little shot glass out, perhaps a little too excited.

It would seem you are well suited for the life of a frat boy.

Using the sling

Albeit a sensitive one. You and your sister seem to be practicing for life in a nudist colony. keeping clothing on the two of you is an exercise in futility.

You have temper tantrums with a fury that seems me, way too furious. you will march in place, screaming before flinging yourself onto the floor. You have banged your head a few times on the floor to express your extreme displeasure,but after doing it a few times you seemed to make the connection that it hurt and didn’t gain you anything except for parents who laughed.

When you get very angry you will turn and run away from us, your arms outstretched and your face turned up toward the sky. You scream much louder than someone your size should be able to scream. I imagine you are looking to Heaven, crying out, “Lord, why did you stick me here with these idiots who can’t appreciate the sound of a metal carving knife banging a glass bowl.”

Weapon of Choice

You still love the toilet brush and the garbage. To include putting non garbage things into the garbage can, and taking actual garbage out. Many things have disappeared from our house in the past month and I fear that they are now in the landfill.

Posted by Chris @ 9:33 am | 28 Comments  

Because I Can’t Leave Those Posts Up At The Top

March 10, 2006

It was one of those days when I hoped I wouldn’t get into a car accident while we were out. Not because of the obvious who wants to be in a car crash ever reason, but because shortly before we had to leave the house my daughter got her hands on the paints yet again and painted all over her legs, arms, stomach,and face, as well as the baby’s arms , legs, stomach, and face.

Since we were pressed for time I just put their clothes on on top of the body decoration. I looked like I was lugging around two demented midget clowns. Prompting me to sing in a morose voice, “Send in the clowns… don’t bother they’re here” over and over again.

And then I put my son in pink socks. But really why should pink scalloped edged socks just be for girls? He likes the little flowers embroidered on the ankles.

As for me, I was wearing a pair of low waisted pants and realized after we had left the house that when I sat down the back of my underwear rose above the waistline of my pants, exposing about two inches of underwear between my pants and shirt. Me so sexy.

My overwhelming thought as I drove away was that I hope I don’t have a car accident today. I could only imagine I’d end up with a bed neighboring my mother’s.

Posted by Chris @ 11:45 am | 21 Comments  

Another Day, Another Cuckoo Nest

I am overwhelmed by all the supportive comments and nice emails. Honestly, overwhelmed by how nice people are. I do read every single comment and every single email and I appreciate each and every one of them. I couldn’t possibly respond to each one, but I thank you all.

This experience has been surreal. Thankfully I have my dark sense of humor to get me through.

Mother: “When I die (name of cousin) is getting my cat.”

Me: “That’s nice. He likes cats.”

Mother: “You can not have my cat.”

Me: “Fine.”

Mother: “You can’t have my cat. I already decided that (name of cousin) is getting him.”

Me: “I do. not. want. your. cat.”

Mother: “Why? Why don’t you want my cat? He is a beautiful cat.”

Me: “Do you want me to want your cat? Is that what you want?”

Mother: “You can’t have him. Are you crying? I can hear you crying. You can’t have him. He won’t like you.”

Me: “No, I was laughing, because I really do not want your cat.”


Yesterday morning my mother was admitted to the psych ward at her local hospital.

I found out yesterday from my step sister that my mother also has an intestinal blockage. She was hospitalized for it at the end of December where she was told she needed surgery. She refused the surgery and left the hospital against medical advice. Her surgeon told her that without the surgery she will die.

Since that point in time she has basically stopped eating and drinking and has lost 50 pounds. In the past week she has resigned herself to die.

Wednesday when she wanted to talk to me it was because she felt like she would be dying soon. She wanted to make sure that I knew I was disinherited before she died.

The wedding thing throws me a bit, though I think now she was using the word wedding to mean funeral. She wanted to control how things would be after her death. One last stab at being controlling by trying to control how we all act after she is gone. Or was it just her last chance to make me feel bad and let me know what a disappointment I have been.

And I do feel bad. I feel bad for the life she chose for herself. I feel bad that she could never find true happiness. I feel bad that even during her darkest times she feels the need to drag me down. I just feel bad.


Last night I was sitting on the couch with my ten year old watching American Idol (yes we watch it, our dirty little secret) when a commercial came on for one of those wife swap shows.

“I would never want to be on that tv show.” he had said.

“Yeah, me neither.” I laughed, thinking of all the things my kids could be coaxed into saying about me. And also about all the emails I get from the producers of the show. Enough already, people! I will never ever agree to go on your show. My dignity has a much higher price tag than you can afford.

“There could never be a mom as nice as you.” he said.

I looked at him and for a minute wondered if he was joking or being sarcastic.

“Do you really think that? Do you think I am a nice mom.”

“Of course I do. I think you are the best.” he answered looking at me, “Don’t you think you are a good mom?”

I try, baby. God knows I try.


Things might still turn out different for my mother. I asked my step sister if we could get my mother declared incompetent and force her to have the surgery without her explicit consent. But that raises all sorts of ethical dilemmas that I am not sure I want to wrestle with.

Regardless, I know how it will play out now. She will never be the mother I wanted or needed. It is time for me to let go of that. She is what she is. We will never have a relationship other than the one we have right now. I’m okay with that, I think.

It’s time to let go.

Posted by Chris @ 7:09 am | 49 Comments