That S on your chest. Is that for "Stinky"?

I bought two pillows today. So when my husband came home from work, I pushed two little kids at him and I retreated back to our bedroom and tried them out. I was laying there in the quiet listening to the kids yelling and laughing and being kids. Usually when that noise is happening in my ear continuously its quite a racket. But from here on the other side of the house its nice. I like the sound of my children playing.
As I am enjoying the peace and listening to the background noise of high pitch squeals and laughter, the concert takes on a new tone. A deeper and more urgent one.
"Honey!"
Uh oh.
I know that "honey". That's used when I'm needed to save something, patch someone, or clean something up.
"Honey!!"
Ah shit. Better shake a leg.
I run down the hallway and meet my husband at the baby gate and he is holding my 18 month old across his arms, like he is flying him around like Superman.
Only Superman doesn't look like this.
My son is naked from the waist down and spotted from butt to toe in doody.
Yes. Poo.
He took it upon himself to fill his diaper and then take it off. He tried to hand it to my husband who had thus far apparently not been paying a whole lot of attention.
So I took Superman and fly him down the hallway and straight into the shower, while my husband cleaned up the mess in the den.
I have to giggle because this is once again something that would only happen when Daddy is on duty.
(or is it doody?)
My new pillows seem really nice. But I guess I will wait until the kids are in bed to test them out again.

"This is a Crock" pot.

I am a short order cook. I am not happy about this, nor am I proud that Ive got myself stuck in this position. But whatever.
Tonight, I made chicken fajitas for my husband and I, and leftover macaroni and cheese for the kids. My 4 year old has it in his head that he does not like macaroni and cheese from the fridge. It needs to be straight from the box. So I went so far as to heat it up while he wasn't looking, and stuck a pot and a spoon on the stove so it appears that it was just made.
I got my plate ready, got a bowl of pasta for my oldest, and then a small bowl of mac n cheese along with a couple of Gerber Graduate pasta pick ups on a plate for my youngest. I set all of this down on the table, sat down and called them in for dinner.
I envisioned my kids skipping in from the family room, hopping up at the table and eyes wide with gratitude sitting down and enjoying a meal with their mom.
(ok, no I didn't really envision that, I more just made sure I had a list of lies ready to combat whatever objections were about to be hurled my way when my son saw the bowl of what probably screamed "I'M TWO DAYS OLD & STRAIGHT FROM THE FRIDGE".)
So what happened?
They both ran in. The oldest looked at the bowl like it was a dirty diaper and said "I dont want macaroni and cheese." And ran out of the kitchen.
My youngest was game though. Even climbed up into his booster seat to string me along a bit. He grabbed a couple of noodles, mashed them in his hands. Stuck a ravioli to his fork and flung it to the floor. Tipped the bowl of mac n cheese over. Flung another ravioli and jumped down and left.
*sigh*
I had fajitas for dinner. They were pretty tasty.
My children? Well one is apparently living on a full tank of ornery, and the other one is eating a Crayola pen.

Huh?

I think its funny that my 4 year old will argue with my 18 month old. The tiffs usually go like this:
"Gaa!"
"Stop telling me what to do!"
"Baba?"
"No!"
"Lilah."
"I am NOT Delilah. She is a dog!"
"Bye-bye Dada mumble/babble/coo"
"I SAID STOP TELLING ME WHAT TO DO!"

Though I suppose this shouldnt surprise me. The kids got some wiring issues that Im fairly certain came from my side of the family.

The other day he was playing on his little plastic slide when all of the sudden he bursts out with "I do NOT like doctor appointments for me! I said NO MORE!" He is looking and my husband and I with this mean look on his face like we just got done poking him with sticks and making him eat lemon rinds.

I picture a little wheel in his mind spinning around with all the possible topics of discussion on it. And him choosing to stop the wheel on whatever topic allows him the most dramatic facial expressions and with enough gusto to carry on for the longest period of time.
"Poop on a chicken" nope. Use that too often.
"Dont like the new bathroom floor." Thats a good one but I'll save that for later.
"I dont like to try new things." Nah. Lost its effectiveness.
"Traumatic doctor visit." YES!

*twitch*blink*twitch*

Im sitting here trying to think of a clever story to share and I have to say.... Im strugglin a bit. My tired brain is reliving the days activities and after each thought, it sputters and stalls.
I started off well enough taking the kids to the zoo, where I think they got some new ideas.
But afterwards, somewhere in between transforming my kitchen into Death Valley in July with the turn of an oven dial, micro managing the clean up of a bedroom closet that was completely emptied, breaking up the wrapping paper sword fight, picking ramen noodles off the floor and table and chairs after my youngest mugged my oldest for his meal, and then finally burning my own dinner I seem to have lost the ability to make my brain do much more than control my breathing and the occasional blink.

My husband loaded the dishwasher last night. Which was a God send because the kitchen was the same temperature as the sun and I would have just let the dishes scum over until fall.
After he loaded it he came in and asked me about the new dish detergent packets I recently bought.
"You just put it in the little tray?"
"Yep. Put it in the compartment with the door and thats it."
Easy as 1-2-3.
He ran the dishwasher and went to read the paper.

Later on I decided to brave the heat and empty the dishwasher. I started at the top an put away all the cups (including about a kajillion sippy cups).
Then I moved on to the bottom section and put a few plates away then reached for a large Tupperware container and nestled inside looking like a hobo who's just happy to have made it this far before getting caught, was a tiny little packet.
Of dish detergent.
Still in its plastic wrapper.

I overlooked one important step when I was telling my husband what to do. I failed to say "Unwrap the little detergent cube first."

So if you happen to visit in the next few days, carefully inspect your glass before you take that first sip. I got most of the cups and bowls out of the cupboard and back into the dishwasher for a second cleaning, but Im not sure I got them all.
And forgive me if your tea tastes a bit like OJ, or your bowl of ice cream has a dried green bean waiting for you at the bottom.

In my husbands defense though, it was really hot in there. Perhaps he was suffering from the early stages of a heat stroke.

Whats Really Going On?

I googled "50's housewife" this afternoon and came across this picture.
Why did I google "50's housewife" you ask?
Your guess is as good as mine. I also googled "Rorschach Ink Blot Test" and "Boost Mobile Armpit Commercial". So I cant begin to know why I do what I do.
Lets move on shall we? As I was saying, I googled "50's housewife" and came across this picture.
Now at first glance, it appears to be a happy housewife polishing her appliances in her happy kitchen, while her husband washes his automobile in the driveway. Aww. So syrupy and sickeningly sweet huh?
But wait. Looks can be deceiving. I have a hard time believing that this woman is actually finding joy in shining this shit in the kitchen. I mean really, who smiles like that while looking at a frying pan? However, a woman who say....had to strongly encourage her husband to get the hell out of the house and do something constructive like wash the damn car already, might smile with great satisfaction as she wiped her husbands forehead print off of said frying pan. Yes, that might make her smile.
And the toaster and coffee pot and various utensils are there for backup. He knows this, and that is why he is watching her. Closely.
I think Ive cracked the mystery of this 50's housewife. Im going to go dig out my apron and frying pan now and see if I cant get my SUV washed. ;)

A message on Mothers Day...

I dont have time for an elaborate and humorous post today. I am hiding from my children. My mom is with them, so I dont feel guilty either. It IS Mothers Day after all right?? Yes I realize my mom is a mother too, but grandkids dont count.
Happy Mothers Day! May the spankings be few (unless they are for you and you are into that kind of thing) and the kisses a plenty! Enjoy your day!

Happy Cinco de Mayo!

Mr. Clean

My husband cleaned the kitchen the other day. Did a fantastic job by the way.
When my husband stumbles into the kitchen after Ive cleaned it, he acts like a child who has just happened upon a freshly made bed and cannot resist the urge to jump on it and trample it back down into something the looks like its occupants have just left it after a long night of restless slumber.
Its clean for like....a minute before cups start gathering on the counter and forks and various utensils have started their migration back from the drawer and into the sink where they are obviously more at home.
But when my husband cleans the kitchen, he acts like he has painstakingly hand crafted the worlds first Ferrari and you must only gaze at it from a distance because your very breath could be its undoing. When he is done he puffs up and stands guard waiting for someone to enter, so that he can give a look that says "So help me God, if you so much as leave a cup, plate, crumb or piece of DNA in here I will make you eat it for dinner along with a sizable helping of my foot for dessert."
And should some unfortunate soul put a plate in the sink he will hear it from wherever he is in the house and march in there and proclaim "Don't you dirty up my clean kitchen!!"
Because when a woman cleans it, well its just something that needed to be done, but when a man cleans it, it needs to be encased in glass, roped off and guarded with lasers for all eternity.

What? A story that has nothing to do with my kids?

On my way to Starbucks the other morning a song came on that was from the movie City of Angels. My wee little mind whirled and sputtered and produced a funny story from long ago that I hadn't thought about in forever.
When that movie first came out, I went with a friend to see it in the theater. And anyone who has seen the movie knows its a tear jerker.
The main guy (Nicholas Cages character, I cant remember his name) is grieving the loss of his love. So he goes to a store that he and his lady friend used to go to together. There was a previous scene involving pears. (The details escape me. She never tasted a pear so sweet or something to that nature.) Anyways, so he goes and he gets to the produce section and sees the pears. In an act of desperate longing for his dead lover, he takes a pear and puts it in his basket. Then he takes another, and another and another filling his whole basket up. It was a pitiful scene to watch and of course I'm sitting there blubbering silently in my seat.
Out of the darkness, my friend says, "42105" (not sure what the exact number was. This was a long time ago so bear with me here, ok?)
I sniffle some more and ask, "What?"
He repeats himself, "42105"
I'm no longer crying and am just confused. Why interrupt this deeply emotional part of the movie to spit a number at me? What the hell is he talking about?
Then he explains "42105. Its the produce code for pears."
Did I mention my friend at the time was a grocery store cashier?
I bust out laughing and the sappy moment was gone. Forever replaced with a produce code.
Which I suppose worked out considering if I remember correctly, the movie never did have a happy ending and otherwise I'm pretty sure I would have walked out of the theater ready to crawl into a hole of despair and pray to be swallowed by the earth.

*looking around suspiciously.....*

Why is there an ad for treating compulsive eating at the bottom of my blog?
Somebody tryin' to tell me somthin'?
Maybe I should stop eating here at the computer.

4

Lets look at the number 4 shall we?
Four:
The number of days since my last post. Sorry about that. Ive spent the last few days being something to sleep on, puke on, cough on, wipe a nose on and hitch a ride on.
Four:
The number of years my firstborn has been on this planet. (yes I suspect he spent some time on another planet. Possibly getting his assignment to push the limits of my sanity from a large green blob with bugged out eyes and a silver cape.)
Four:
The number of days until my wedding anniversary.
Four:
The number of years I will have been married when said anniversary rolls around.
Four:
The minimum number of times I have been puked on in the last 24 hours.
Four:
The number of times I have to tell my son to pick up something before he actually does it.
Four:
How many times each hour that I have to do a toy round up in order to keep to a minimum the risk of rolling an ankle trying to walk on hot wheels and pull-along-frogs.
Four:
How many loads of laundry I need to do a day to keep up. (I am never caught up mind you)
And my favorite four:
The number of days until my mom gets here and can experience most of these other 4's with me. Love you Mom!! Im looking forward to your visit like you just don't know.
(pinky up to mouth, laughing sinisterly. Muuuuaahhhahhahhahaa!)