My Goliath.

Dawson is super obsessed with chapel days at his preschool. He comes home singing his little heart out... "I'm in the Lord's Army... YESS SIRRR!" and "A Big, Big House... A Big, Big House.... A Big, Big House... My Fadder, Fadder's House. My Fadder, Fadder's House."

So freaking cute (never annoying at all).

His Christian preschool just started having chapel every Wednesday, and the first time he came home and re-told me the entire 3 year old version of the story of Daniel in the Lion's Den... "and God set the angel who sealed the Lion's mouth shut to protect him...

I was amazed (but not really, I mean C'MON, my kid IS a child prodigy and all...).

The week after, he came home with the tale of David and Goliath. I thought it would be fun to read it to him at bedtime out of a Children's Bible Stories book. Its an older book, and meant for an older audience, I guess...

... because at the end of the story it very matter-of-factly offers the graphic details of the actual story, and as I read it aloud I found the words "and then David chopped off the giant's head with his mighty sword" falling out of my mouth like a bad case of the trots.

Ty (who was snuggled up next to us) raises his eyebrow at me and says "nice." I tried to mumble something in code about hoping Dawson wouldn't pick up on it (ha ha, right.) when he pipes up "Hey... THATS not nice to chop off people's heads."

Oh, really?

Just what my kid (of all kids!)... needed to hear. Glad to be the one to paint that picture for him.

We went garage saling over the weekend and scored this 'David and Goliath' army man set.

Major hit.

Which brings us to the other night at the dinner table. My kids love to eat (predictably)... but on the up side, they love to eat EVERYTHING. Salad, cottage cheese, broccoli, raw carrots, hummus... they will generally eat anything that doesn't try to eat them first. This said, we don't have to bribe them or coax them or coerce them into eating their dinner generally speaking. Maybe that's why we're a little rusty on our 'c'mon Tommy, open wide for the airplane' routine...

Tyson goes "Dawson, why aren't you eating your dinner? Don't you want to grow up BIG and STRONG (ha ha, if only it were that easy..or really true at all...)?"

But none the less, I chimed in "YES! Dawson... eat your salad so you can get as BIG AS GOLIATH!!!!"

Dawson looks up, completely horrified and exhasperated.

"Mom. When I grow up... I am going to be a NICE man. NOT mean like Goliath."

Ahhh, good to know, good to know... and I could not have been more pleased to hear the news.

On days like yesterday when the little jihad terrorist in him runs rampant I will most definitely be re-reading this blog...

Stick Happens.

Ahhhh, my little mountain man.

Last Friday he was playing at the park enjoying the glorious sunshine and the warm Spring weather when he stumbled over some ruffage and scraped his shin. Happens all the time... a handful of tears, some kisses from mommy... Grammie HAPPENED to be there (providence, people) and graciously took him back to the house and cleaned his wound. I thought it odd that he even cried at all, because he NEVER cries when he gets hurt... unless it HURTS. But it was close to naptime, we had been there awhile, it was lunchtime... whatev.

Grammie said good thing she was there and cleaned it up, it was actually a pretty good scrape (tho I never really got a good look until later). She cleaned it with love, healing kisses, neosporin for good measure, and garnished with 2 highly coveted CareBear bandaides.

We had a pretty busy weekend...

The kid would not part with the bandaide. We choose our battles. Carebears were not a threat to homeland security at any given moment... they held fast for 2 full days, unchanged. Dont judge.

This morning I went to shove send Dawson on his merry way off to school (our neighbor is kind enough to take him to and from the 2 half days each week he attends), and I realized the original bandaide was still laughing up at me as I was helping the child into his trousers.

I quickly and tenderly... ha... snatched it off before he could blink. Shut up... I AM a good mother. I am. I am. I am. (For clarification, that was directed to you, the reader. Not what I actually said aloud to my child...)

HOOOOOLLLYYYY disgust. Oozing. Swollen. Festering. Pussing. Does the word 'pussing' disturb everyone else the way it disturbs me...? Yah. My eyes and mouth started to water... not for sad Mommy (that was later), but for... sympathy pain. The wound was fevered, and raised up like a goose egg. And I could have sworn I saw a little piece of something in there... yep, better call the Dr.

I was lucky to get a 9:45 appt, and even MORE lucky to have Ann off today to cover my ars at home with the daycare crew long enough for me to be a Mommy and drive Dawson down there myself. That kills me... I really like this little arrangement of being home with the kids until I miss their Dr appts. Or their class party. Or... you get the idea.

This whole time, D-man is a Marine. He didnt want me to mess with the owie when I took off the bandaide but in his defense... I had just ripped it off sniper style. I dont think I would have trusted me right then, either. But yah. No real complaints aside from that.

In the waiting room, he snuggled me and sat on my lap and drew these adorable pictures of him and daddy mountain climbing, and also of the sunshine... I think he appreciated having me there...

The Dr comes in, puts on some goggles, poo-poos my notions of things being stuck inside this little scrape... she didnt seem to want to get too dirty. She kind of pressed on it a little, and it did the 'p' word again... Dawson... sits there and LAUGHS. The Dr. tells him how brave he is (he really was...) and leaves the room briefly. Dawson leans over and whispers to me "Mom... know why I was laughing when she pushed on my owie??" Ohhhh I could only imagine. "I laughed because it HURT me!" Haha... the little sadist. I wonder where in the blazes he gets it.

Dr. gets a second opinion from the 168.4 yr old colleague, who doesnt want to get too close either and has to stand across the room and squint to allow his far-sided vision a decent look... then they diagnose him with a staph infection, send a culture to the lab to verify what kind of staph it is (apparently there is a super fun one thats going around called 'treatment resistent' for those parents lucky enough to win the infectious illness lottery)... in the end they prescribe an antibiotic hoping its the right one until the results come back in a day (-ish)...

Staph infections are apparently pretty contagious... she told me to soak him in the tub and drain the wound 3x/day and bleach the tub after every soak. I thought of the baths the kids took together over the weekend... and of the daycare zoo waiting for me back at the ranch... (shudder).

I came home, fed and watered and put the crew to bed, and set to work bleaching everything Dawson ever touched/breathed on/looked at. I then had a near death experience/ psychadellic trip with some bleach mixed with a little CLR in my tub scrubbing endeavours... Im lucky to have cheated an early death in exchange for moderate nosebleeding and only tiny pieces of my lungs expelled throughout the frantic coughing fits between the gasping for air and extended periods of blacking out. Ahhh, the (wine) glass is half full yet again.

When Ty got home I told him it was his turn to be bad cop and give D his bath. Poor little man didnt even want to let his owie touch the water. We made a game of it... bribed with rainbow marshmellows and chocolate chips... he finally forgot to care and let it soak for a few minutes... then comes the part where my recollection is completely fuzzy as a result of the post traumatic stress. All I can say for sure is there was lots and lots of saaaaad crying, and something about a pair of tweezers after a blunt object started poking out at me...

These little beauties were born during the ordeal:

TWO.

Yes, my friends.

TWO twigs... not splinters... (practically) TREE BRANCHES... impaled in my toddlers shin. Straight in... toward the bone... hardly visable from the outside( or apparently completely invisable if you have a medical license)... half inch long, each.

The mini-marshmellow is for size reference... and also a tasty snack.


I didnt know if I should laugh... or cry... or throw up...





Poor Dawson. He actually thanked me after it was over (the swelling immediately went down). I told him I was sooo sorry he had that owie... he forgave me. Ha. Little booger.





I seriously cant believe the Dr. didnt bother to do a little more investigative work. An entire wildlife reserve was lodged in my son's body for the duration of 3+ full days and she didnt want to get dirty? Hmmm. I havnt quite decided what to do with my mother bear instinct yet...





Anyway... just another day in the O.R. of a real live desperate housewife, I suppose.





I feel a reality show coming on...

Man's Best Friend??.... PTCHAW!

Alright, this has been chapping my ass for almost a week now, I keep wanting to blog it but I suppose it all comes down to that time thing and, you know, NOT HAVING ENOUGH OF IT.

I finally got Diego signed up for puppy obedience class thanks in huge part to the fabulous Stephanie Brown who did most of the work for me (she even showed up for the first night of class with MY DOG'S vaccine records in hand to present to the instructor... although I AM a little afraid to show my face at the vet's again since apparently she called pretending to be me to get the info... they thought it was a little odd when she kept insisting her last name was "Harkness," and then "oops, she forgot her name changed when she got married, like, 7 years ago...").

Anyway. Last week, Thursday, was the first day of actual class that the dog comes along to. I figured it would be... bad. Stephanie is re-taking the class with HER 1yr old lab, Buddy, because "it will be fun to not have the bad one in the class this time around..."

Stoopid labs and their infinite energy levels.

Which brings me to the part about my ass chapping.

Journey back with me to my psychotic single parenting week last week. I was actually looking forward to Thursday knowing my parents would be with the kids and I had a water tight strategy to catch a glimpse of the daylight outside the confines of my own personal underworld home. But... as all (good?) parents do, I found myself feeling guilty for abandoning the runts with the grandparents after having to share their one remaining parent with a brood of other children all day long. When the daycare parents miraculously all came and left by 4pm that day, I thought it was a perfect chance to take the hour of the time I had before needing to leave to meander down to the park for some bonding time with my 2 little darlings before I rushed off without them. Then, for 'good measure,' I thought I'd kill 2 birds with one dog and bring Diego with us to let him burn off some energy and hopefully (???) tire him out before class a little.

This is the part where the entire theater audience is booing and hissing at my complete ignorance while I am walking straight into a deadly trap. But alas, little red riding hood set off basking in oblivion down the sunny lane with her 2 little blonde darlings and one little black darling in choke hold tow.

If there’s ONE good thing I can say about that dog, its that he does pretty well as far as not running away. He stays close by off leash, and comes when you call him back. So, I didn't think twice about letting him go right away as usual when we got to the park... (BOOOOOO!!! ITS A TRAPPPPP!!! HISSSSS!!!)

We walked around for a bit, I threw the stick... yada, yada, yawn, boring... Then, Dawson requests to go to the 'camping forts.' The 'camping forts' are the brain child of some adolescent neighbor boys who essentially hand dug trenches in the back of the park with their dad's shovels, covered the holes with plywood, and then threw down the hugest air soft battle in the history of atascaderian-kind (judging by the number of pellets that can be found in this sacred place). Its 3 year old boy heaven.

I obliged right away since we had nothing but (now t minus 40 minutes, but who's counting...?) of bonding time to kill. We had only been there an instant when suddenly I realized... it was more quiet than it should be.

Momentary panic.

Dawson?

Check.

Anabelle...?

Check.

Diego...?

Hmmmmm.

"Diego.....come."

Nada.

"Diego?"

Still nothing.

"Diego!" *whistles, pats leg, whistles... shakes fist at God for creating 4 legged beasts...*

"DIIIIEGOOOO!"

Nope. No Diego.

Its only been a couple minutes tops, and I know the general direction he has to be in. I start towards the creek that borders the back side of the park whistling and calling and looking over my shoulder at the kids and swearing and... oh... here he comes, awesome.

"Good boy, Diego...good come...good..."

Froze.

Cold Sweat.

"Oh, what’s that you were playing in, Diego? The creek bed, you say? Just thar yonder, thru the thicket of glistening poison oak patch sparkling in its bright, fresh, oily oozing glory in the peak of full spring weathered bloom? WoNDErfuL!!!!!"

You probably already know this about me if you care enough to humor me and read my blogs on a regular basis... but poison oak is my wicked arch enemy. I think I had calamine lotion (not so) inconspicuously swabbed all over my swollen little face for at LEAST the first 3 years of my elementary school picture days. Because, as I remember anyway, I literally had it THAT often as a kid.

When I first started grade school, we lived in Cambria and our entire back yard was beautifully landscaped with poison oak. My lovely cat, Moonshadow (named for the Cat Stevens song, because I was a classy toddler like that) would frolic among the butterflies and poison patches by day, and then slip thru the kitty door at night to snuggle up on my pillow and infect me with evil curses as I dreamt. And to this very day... sometimes late at night when the rest of the house is fast asleep... if I lay really still and dont make a sound, I swear I can still hear purring in my ear...

Then there was 6th grade camp, which COULD have been a lovely tale of a young girl's coming of age, exploring the wilderness with her best friends, and vying for the attention of the masses of mysterious wilderness boys from far away lands. Instead... well, let me just say the boys noticed me all right. Its hard to miss the "girl with the deformed chin" as my best friend Chelsea still delights in reminding me every opportunity. That was the year I had spontaneously reoccurring poison oak that I still have no idea how I could have gotten to begin with.

I think my legs are a little itchy and my eyes are puffing shut just from writing this blog about 'that which must not be named...'

So needless to say... there in that park I melted into a puddle of panic faster than Alex Mack in the hot summer sun.

Predictably, I happened to be wearing shorts, flip flops, and a tank top. I have 2 toddlers who are in NO WAY going to make it easy for me to cut playtime short and just leave quietly without a struggle... I've promised them playtime and maternal bonding for heaven's sake, and they have every intention of taking advantage of what they are rightfully entitled to! Diego is stronger than a horny bull, even when he is co-operative (which has basically never happened)... there is absolutely NO.CHANCE.OF getting him home without having to touch him considering I have to wrestle him to the ground for co-operation on a good day, and "OOOOOOOHHHHHH gosh, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I’m going to get poison venom in my tear ducts and down my throat and up my lady love.... and we don’t even have good health insurance at the moment, and who will run my daycare and wash behind the kid's ears and, and, and... how will my grieving family carry on without me when I die... because I’m gonna die...!!!!!!!...."

And then.

I looked up to the heavens to make one final deal with God when suddenly... behold. The clouds parted and I heard the voice of an angel coming from up the hill in the Hamilton's back yard. For there stood this beautiful heavenly being taking on the earthly form of glorious, wondrous, oh joyous day Kari Hamilton... with arms wide open... bidding me come hither thru the gates of majesty and into the haven of her dog bathing services in the cerebral mirage of her back yard.

If only it were possibly real and not just a delirious vision of a glimmer of hope...

But wait.

Is that...?

It MUST be real, for if I had actually transcended into a deep level of subconscious dreamland where the entire world is la, la, la and worry free and cotton candy every day as it should be, I am ALMOST POSITIVE we would NOT have our children still among us to trouble us with pettiness like teeth brushing and 3 balanced meals a day... and she appears to be standing between her own personal brood of vipers, so....

Yes. I am almost certain now, this is REALLY happening.

"Go, Go Gadget LEGS!"

And then, somehow (and I still don’t know exactly how I maneuvered this one...) I managed to scurry UP the back of the cliff behind her house with 1 little black and 2 little blonde writhing maggots, errr... I mean darlings... where my lovely goddess of a friend then proceeded to offer to bathe my monstrous demon of darkness with her own 2 (apparently 'immune,' ptch!) hands to rid his glistening coat of the enemy oil for me.

Wow. SALVATION! I might be adding that story into to my personal testimony to draw some sort of religious parallel... ok. Maybe that’s one step too far, but in all honesty... she should get some kind of humanitarian award for her act of compassion and kindness that day. I really think I might be haunting my own funeral right about now if it weren’t for her.

I actually got right home after the ordeal and made it to puppy class in Paso ALMOST on time. And OHHH, lookie, I was right, Diego was a baaad boy... he managed to get loose in the first 5 minutes of introductions and cause all kinds of havoc among his peers. The teacher made several comments in my direction about 'having our work cut out for us.'

But in short... I was there. It could have been FAR worse. And back to that fabulous Stephanie Brown... well... I’m pretty sure in all her free time after working 10 hour days, attending night school, strictly abiding to her new diet and workout routine, and developing her new pro-bono party planning/ crafting 'side business,' she somehow also managed to teach her generally well behaved and highly trained dog to act out on command just to make me feel better for the sole purpose of this class. I’ve seen how mellow and sweet natured and controlled her dog usually is, and ... well... lets just say after watching Buddy in this first class I think Diego might have found himself a life partner. I mean soul mate (he's not ready to 'come-out' just yet).

Anyways.

I totally started this blog in particular for the purpose of ranting about how much I want to smother that dog and watch him die slowly or tie him up and back my car over him repeatedly at times (not that I’ve put much thought into it or anything....). But now, in conclusion, I think I’ve just managed to underline a few key players of the wonderful women powers that be in my tiny universe that make the little obstacles I face each day... manageable.

Thanks, girlfriends.

And just FYI... if obedience classes doesn’t offer any behavior improvement for our dear little Diego dog stat... I might be calling one of you in the near future to help me dig a biiig hole after sun down...

AND... Im Spent.

So, I have officially been a single mother for 8 days now. Ok, maybe thats an exaggeration, I'll explain. Tyson has been gone in the evenings at a class (I may post more on later) that goes from 6-10pm, M-F. It only lasts 2 weeks, and it ends this Friday.

If you know me, you know that I don't do well alone. I crave companionship in every moment of my day. I think it makes me a great candidate for having this little daycare project in this chapter of my life... there is always someone that needs me and I essentially always have 'company.' Granted, the KIND of company the little darlings can be is a challenge and over all exhausting, but over all its nice to never have to be alone (sad, but true).

I have been dreading these last 2 weeks since the moment I saw it on the radar. But as they approached, I actually started to rethink the scenario. I thought I'd put the kids to bed, clean the kitchen until it sparkled every night... do some closet/garage organizing, take some baths, paint my toes, watch some Tivod Oprah episodes that have been stored since 1986...

Any of the above has yet to happen.

My days are the usual organized chaos that I am more than accustomed to... no surprises there.

But I didn't count on Tyson's absence taking such a dramatic toll on our children, and by extension... me.

Dawson has been having the most difficult time functioning. He has the capacity to be a handful on any given day and always has, but this has been excessive. He is a train wreck. He acts out at every opportunity. Sometimes he creates an opportunity if one is not presenting itself. He has regressed back to baby talking, taking toys... hitting his sister, disobedience, fibbing, destructive behavior. Bedtimes are impossible, so he's exhausted the next day which fuels the flame. With the exception of the baby talk, these are all obstacles that have presented themselves in the past that we've worked hard to overcome thru consistent discipline and positive reinforcement. Dawson has always kept me on my toes trying to find loving but effective ways to teach him to do the right thing without crushing his naturally adventurous spirit.

Now I realize that without his Dad in the picture, this would be nearly (if not completely) impossible.

Dawson worships Ty. He loves me too, I know that. But Tyson reaches him in a place I can never seem to find. And he makes it look easy.

Im secretly a little bit jealous. Tyson has magical parenting abilities I will never posses. And our son, at 3.5 years recognizes the difference his Daddy makes in the quality of his little life. And he is upset and frustrated and lost without it. It baffles me!

I can remember being skeptical in my pre-parenting days when a person would make excuses for unacceptable behavior citing some sort of variation in scheduling or ordinary routine. I am skeptical no more. My kid THRIVES on routine, particularly that involving the important people in his world.

So. Without rambling on and on about for instances of all the parenting hell I've been to this week, I will just say that I have a renewed appreciation for the role my husband plays as a Father, and the difference it makes in the quality of the majority of the day I spend with them. I've come to realize that its easy to feel undervalued sometimes for all my seemingly thankless contributions, but these last weeks have shown me my own hypocrisy. The short time in an average day that Tyson spends with our children makes a big difference in my life. And all the difference in the world to his biggest fans.

Friday never looked this good.

Big Girls Don't Cry

Nothing in this world has made less judgmental of a person than becoming a parent.

I used to be the one rolling my eyes at Target when the toddler in the next aisle over tantrums on relentlessly while the parents stand by pleading helplessly.

I could not for the life of me understand the concept or appeal of portable DVD players for family outings.

And never, under ANY circumstance would any child of mine be caught dead slurping away on some obnoxious piece of plastic with a tit on the end of it... ESPECIALLY past the age of infant-carrier.



But alas... the pacifyer conviction was the first to go.

When Dawson was born, Ty was still in college. He was at the hospital the first night, the entire next day when Dawson was finally born, and by that evening I was feeling better and knew he was on homework overload. I insisted he head home for a good nights rest in his own bed and a few hours of peace and quiet for homework. Secretly I was greedily hoarding some potential alone time with my new little bundle.

Karma is a bi-atch.

The second he heard the elevator doors close behind his father, Dawson began to wail. And he didnt stop all.night.long.

I held fast to my conviction for as long as I could (what? 6 hours IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT AFTER GIVING BIRTH HOURS BEFORE is an eternity!!)... but sometime around the wee hours of morning when the sun began to peek thru the dingy burlap hospital curtains (or so claimed my delusional bloodshot eyes) I desperately reach for my one and only last hope at the chance for some shut eye.

Meet the Soothie:
I owe my first childbirth recovery AND being spared from the clutches of what could have been an even MORE agonizing trip to the pit of postpartum hormone hell to this heavenly being.

My Mother-In-Law, Ann, always gently but firmly opposed my pacifier disdain. She debated that you can take a paci away, but a thumb is forever (or so you would hope). She pointed out that when a child is sick, or sad, or overtired, it could be a 'natural' comfort (as opposed to Benadryl, or a good pillow smothering). We would go around and around like that... in good nature... and at my baby shower she joke gifted me a glass jar with a lid on it containing a pacifier that read in Sharpie marker on top "in case of emergency, break glass."

I dont know to this day whether I love her or detest her for her motherly insights.

As it turned out, Dawson only used the paci for a couple months before he refused it. By then, I had gotten used to the ways of sleep deprivation that all Moms are naturally accustomed to.

When Anabelle arrived on scene, I thought she wouldn't be interested at all and actually she slept thru the night IN THE HOSPITAL, and ADORES her an opportunity for some quality shut eye to this very day. I don't know how the paci cunningly nudged its ugly little teet into our daily routine (um... probably the complete madness of having children 7 minutes apart??!!?!), but sure enough before we knew it we had a sucker (haha, get it!?! Buh-dum, CHA!).

So fast forward to now... and here is this beautiful Anabelle Lee, 26 mos old. She can walk. She hasn't been remotely interested in a bottle for well over a year. We have lots and lots of deep and meaningful conversations about chocolate and butterflies and being kind and sharing and caring and wildflowers. Which brings me to a strangely heartbreaking realization...

Its time for our dearly beloved and faithful companion, the 'paci,' as we've come to call it... to make like a baby and head out. For good.

I've know for awhile now that the time was upon us. Maybe its partly lazy parenting... not wanting to sacrifice the luxury of a hassle-free full night's sleep at the meager expense of cracking one eye open and plugging our child back into her life support. But really I know in my heart its not about the sleep. She is a great sleeper, remember?

In all honesty, I think... gulp... I think I don't want her to not be a baby anymore.

The truth is, her paci is a part of her infancy trademarked in my fondest memories for always. I cant imagine my life now without the countless mornings where I am just stepping out of my dreams and Im lucky enough to wake to the sweet smell of strawberry and the unmistakable sound of slurp.slurp.slurp coming from the bundle of pink bliss who has imposed herself between us sometime during the night.

I've been putting it off for a long time now. I even have good mom/ bad mom dialogs with my alter egos where bad mom is insisting to good mom that no kid ever went to grade school with a paci in their mouth more than once.... after just one day of relentless jeering from their peers. This way, she could hate THEM, and not ME for depriving her of her first love.

I think all this time I've hoped in my heart that I would see when the opportunity was presenting itself and run with it.

And sure enough, opportunity knocked last night as I came home late and sat down to chat on the living room sofa with my Mom who was kind enough to babysit. Anabelle must have not been fully asleep yet and heard my voice, because soon she was peering around the hall corner with a sneaky gleam in her eye and (of course) that darn paci hanging out of her mouth.

I knew I should shoo her back to bed, but instead I grabbed the blanket draped over the couch behind me and motioned her to come snuggle and listen in on the grown up talk (as long as she was quiet).

About 15 minutes went by, and clearly the conversation was fueling a second win in her as she was now sitting up between us chiming in now and then... oh, wait. TRYING to chime in. She couldn't get out what she wanted to say with the beast in her way. She was clearly annoyed.

"Anabelle!" I exclaimed. "WHAT is a BIG GIRL like YOU doing up late with the grown up ladies trying to have girl talk with a paci in her mouth?! GO THROW IT IN THE TRASH, and then come back and talk to us. You are DONE with that thing."

Without missing a beat, she wiggled free, hopped off the couch, and muttered "OK, Mommy," over her shoulder as she disappeared into the kitchen. She was back in a flash and hopped right back to her rightful post on my lap, eager to continue the party that had been so rudely interrupted.

And that was it.

She didnt argue when I put her to bed a few minutes later without it.

She didnt ask for it when she woke up and had her morning snuggle time with blankie on the couch.

It didnt appear to even cross her mind at nap time today.

And tonight, she is dreaming sweetly in its absence as I wistfully blog away in this tribute to the closed chapter of her infancy.

Well. ALMOST closed chapter.

I dont suppose potty training will be as easy as that??

"Its a BIRD!!... Its a PLANE!!..."

"Its... Its... Its a MIGRAINE HEADACHE!"


Ahhh, but who could deny, these are 2 of the cutest and most lovable little super monsters heroes around.











Aaaaand, the grand finale... matching time outs for havoc wreked (despite several warnings) upon furniture/walls/animals (courtesy of the most feared villan of all times: the Mother).



Dont they look devistated?

Do you LOVE it?

I got it AT ROSS!!!:

Hahaha... no. But seriously... I got it AT ROSS. As in Ross, "Dress for Less."

This one, too!:

Apparently now we can also furnish our homes for less!

The greenish blue one was actually my first find. It was marked $130, but I found a teeny scratch on top and negotiated a 20% discount, it was less than $110 out the door.

The white corner piece I noticed while I was loading up... it was $150. Tyson was sad it didnt have a scratch too... so we made one. Just kidding. But I'd be lying if I said it didnt cross my mind! HA!

Anyways. I know, $250 is a LOT for impulse buys on furniture... ESPECIALLY at Ross Dress for Less. But actually we've been looking for bargain buys for these 2 little spots in the dining room for a long time, and we provedentialy recieved our state tax return the Friday before these little beauties found me.

I feel a little guilty.

But when I walk into the kitchen and I get butterflies I always manage to forget. And hey... dont blambe US for the current status of the economy! We're definitely doing our part in spending. Ha.

Liar, Liar Pants on Fire

I would actually CONSIDER lighing his pants on fire... Dawson's that is... if I thought it would teach him anything. But I dont. Not quite yet anyways...

I can NOT get the kid to tell the truth for the life of me. Who would have guessed by three years old the concept for a 'stay out of jail' strategy would already be programmed into their subconscious?

I didnt say it was a GOOD strategy. I do still know (a little bit) more than he does.

For instance, today he dumped his sippee cup of milk into another kid's macaroni and cheese at the lunch table. When I came in to ask what happened (meaning 'what on earth would posses you to do that you little freak!') he promptly and insistantly shot back that the poor girl had dumped her OWN milk into her lunch.

She wasnt drinking milk.

AGHHHHHH!

If this were on rare occasion or on unimportant matters, I would probably just try not to make a huge issue and draw attention to the problem to see if it would just blow over as phases often do. Unfortunately, because my children are 5 seconds apart, there is a.) always a victim, and b.)always another fully capeable suspect to pass the blambe upon. So honestly half the time I really have NO IDEA which one of them is the culprit for crimes that literally happen in the instant it takes to blink your eyes when you sneeze.

This morning, Anabelle got a time out for dumping sand in the playhouse, which she had already been warned about once. I found out after I read her rights and she paid her debt that it was, in fact, the brother.

Im going to loose my mind. These scenarios literally happen CONSTANTLY. I think if I had a few more hands, or a different job, it could almost be more possible to monitor everything. But the fact is... I'm not always going to be there to monitor, no matter WHAT my job is. They might as well learn the concept of honesty now.

Ugh, I am just so frusterated with my own kids constantly being the ones of the group I watch that act out (one imparticular), and I wish I could find a simple soloution that would take care of this phase so we can move on to the next obnoxios behavior problem to overcome, like booger eating or something.