The Bed or Beyond? Incident

I had some returning to do at Bed, Bath, and Beyond. I go in and begin my regular 'wander around the whole store even though I need nothing' walk and noticed some changes. The biggest one being that they now sell CONDOMS! I was surprised, to say the least.

Do condoms fall in the Bed category or the Beyond category? While I suppose they are traditionally used in bed, they could certainly be used Beyond that. Though I didn't see a whole lot of 'under the bleacher' or 'behind the baseball field' accessories during my shopping adventure.

It got me thinking though. One could totally outfit an entire sex den in a single shopping trip at Bed, Bath, and Beyond, should one desire. Satin sheets? Check! Furry pillows? In various colors! Wine glasses? Multitudes! Bubble bath? Naturally. Mirror for the ceiling? Absolutely! Hooks to hang said mirror? Of course! Mood lighting? Totally! Scented candles? Endless possibilities! Vibrators disguised as personal massagers? Surely! Pots and pans to cook breakfast with the next morning? Loads! Or, a flashlight to use while sneaking out before dawn comes? Yup! And now, of course, the necessary contraceptives.

I'm really hoping the next wedding I get invited to has condoms on the gift registry. I'll probably spring for a nicer gift knowing I won't be buying a baby gift in the near future.

The Super Woman Incident

On a recent random, unimportant day, I came to the conclusion that I am, indeed Super Woman.

Do your best to restrain your envy.

In the morning, I attempted a new recipe for vegan Oatmeal Banana Blender Waffles. I had my doubts, but they came out fantastic and my son loved them. Score one for Super Chef!

It was at that moment, I knew. This unimportant, average day had gone from meaningless to super. I began to be on the look out for other super moments.

The next one was at the drug store down the street later that morning. I bought diapers, orange juice, a case of beer, 2 bottles of vodka, 2 bottles of rum, and my son's asthma medication. I'm not kidding you, this was the exact contents of my shopping cart. Note how the amount of alcoholic purchases outnumbers the amount of nonalcoholic purchases. All with my son in tow. I used mega coupons and saved over $50. Buying copious amounts of alcohol with my child AND couponing! We'll ignore the screaming in the parking lot incident that happened afterwards and call me Super Mom (just please don't call CPS, kthanks)!

Midday came mommy and me swim lessons. The water? A little chilly. I managed to get my kid to have fun while never having to go in past my boobs. Super Manipulator!

After swim lessons, lunch and nap. My kid played in his room for over 2 hours instead of sleeping. I put him back in bed with a stern "It's time for night night, stay in bed" several times. None of them worked. Clearly, I can kiss my Super Disciplinarian cape goodbye.

Later that afternoon, the dog needed walking. We do this twice a day. My kid is over walking the dog. I can't blame him. It's boring, it's hot, it's a lot of waiting around for someone to poop. To get the kid to agree going in the stroller for the walk, I bribed him with a cup of corn flakes. Yes, that's me, Super Briber!

On the walk, we saw 2 chickens pecking in some garbage outside the disgusting building attempting to pass itself off as apartments, and a dead skunk. Obviously, this was the perfect time to teach about how farm life belongs on a farm and the circle of life. It was like an educational field trip. For I am Super Teacher!

I had the brilliant idea to go home, make tortillas, get his dinner ready, and wash and iron the curtains in his room. I pulled out the iron and ironing board and the kid asks me what it is. Ummm, apparently I don't iron much. That would be because I hate ironing. Yes, I am Super Avoider!

The tortillas came out pretty good, but he ate 3 bites of his dinner, and fell asleep on the floor in his bedroom before I could finish the curtains. I threw out the rest of his dinner and continued to finish the curtains since his room wouldn't be dark without them. Hello Super Waster and Super Lack of Time Managmenter!

Because he was already asleep, I left him on the floor while I put all the curtains back up. While walking to his room with my arms full of curtains, I manage to kick a misplaced fire truck, giving myself a LOVELY blood bruise on my toe. Then I stepped on the kid's foot while rehanging the curtains (but he's Super Sleeper and didn't even stir). That's me, Super Klutz!

I get him to bed, then get my own dinner together and make a new drink using some of the ingredients bought on my Super Mom trip that morning. It ended up being one of those 'hey, I can hardly taste the alcohol, oops I'm hammered' drinks. Add Super Bartender to the list!

It was around then I realized that I had jogged, stood in chlorine, walked, cooked, and ironed all on a hot day, yet hadn't showered. Ding! Super Stinky!

Clearly, I am blessed with super powers. Be amazed, mere mortals, be amazed.

As the day began to close, I heard my neighbor scream at her toddler "SHUT UP!". At least I could go to bed knowing that I'm not Super Yeller.

The Incident In Which I Reflect On My Father

I was born (duh), so I got a dad. I'm a mom, which means my kid is lucky enough to have a dad. Overall, I treated the dads in my life not too shabbily for Father's Day. My husband got to sleep in (sorta, I had jazzercise at 9, so the kiddo woke him up at about 8:49. But that's better than the 6:45 weekday wakeup, right?), I made him a kickass breakfast, he got two gifts (both clothes) and I booked him a massage for later that morning. And told him to take himself to lunch wherever he wanted. Not bad, right? Beats the 2 bars of SOAP he got me for mother's day. Yes, 2 bars of soap. You read that right.

My own dad (and dadinlaw) got mugs with their grandchild's cute-as-can-be picture on it. They were thrilled. And we got to spend the evening with my dad and our family. Which currently consists of my parents, us, 3 of my 4 brothers (one lives on another coast cuz he likes to pretend he's posh), and all their girlfriends. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that one of them ends up my sister some day (since I have thus been deprived of one), so I'm extra nice to them. I figure since my brothers can be total assholes, it's up to me to give them a reason to stick around.

Dinner was, ummm, well-rounded. There were hangovers from the day before (yes, at 7 pm. My brothers really don't kid around when it comes to drinking), drinking (see, told ya), lots of food, and massive amounts of fun made of my father, who is known on Facebook as Garebear. Thank god this man has a good sense of humor, cuz his sons are ruthless.


Anyways, we made it through everything, good times were had by all (except for maybe those who were hungover, but that is soooo not my problem!), and my own mini-family and I drive the hour home to put our kiddo to bed 3 hours past bedtime.

Fast forward to the next day when I get this email from my dad:


"Daughter, After putzing around (including an unsecessful effort for a screw plug to the coffee pot), plus various stuff with mom, your brother, and his girlfriend. At around 11:50pm I made tea and served up a portion of your interesting "brownie" dessert. Emm, good. At around 11:55 I am back from the front porch bench and heating up tea. emailing you...Plus a double portion of your "brownie".(needs a better name...how about "summer chocolate") Thanks to you and your husband for driving down and back. I know it is a long drive. But seeing you all and also having this "summer chocolate" dessert as I go to sit on the bench in summer, well, it makes my heart warm with love. I love you both."


It really is sweet that my father emails me just to say he liked my dessert and that he loves me. But this email was written after his own glass(es) of wine, when his true oddness comes out. Summer chocolate? Really?


As I looked through pics of the evening before, I got to this one that my husband took of my dad and my kid. There are just so many questionable things about this picture, I couldn't not share. Put together with the email from above, it inspires me to reflect on the man that is Bag's Dad.





Thing one: Do you see my dad's shirt? Seriously? Who in their right mind wears their shirt unbuttoned like that? Chest hair everywhere. Careful you don't get to close to Garebear, or you might get your eye poked out. Really, all he needs are gold chains. Hmmm, Father's Day gift next year, I suppose? He would never wear them though. When he wants to accessorize, he wears love beads. I shit you not. He has a string of beads that my mother apparently strung for him when they were in college. Because they were hippies, without the drugs (they had found Jesus. Jesus hippies), he declared them to be love beads. And he still has them. And wears them. Love. Beads. Wears. Them. Oh. My. When he really wants to complete the outfit he wears them with a beaded Indian belt and Indian moccasins. Apparently I'm like 1/857th Native American?


Thing two: You might not have noticed the shirt at first because you were too distracted by the fucking GIANT MUSHROOMS!!!!! No, they weren't there as a play thing for the kiddo. Or to be smoked. Although I would assume someone was smoking something when they came up with the brilliant idea to put them on my parents' deck. Wait, no, that can't be right. It was my parents' idea. Of course, being the Jesus hippies that they are, they would never smoke anything. I know, hard to believe anyone sober would think random mushrooms on a deck are a good idea. How long have those things been there? 12 years, minimum. I think they were originally props in one of the middle school plays my brother was in that my mom produced or something. And somehow they ended up in my parents' backyard, because my father thought they would be the perfect addition. Beauty.


Thing three: This would be easy to miss, so lemme help ya out. Off to the right, do you see what appears to be an elbow? It is an elbow. Of a frog. Or a toad. Hard to say since it's fully dressed. I'm assuming it associated with the mushrooms in the play I discussed in the paragraph known as Thing Two. Why the hell is it in my parents' backyard? No fucking clue. But I do know that a few years ago, one of my brothers (you know, the drinkers) had a party (with most likely lots of alcohol, and probably some mushrooms, but not the giant wooden kind seen in the picture) and the frog/toad creature was damaged. Normal people would toss it, yes? Ohhhh no, not my parents, the love-bead-wearing Jesus hippies! My dad had my mom repair it so it can continue to smile upon us from its perch on the deck.


What you can't see in the picture is the man who kisses most guests that come through his door, the man that says 'bless you' as you leave, and the man who walks us out to our car every time we leave, partly to make sure we don't hit the fence (which I only did once in high school, I swear) or his car, but partly because he wants us to know how loved we are.

He's a kooky Jesus hippie who can't work his DVD player without extensively written directions, but he's a good man, my dad.

The Tampon visits Jazzercise Incident

You know how after you have kids, things are kinda, well, stretched? Oh, you say you haven't had kids yet? Well, you should know that, if you go that route, things get kinda, well, stretched.


During Jazzercise yesterday, my tampon fell out. Not onto the floor, but most certainly out of my vag.


Seriously? What the fuck? When I first began having sex, I knew pregnancy was a possible side effect. I took all necessary precautions. When we first began trying to get pregnant, I knew pregnancy would change my body. When I spawned actual offspring, I knew my life would change in ways I could not imagine.


BUT I DID NOT SIGN UP FOR TAMPONS FALLING OUT OF MY BODY!!!!!!! THIS IS TOTAL BULLSHIT!!!!!


Stupid clown car vag. You'd think I was Mama Duggar or something.

Wipe that fucking smile off your face, bitch, and stay put next time! It's your damn job!!

The Incident In Which I Learned About Potty Training Essentials

Alright, this is long. Even for me. So if you're not into long posts, move along.

I spent the first week of my summer focusing on me. Did some serious dieting, lots of writing, took some personal space. It was fabulous. And, in theory, should have invigorated me to potty train my son during week 2. In theory. Yeah, Communism is good, in theory. Part of me was worried about the basics. Is he ready? How, exactly, do I do this? What supplies do I need?

A few trips to CVS and Target for, what I though were potty training essentials left me feeling relatively prepared. Thomas the Tank Engine underwear? Check! Caprisuns? Check! Jelly beans? Check! Flushable wipes? Check! Case of beer? Check!

Potty Training Essential #1

Don't get me wrong, I knew it wouldn't be easy. But I read a book, had lots of mommy friends to turn to for advice, and jelly beans.

He woke up on the big day with snot everywhere. Great. He's been healthy for months and the day I wanted to start potty training he's sick. Fucking figures. Oh well, I cleared my calendar for this little endeavor and was not planning letting a little snot hold me back.

Day One


When I went into his room to get him up (which he lets me know he's ready for by knocking on the inside of his door and saying 'knock knock knock! Hellooooo?') I excitedly pulled out his little boy underwear. And hence began our first challenge. Not getting him to put them on. No no, our challenge was getting him to put pants on over them. Had we not needed to walk the dog, I would have skipped fighting that battle. But I wasn't comfortable taking him out onto the streets in his undies. Call me crazy, but it just seemed like a bad idea. So, after several minutes of showing him my own underwear under my pants and convincing him that's how everyone wears underwear (well most people anyways, I figured there's no need to tell him about the likes of Ru Paul quite yet), he begrudgingly let me put pants on him.




We make it through jogging with the dog with no problems, and come home where I introduced the jelly beans. The SECOND he realized there was CANDY on OUR counter, he freaked. Let me back up. We don't keep candy in the house. Wait. Let me rephrase that. We don't keep candy in the house that he's aware of. His diet is fairly limited due to the extensive food allergy demons, so we tend to skip treats at home and save them for when we are out and about and he's exposed to food he can't have. That way the treats are extra special. And, more importantly, we get to save the good stuff at home for ourselves.


Anyways, the jelly beans had been revealed. Oh. My. God. WTF was I THINKING? Idiot! He freaked out, wanting all of them. So, our first 2 hours of offical potty training were spent mostly whining, kicking, and screaming on the kitchen floor over colored sugar in the shape of a bean.

Potty Training Essential #2

We were able to move past it , however. With the help of Soccer Player. Don't laugh, it was the only doll-like figure we had in the house that possessed pants. I demonstrated several times with Soccer Player how when he goes on the potty, he gets a jelly bean. It took a while, but the kid finally got it.

Potty Training Essential #3

So, he went on the potty. Bunches of times. Pretty much every time I put him on it, he went. And received the coveted jelly bean. Sounds like a rousing sucess, right? Please. Do you think I'd be writing about it if it was a rousing success?

Before noon that day, I had the blessing of cleaning up not one, but two pairs of very messy undewear and watching my snotty kid fall alseep on the floor of the living room. I decided it was time to introduce him to his first pull up and put him down for an early nap. When he awoke at 3, I almost cried, realizing we had almost 5 hours until bedtime in front of us and my husband wasn't going to be home until 11 that night.



I'm college educated. I have a masters degree. I've been teaching children for almost a decade (damn, I'm old). I could do it. So, I bust out the big guns: Caprisuns. Or 'special juice' as we were calling it. I give him his first, waiting for his little bladder to fill with sugary goodness, and within 15 minutes began the whole Soccer Player on the potty for a jelly bean routine. It worked.

Potty Training Essential #4

I should clarify. It worked until he peed all over my kitchen floor. He meaning my kid, not Soccer Player.

It was then when I began to realize the errors of my ways. Caprisuns. Jelly beans. Sugary crap. Of which he never gets. Oh my, did his temperment begin to change. Yipes. My kid on sugar, not pleasant. I made it until 5:30 until I cracked open that case of beer. I thought making it that long was actually pretty good.


We ended day one with having gone through 4 pairs of underwear and half a bag of jelly beans (which, I ate MORE than my fair share of for sure). I did a spontaneous load of synchronized of beer drinking con laundrywhile he peacefully slept in his pull up.

Day Two


Oh dear lord, did he remember day one. The first thing he asked me about in the morning was jelly beans and special juice. It pretty much went downhill from there. There was a tantrum within 20 minutes of being up. We survived a jog, then started with the tantrums shortly after returning home. At one point I glanced at the clock thinking "it's gotta be close to 5 so I can drink, right?". Nope. It was 9:32 AM. No way. No fucking way.




2 accidents before noon. Although I consider the fact that I sopped up the pee with some paper towels before the pee made it under the fridge to be a rousing success.

Potty Training Essential #5

During his naptime, I realized I had to pee. But since the bathroom was where I had spent what seemed like the last several months of my life, I held it as long as possible. You might be asking yourself "How screwed up is that?" To that I answer, a lot. A whole lot. When I did go, I rewarded myself with a jelly bean. Or five. It only seemed fair.

After nap (which was almost 4 hours, god bless that kid), things really started to fall apart. He had refused to eat anything at breakfast and lunch, and didn't want a snack. So his entire diet for that day was pretty much 'special juice' and jelly beans. Which mean that he would experience 5-10 minutes of a little sugar high, then approximately 510 minutes of the sugar low. The afternoon was hellish, and the entire day ended in me trying to get him to pee on the potty, him telling me he was going to pee in his Thomas underwear, so me putting a diaper back on him, then us both crying in the kitchen.

It was around then that , on a whim, texted our babysitter/friend to see if she could sit the upcoming Saturday so I could regain my saniety by knowing there was something coming up to look forward to that didn't involve sugar and urine. Her response was a firm maybe. Ha. If she was a real friend, she would have offered to come over that second so I could hightail it out of the house (kidding, I love this girl!). Deep breath...maybe isn't a no? Right? RIGHT? I could live on a dream.

Potty Training Essential #6

The highlight of day two was that my husband was home that night, so I got to take an hour and head to, wait for it... Kmart, where I invested in less sugary juice, Teddy Grams, and Finding Nemo underwear. Let me repeat, this was the HIGHLIGHT of my day. Yes, I felt very fucking sorry for myself by the time my own bedtime rolled around.

Where to buy back-up Potty Training Essentials/a place to go when Mommy needs to get the hell out of the house

To be fair, the true highlight of my day was a "I'm a super supportive friend and love you" phone call from one of my girls. So, I guess my trip to the BigK was just a bonus?

Day Three
He was excited to try the underwear again and excited for new treats (Teddy Bear Cookie, as I chose to call them). So you can imagine his excitement when I promised him a WHOLE GUMMY WORM if he poop on the potty. Lemme tell ya, I've never seen him work so hard for anything. And, should I ever make him a custom tshirt, it will say "Will Poop For Gummy Worms".

Potty Training Essential #7

We finished the morning with, even after 3 juice boxes, holding it. The jelly beans and teddy bear cookie bribes were failing me, which I found just unbelievable. I mean, if somebody promised me a cookie or jelly bean just for peeing, I'd pee all day! I put him in a pull up for nap and have little doubt that the second I put it on him, he let it all go. The one positive thing about the morning? I like Teddy Grams far less than jelly beans, so induldged in far less of his potty snacks.

Potty Training Essential #8

He bypassed nap for the fabulous, time-honored traditional activity of taking all his books off his shelf and strewing them about his room. Which meant we went to speech VERY grumpy and in a pull up. My goal had been only pull ups for sleep. Oh well, ya can't win'em all, right? Just don't go telling any perfect moms. And if you are a perfect mom, you can totally bite me.

We got home, peed on the potty (yipee), then proceeded to have not one, but two poop accidents. What the fuck? What child poops FOUR TIMES IN ONE DAY? Give me a break! What made it all REALLY fun is he had eaten zucchini pancakes the 2 days before, so the poop was a lovely shade of bright green. It looks awesome on the floor next to the f'ing toilet.

Potty Training Essential #9

By the end of day 3, I switched from beer to wine. Mostly cuz I had forgotten to put more beer in the fridge, yet there was a full bottle of wine waiting for me. No matter. Wine? It is good. And really, at that point I probably would have drunk rubbing alcohol if that's all that was avaliable.

Potty Training Essential #10

Overall, I learned a lot about potty training in these 3 days. So, if any mom ever asks my advice on potty training (which I don't really expect to ever happen, but if Michael Jackson can father a child, I suppose anything's possible), I now know what to tell her. Don't waste your time buying the right kind of underwear, or worrying about what kind of pull-ups to by. None of that matters. Treats, juice (both kid and mommy), dolls, and cleaners are the real basics.

The MOMMY, DO IT Incident

So, we attempted potty training. I won't tell you if it worked or not, but I will tell you I get to attempt it again in a month.



During one of the 'you'll sit on this potty and pee even if it takes all day' moments, the kiddo looked at me with this incredibly pained face and whined loudly "MOMMY, DO IT!". I had to laugh and then said Mommy couldn't do it for him, he had to do it himself.


Hmmm, in retrospect, perhaps it was the laughter that sealed my fate of having to do Potty Training, Round 2. Eh!


Anyways....his too cute for words comment got me thinking. Right there, in that very moment, he and I both experienced what it really means to grow up.



Growing up isn't ditching the bottles, losing interest in Yo Gabba Gabba (which, please god, tell me does happen at some point!), or moving up a shoe size. Growing up isn't moving from the expensive convertible car seat to the slightly less expensive booster seat to the free seat belt. Growing up isn't leaving behind half-day kindergarten to go the torturous full-day of first grade. Growing up isn't being able to legally vote, buy cigarettes, or drink alcohol (please, like any silly LAW ever stopped us from doing those things anyways. Especially the voting one. I mean, duh! Who doesn't want to get involved in the spectacular world of politics?). These are all just things that happen to a person as they age.

But, we all know, aging is certainly NOT the same thing as growing up. Not even close. I know plenty of people who are well into their 30's and 40's who act like selfish children. I also know people in their teens who are wise beyond their years. Aging? It's just adding numbers.


Growing up is learning to do on your own what, in the past, someone else has always done for you. No matter how much you don't wanna do it.


Really, my kid's first experience in growing up was within hours of escaping my womb. In the womb, he didn't have to give nourishment a second thought. But, on the outside, he had to work at it. Our first few days of nursing were not smooth sailing, because he didn't want to suck. Right there, that was the first time he had to do something that I couldn't do for him. It took some time, but eventually he got it (and yeah, there went the next 17 months of my life! Seriously, my poor boobs will NEVER be the same.).


He's had a few more experiences in growing up since then. Learning to learn to drink from a cup when he was thirsty, but I couldn't be there to hold it for him; learning to walk on his own because he wanted something on the other side of the room, but I couldn't be there to hold his hand; learning to entertain himself because he's bored and if Mommy has to place race cars one more damn time, she's gonna lose it; learning to crawl out of the crib because he's done sleeping (which also lead to learning how to give Mommy a heart attack). And I know there are many more growing up experiences to come.


Some moms find each of those growing up moments so sad, because it means they are losing their baby. Strangely, I've never felt that way. Part of me assumes this is because I'm cold and dead inside. But part of me thinks it's because those moments are meant to be celebrated, not mourned. For each moment means that little person has accomplished another step towards independence.

I'd much rather celebrate these moments, because it means someday, this kid will be able to survive on his own. And also because, hell no, I'm not letting my kid live in my house when he's 30! I mean, I'm not pointing fingers or anything, but Mom, Dad, really? Two of my brothers living back home? And now one of their girlfriends, too? REALLY?

Kidding, my parents are great. Really.



I will celebrate the moments my kid learns how to do things like prepare his own meals, find a way to pay his cable bill, and how to schedule both work and school. He will have to learn how to parallel park. He will have to learn to make and keep one or two great friends instead of 15 untrustworthy ones. He will have to learn how to let time heal a broken heart. He will have to learn how one failure, or a whole series of failures, does not make HIM a failure (sigh, I'm still learning that one). No matter how much he may not want to learn these things, he'll have to. I can't magically do them for him. But I can be a teacher, a positive role model, and his biggest cheerleader every time he has a learning moment that gets him one step closer to becoming a grown up.



Now, when do I get to say I'm a grown up? Pretty sure I will have learned everything there is to learn any minute now.....

The Piles Incident

After a long day at home with the kiddo, my husband was busily working in his thesis and I was working on a really bad bottle of wine. Didn't want to drink it, but couldn't very well let it go to waste now, could I. After a few glasses, I reflected on how unproductive I felt and decided to pick something small off of my summer 'to do' list and do it.

I started with the new bath toy storage caddy that had come in the mail that day. For an item with only four pieces, it was a serious bitch to put together. Although, maybe, just maybe it could have been the 3 glasses of bad wine. After hearing several loud thumps, thuds, and choice swear words from the bathroom, my husband asked if I needed help. Help? Please! Like I need help putting together a toy bin. Right as I was telling him to just ignore all the mysterious sounds from the bathroom, the whole thing fell apart and landed in a pile on top of the toys in a pile on the floor of the tub.


Fine. Fuck you toy bin.




So, I move on to another thing on the list: cleaning out the cupboard in the hallway. As I weeded through half empty boxes of tampons and old curling irons (I haven't spent more than 7.5 minutes on my hair in 3 years. Can someone explain to me why I own 3 curling irons?), I discovered our free-crap-from-the-dentist stash. Not kidding you, by the time I was done pawing my way through that shelf, I had quite a pile:



We have electric toothbrushes, and use a totally different brand of toothpaste. So can someone explain to me why we keep this many toothbrushes around the house? Just in case a band of gypsies with really bad teeth happen to stop by? Seriously? Guess what every person in my family is getting in their stocking on Christmas morning.

I shoved the pile of toothbrushes back into the cupboard, and having felt like I had accomplished something, meandered downstairs to read on the couch. The cat, who recently been on a hair strike and let us know by shedding excessively, joined me. I figured it was the perfect time to give her a good brushing. Which is how I ended up with this pile:

And this one:

I swear to you, no cat was exploded or harmed in any way for those photos. That is truly just cat hair from just one cat after maybe just 467 seconds of brushing. Oh my lord. Can someone please explain to me how ONE CAT can have that much hair brushed off her body and still have hair left? Seriously? Yeah, the FURminator? No joke.

The next day, I put the toy bin together only to have it immediately fall apart again, opened the cupboard door to have all the toothbrushes fall out, and noticed an awfully thin spot on the cat's back due to my excessive brushing. I could blame myself. But it would be so much easier to blame the bad wine.

The I Shoulda Potty Trained Incident

Potty training. I had been dreading it for quite some time. And, even though I started to get that my kid was ready, I put it off. I specifically put it off for after taking him to see Sesame Street Live. I figured dealing with public bathrooms and potty emergencies in such a big place would be nice to avoid. "Hahahahaha," laughed Fate. Bitch.

Before we even left in the morning he wanted to sit on the potty. Fine. He went, and I put his diaper on in the bathroom, while he was standing up.

Hello dummy, mistake #1 of the day.

So, to really make this experience an extra special one (and cheaper since parking at the place was $20 bucks!), we took BART to the venue. He was THRILLED to get on the 'BART train'. Seriously. Like, more excited about that than seeing Elmo. I'll bypass the stories of what a fucking pain in the ass it is taking a toddler who doesn't want to ride in the stroller and said stroller on BART and skip straight to the nightmare.

Two thumbs way up for Bay Area Rapid Transit!

Before leaving the security of the car, I tossed the change of clothes I had brought for him in the trunk. I haven't had to use a chance of clothes for him in forever, so why should this day be any different, right?

Dumbass makes mistake #2.

We're sitting on BART. He's all excited. Looking out the windows, climbing on the seats, laughing...it was pretty cute. As he's kneeling backwards in the seat, he looks at me funny and says "Uh oh, messy". I look down. He's LIFTING HIS LEG UP and pee is dripping out of his shorts. Oh. My. God. Not only are his shorts getting soaked and urine is getting on the seat of our fine public transportation system, but he's lifting his leg up like a dog. I, of course, quickly realize that when I threw his diaper on standing up before leaving the house earlier, I did a shitty job of it and it wasn't on right, hence allowing for the pee waterfall. Way to go, me.

I frantically search my purse for wipes and antibacterial gel while thanking the BART gods that the train was fairly empty. After cleaning the seat the best I could, I made him sit the rest of the trip on his sweatshirt, feeling horribly guilty knowing that some unsuspecting stranger would be sitting in his pee-seat later. He was not pleased to be sitting in wet shorts, but since I had made mistake #2 of leaving the clothes in the car, he didn't have much of a choice.

We get to the venue and meet up with our friends. He and my friend's daughter were beyond excited to see each other. Picture it. We are at opposite ends of a long concrete path outside the stadium. The warm sun beats down on us as the breeze teases our hair. The kids spot each other and both take off in full 2-year-old sprints towards the other. They embrace in an affectionate hug. I could practically hear the violins playing in the background. It was very sweet and us moms gushed about it before kicking themselves for not having a camera out.

Anyways, our friend's daughter is potty trained. We even got to see the underwear to prove it (Elmo, in honor of the big show). So, naturally, before we are through the entry line, she is doing the potty dance. The second we get inside, her mom grabs her and takes off running. "Ahhhhh, I'm so glad I don't have to worry about taking the kiddo potty in the public restroom," I thought to myself. You can hear fate laughing, right?

I wait for the handicapped stall so I can drag the stroller in and change my kid's diaper after the whole pee-waterfall incident. Mistake #3? Not just using the changing station outside the stall. The second his diaper is off, he wants to sit on the potty. Seriously? So his sorta wet diaper and almost dry shorts get tossed on the ground (where the long line of moms and kiddos waiting for a stall can see them, plain as day) as I frantically try to get seat cover on the toilet for him. I do, he pees, then I have to put on a new diaper. Standing up again. I was MUCH more careful this time, lemme tell ya.

We made it through the whole show. He loved it. Our friend's daughter loved picking up confetti. Fun times had by all.

As we leave, I have to pee. Back into the bathroom we go. And, of course, having experience the sheer joy of sitting on a public toilet just 90 minutes earlier, he wants to do it again. You have GOT to be kidding me. Good times, good times. In the process, I drop my phone and the case breaks off and slides into 2 different stalls. Not to worry, the toddler helped out immensely by putting his hand underneath the stall wall to grab one of the pieces, giving the lady in the next stall quite a shock.

All of this probably could have been avoided had I bit the bullet weeks ago and potty trained. So, now we're knee deep in potty training and the one thing he doesn't want to do? Sit on the damn potty. Maybe if I upholstered it to look like a seat on BART, he'd be more willing.

The Napkin Leading to Reflections on a Pencil Sharpener Incident

Recently, I reached into our napkin basket to grab, what I knew was, the last napkin. And I get this:

Seriously? Gross.

Finding USED napkins in your napkin basket is exactly the type of shit no one tells you about before you decide to spawn offspring. That and, when you clean out the backseat of your car, you'll find half a waffle, 2 handfuls of bunny cereal, a few Kix, an empty Kleenex box with a toy bug in it, 2 Elmo books, and 3 broken CD cases. Yes, that's actually what I cleaned out of my car the other day.

I reflect on how much my life has changed since having a kid like 423,928 times a day. Oh sure, there's lots of good things. But you've already heard all the crap about how fulfilling it is, how much love you have, how seeing your kid smile is worth the world like a million times. I'm not here to discuss that. No one gives a shit about that stuff, really.

I'm here to discuss pencils.

A few weeks ago, I wandered around my house collecting pencils. The Happy Birthday one, the Thanksgiving one, the heart one, the striped one, the SMC one...I tossed them into my mom bag and toted them to work the next day. Why, you ask? Have the school's budget cuts gotten so bad they now require teachers to provide their own pencils? Nope, although next year I fully expect for our superintendent to tell us that in order to save money, we now have to teach our 57 students in the dark and downgrade from #2 to #1 pencils.


The pencils from my home that I collected were not for my students. Those pencils actually do live in my house. My house that is missing a piece of equipment used relatively sparingly, but vital to the life of a pencil. A pencil sharpener.


Ok, to be fair, we do have one. It's on a shelf in a closet, I believe. But the fact that I find it easier to use the high mileage pencil sharpener sitting in my classroom is the perfect evidence of how your life changes when you have a kid.


Our pencil sharpener is the symbol of life before baby. Before baby, our extra room had a guest bed (which means we actually had guests occasionally!). It had shelves full of pictures, novels, and various breakable dust collectors. It had a desk. And on that desk, hidden amongst piles of papers, a stapler, the computer, and a stack of blank CD's was, you guessed it, the pencil sharpener. It was plugged in at all times, ready to spring into action at the mere sight of a dull piece of lead making its way towards the tiny hole adorning the front plastic plate. The satisfying whirring that occurred as each lifeless writing utensil was given a 2nd chance was reassuring. I never questioned where my next fine point would come from.


Then came the kid. The bed gave way to a crib. the pictures and trinkets to stuffed animals and teething rings. The books were stored in the garage. The cord from the pencil sharpener was unplugged, unceremoniously, to give life to the baby monitor.



After several months of sneaking in to use the computer during nap time, and getting caught doing it, thus ruining nap time (which is SACRED and should NEVER be fucked with!), we rearranged. The desk was sold on Craigslist. The computer was given a new home on a tiny computer desk in our ever-cluttered living room. The pencil sharpener? Banished to its new home: the closet.

The mere thought of dragging it out for something as simple as sharpening a pencil has proved too cumbersome. So it sits, unused. I take comfort in knowing it's not lonely, since it sits next to the uglyass outfit my mother in law gave my son for Christmas and my basket of scrap booking shit, both also unused.


Because our pencil sharpener is doomed to live its life on a shelf (at least until the housing market changes and we can move out of our tiny shit hole), every month or so, I gather all of our pencils, toss them in my ginormous mom bag, and take them to work where I sharpen them.

(Not my actual bag, but close. Actually, this one's cuter. Damn it)

I had a baby, so sure, I have a house full of love, smiles, fulfillment, and blahdeblahblahblah. I also have a car full of old food and broken shit, as well as a house full of dirty napkins and dull pencils.

The China Incident (aka These Are The People In My Neighborhood)

To fully understand this incident, you must first understand where I live. The ghetto. Not like, it's ghetto fabulous. It's just the ghetto.


The street we live on is a peculiar mesh of our condo complex (which isn't too terrible, but certainly isn't special), a block of ramshackle apartments buildings where 13 Hispanic family members crowd themselves into 2 bedroom hovels while using sheets as curtains (they also trash the street and occasionally lay all their shit out on blankets in front of their buildings and sell it to each other), and another senior home where, for whatever reason, a large number of elderly Asians reside. On our street I've seen drug deals, a mattress parked as if it were a car, crack pipes, large numbers of Mexican men drinking beer while sitting in the dirt attempting to pass itself off as landscaping in front of their buildings, and a random guy chasing the random teens that graffitied his door.


Within walking distance, we probably have 12 fast food places and 8 liquor stores (not including the 7-11). Our backyard is literally the KFC/A&W drive through. During nice weather when we have the windows open, we can hear people placing their orders. It's fantastic. Nothing like chillin' on the couch with a glass of wine and a book while listening to someone shout into a loud speaker "No, I said a number TWO".



See? Ghetto.


Don't get me wrong. There are nice things about where we live. Our complex backs up to open space with great walking/jogging paths that connect to a park. And we like some of the people here. We adore our next door neighbors. Though we aren't the biggest fans of the drug dealer on the other side of us. However, he told me once he liked me since I wasn't one of 'the haters,' so I try to be as neighborly as possible towards him. Just figure that's probably the wise move.

Anyways.

There is even a pair of elderly Asian women who walk in the mornings and just adore my child. He loves to say hi to them and they just eat it up. Recently, we had a conversation which, if I correctly understood their broken English, led me to believe they thought my kid was disabled and couldn't walk. Nope, I'm just a bad parent who forces her kid in the stroller daily so she can get some exercise! Thanks though. Although, I did take a moment to remember how fortunate I am that he CAN walk. We have many blessings.


Anyways. Again.


Among all this is also a group apparently known as the Claycord 13 (Claycord being a combination of the names of our city and the city next to us). This group of really, just fucking CLASSY human beings, doesn't appear to be homeless, but are typically found to be very dirty, wearing black, and hanging out by McDonald's or pushing shopping carts of crap around, all while toting mysterious bottles in paper bags and possibly sitting near their own vomit. In the 5 years we've lived here, not one has ever been threatening or hostile. For the most part, they ignore everyone except themselves and the workers at Food Maxx, whom they yell at when they are asked to leave the beer aisle since they've been there 3 times since 6 am and it's only noon. I've witnessed this. It's funny.


So, I'm with the dog and kid on a morning walk on one of the paths. We walk by what had, in recent days, been an enormous pile of treasures (junk) behind some bushes covered by a tarp and cardboard sign that read "Keep the fuck out". No, I'm not kidding. At least it was spelled correctly. But today, the pile was nearly gone. In its place was one of the Claycord 13, looking surprisingly sober, with his bike and bike trailer.


I smile briefly as we walk by, but keep on truckin'. Then I hear him whisper roughly "Uh, Ma'am?".

Oh god. What's wrong? Did I have something hanging off of me? Was he asking me for money?Was he going to try sell me some substance? Did he want to buy my dog (please god, please! kidding...mostly)?


"Yeah?" I answer, thinking if he tried anything funny, maybe my dog would break dance or something to distract him while my kid and I made our escape.

"I, uh, have this bag of china. Do you want it?"


Huh? Bag of china, you say? Ok, of ALL the things I would expect someone to say to me while walking on those paths, that's probably one of the last. I glance down. Sure enough, there is an Abercrombie and Fitch shopping bag, full of china. A lovely teapot sat on top. What. The. Fuck. Where on earth does this guy come up with an Abercrombie and Fitch bag, let alone an Abercrombie and Fitch bag filled with china?


The kicker? I ACTUALLY BRIEFLY PONDER TAKING THE BAG! What was wrong with me? Seriously, what was I thinking? Thank god common sense came and knocked me upside the head! I said no. He tried again by assuring me the bag was just going to end up in the garbage. Nope, pretty sure I don't need a bag from a 'trendy' store full of, what I'm sure it just PRICELESS, china from godonlyknowswhere weighing the stroller down on our walk, just for me to have to find a place for it later back at our cluttered home. I'm good.


No regrets on turning down the china. But I'm keeping my fingers crossed the same guy offers me an Forever 21 bag full of money next week. I'll use it to buy my one-way ticket out of our ghetto.

The She Doesn't Have Wrinkles Incident

I Jazzercise. You might be asking yourself is it the '80s? Nope. Although one of my biggest regrets is that I was born about 7 years too late to go to high school during the '80s. I would have rocked legwarmers with jeans, side ponytails, and blue eye shadow. Instead I got to go to high school during the '90s and be grunge. Which I, sadly, did not rock.

Anyways....

I Jazzercise. Mock if you must, but it's awesome. It's a fantastic, high energy workout that involves dancing and great music. And you can't bring your kid, husband, dog, or students. Enough said.

After almost a year of classes through the community center, I joined the actual Jazzercise center around the corner from my house. It's in the same parking lot as an IHOP. I'm still trying to get used to working out while smelling syrup and bacon.

So, I go to my 3rd class, which was also my first Saturday class. I know no one, and spend most of class trying to avoid making eye contact with the many older women, especially the one wearing a neon pink leotard and black tights. Neon. Pink. My eyes....ouch. And to answer your question, no, I do not wear a leotard, pink or any other color, or leg warmers, or a headband. Most people just wear regular gym clothes, including me, I swear. Leotards are few and far between. Thank goodness.

It just so happened to be a breast cancer fundraiser class, so, like any good fundraiser, there's a door prize. Towards the end of class, the instructor starts talking up this basket that's been sitting at the front, practically floating away because of the ginormous pink balloons tied to its handle. Like any good student, I crouch down and check my text messages, tuning out whatever she had to say about the basket. I didn't remember putting my name in any raffle, so why would I listen?

Then I hear my first name get called. I go by a nickname, so I glanced around the room hoping to see some 50 year old woman clad in bad Lycra jump up and down excitedly. Nope. She calls the name again. Oh fuck. It's me. I dropped my phone, slowly stood up, and raised my hand, while trying to make myself as small as possible, hoping by some miracle there's someone else with that same name raising their hand on the other side of the room. No such luck.

The instructor looked at me, SUPER excited to have me leave my safe little corner and make my way to the front of the room to collect my fabulous prize. Immediately, 3 woman shouted out in perfect unison "SHE DOESN'T HAVE ANY WRINKLES". Great. The one time I get a comment on how young I look it's when I'm winning what is apparently a basket of wrinkle creams.

I accept my prize, balloons, pink ribbon, cellophane wrapper and all, then make my way back to my safe little corner, praying I don't get jumped on my way there. I contemplate just handing the thing off to the first wrinkly lady I see, mostly out of fear, but figure that would be both insulting to the recipient and the instructor. I manage to make it safely, complete the last routine, and when class ended, practically sprinted out of there.

Upon getting home, I opened up the basket to see the goods. Rather than a few bottles of lotion, there's this vibrator-like contraption with a bunch of bottles. WTF? Inside is a note saying the package is valued at $400!!! Holy shit! So, naturally, my first thought is EBAY HERE I COME!

Alas, at my next class a few days later, the instructor corners me and tells me all about how great this system is and blah blah blah and consult with her about my fine lines around my eyes and blah blah blah and she'll call me to set up a time for her to teach me how to use it...Damn it. There go my Ebay dreams.

So here I sit. Overweight. Gray hairs. Bad skin. But wrinkle-free (except for those damned fine lines). With a $400 basket of something resembling a vibrator and a bunch of bottles that will apparently cure my barely existent wrinkles. Sweet.

The Banananana Bread Incident

Headed out for a 'run' this morning. I use the term run loosely. When pushing a 35 pound kid in a stroller while dragging a reluctant 70 pound dog behind me, it can hardly be called a run. More like a mobile circus. We make frequent stops for sniffing, peeping, and pooping (canine), along with saying good morning to the ducks, taking off our shoes and throwing them on the ground, and looking for garbage trucks (toddler). It's really a wonder I get up past the speed of trudge, let alone running.

So, on this particular morning, the kiddo had a small bowl with pineapple and a piece of my homemade, allergen-free banana bread in tow. Both things he normally loves, but was refusing to eat, for some reason. As if he's above my cooking or something.

We get to the park and pause to have our obligatory "Hi Ducks! How are you?" conversation (those ducks are poor conversationalists, let me tell ya). Then the kid starts to whine. "Feed the ducks, feed the ducks, feed the ducks banananana bread" (and yes, he does say banananana, it's freakin' cute!).

Ok, really. I bake allergy safe bread just for him because I know he likes it and he wants to throw it on the ground amongst duck shit so the ducks can feast? Seriously? Fine, if it means we can attempt to run, I'm down.

I tear off some chunks and hand it over to the kiddo, whose chubby hands toss it as far as they can. Which was all of like 2 feet from the stroller. We have to back up so the ducks are willing to come check out the goods without fear of my mutt attacking them.

Several come up, sniff the bread, and then walk away. I watch in disbelief. The same animals who swim in a feces filled pond are refusing to eat fresh bread? What the fuck, ducks, you too good for my vegan banana bread? Seriously? See if I ever bring stale bagels to the park for you again!

The toddler realizes the ducks are refusing the bread and starts to cry. Yeah, now he knows how I feel EVERY FREAKIN' MEAL! The times he refuses what I cook for him far outnumber the times he actually eats my food.

He then begins to demand to get out of the stroller. Tantrum time. Oh crap, there goes this peaceful run. I turn the stroller back to the path and begin to jog, ignoring his screams, and the looks of the elderly couple walking towards us. Dumdedum, don't mind us!

Then, the tire on the stroller goes flat. Seriously?

I manage to make it home, practically carrying the stroller, while dragging the dog. And what does the kid want when we get home? Banananana bread.

The Frosting Incident

Have you ever spent time in a teacher's staff room? It's the place junk food goes to die. Seriously, everyone dumps off their cupcakes, cookies, candy, pastries, and pizza on those empty tables with the comfort of knowing 'someone will eat it'. Well, I spend a lot of time being that someone. A lot. The result? A self-imposed 3 day raw-food cleanse as a jump start to my summer. I'll spare you the details (there was vomit), but share with you the torture.

Day one involved amazing meals like a peach. And water.
Joy.
Day two involved amazing meals like a pear and carrots. And more water.
Rapture.
Day three involved amazing meals like pineapple and zucchini. And, you guessed it, more water.
Ecstasy.

All of this would have been MUCH easier to handle if it weren't for the frosting incident.

So, the night of day one, I had to make cupcakes for a party at my son's day care. I had been excited to try out some vegan cupcake recipes stolen from a friend, but never anticipated I'd have to try the recipe without trying the results. Killer.

I get through making the batter and baking the cupcakes. Didn't lick a single drop of batter. Sweet. "I can do this," I kept telling myself. No problem. Turns out I do have will-power. Who knew?

40 minutes later, 2 batches of cupcakes are cooling on my counter and it's time to make the frosting. Have you ever made frosting without licking at least a little bit of it? It's almost impossible. Seriously, frosting has to be the messiest thing to make ever. The number of things available for licking are endless. The bowl, the beaters, the scraper, the fingers. Again, killer. But, I managed to get through the whole process without sampling even a smidgen of frosting. Hello, I'll take my medal now.

I finish up frosting everything, then give one to my husband to taste test (vegan cooking is just plain odd and I've learned to always test before offering to non family members). He approved. Fab.

And the clean up begins. After doing the dishes and wiping down the counters, I thought to myself "Thank the cupcake gods, the torture is done." The cupcakes were safely in Tupperware covered with a dish towel so as not to cruelly taunt me. I turned to leave the kitchen, when, WTF is that? A HUGE dollop of frosting, having unknowingly fallen off the counter, sat precariously on the edge of a drawer. Fine, I don't need to eat it. I just wiped it up and carried on my way.

It was then that I noticed the cord from the mixer hanging out of the cupboard. I open up the door to see like half the cord had frosting on it. Seriously? How did I miss that? Ok, no problem. I could ignore my mouth watering while I wiped it off. Nooooo problem.

My feet began to carry me out of the kitchen when OH HELL!!! WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT FROSTING COLORED BUG DOING ON MY FLOOR? Yeah, on closer look, it wasn't a bug. It was a smattering of frosting disguising itself as a bug. Seriously?

I confess, I briefly pondered licking the fucking frosting bug off the floor. Who does that? Well, deprive yourself of all normal foods, caffeine, alcohol, and chocolate and you might consider it, too.

Be proud. I did not lick the floor that evening. But, there is a small container of frosting waiting for me in the fridge for when this damned cleanse is done. And I won't give a shit if I have to lick it from a spoon, my fingers, or the floor. I've earned it.

The BevMo Incident

So, I wrote up a shorter version of this little incident and it got published in our local paper! Anonymously, of course. My husband still doesn't know about it, as far as I know. But, several friends somehow convinced me it could become a blog. Here goes nothing:

After leaving work and picking up my 2-year-old, we headed to BevMo for the 5-cent wine sale (again). I went to the one near work, which meant I spent the entire time with my head ducked down just in case one of my students' parents walked in. Couldn't have any of them knowing that their child's teacher drinks wine while she grades their papers.

So, I purchased an entire case of wine. The kid sat in the cart, snacking on something relatively unhealthy and messy, but was quiet and happy. Sweet! An uneventful trip, and now we could head home! Right? "Hahahaha!" laughed Fate, mockingly. Bitch.

I parked the cart next to the car and turned around to unlock the door. In those five unsupervised seconds, my toddler stood up in the cart and tipped the whole thing over. Bottles broken, wine gushing everywhere — one screaming, terrified 2-year-old. Cars driving by actually slowed down to see the commotion. I wanted to crawl into a hole!

A store employee was kind enough to help me clean up and replace the broken bottles (while tactfully mentioning that next time, they would be GLAD to help me out to my car next time. Well fuck you very much for offering THIS time!). Said 2-year old was completely fine, with not a scratch or bruise, having miraculously managed to stay in the cart as it fell.

But I know the truth: I almost killed my child in my quest for wine.