The underappreciated milestones

Tanith holds her first ball python.

Everyone  always oohs and ahhs over the typical milestones.  Those first steps.  First words.  First poo-splosion.

Today, at 1 year, 11 months, and 5 days, Tanith has reached a new milestone.  She now has the ability to formulate an alibi.  She poked her sister in the eye, and when I told her not to poke people in the eyes, she fell over and proclaimed, "Did no do it! I schweepan!"

It may not be a believable alibi, but it's a hilarious one.

the fanny pack is back! Week one

After several years of ridiculing fanny packs, I recently decided that they are the most awesome invention ever.  It's like adding a ton of extra pockets and making it all hands-free.  I toyed with the idea over the course of the past year and finally took the plunge when I had some swagbucks available for amazon gift cards. 
The beauty shown above arrived in the mail a few days ago.  Wednesday, I wore it all around our small town.  I got several stares along with a few whispers.  One girl, who was carrying two very large bags and a small, out-of-control child, giggled.  I like to think anyone who carries a large designer imposter purse along with a large diaper bag is lacking in common sense.  Who really needs that much stuff, anyway?  Back to the story.  She was chasing after her kid and knocked him over with her pair of bags.  Who laughed then?  The girl in the fanny pack.
Today, I wore it to do a couple of deliveries for my tattoo supply business.  I had on a seafoam green fanny pack covered in Dragonball Z buttons, cut-off jorts, Avengers T-shirt, cheesy Halloween socks, heart slide on shoes, freshly rediscovered lip piercing, Vanilla Ice on the radio, and three kids in the back of my station wagon.  I hopped out of my car and everyone took me seriously. 
Do you wear a fanny pack? Would you wear a fanny pack?  Would you like for me to add a decoration to my fanny pack?  Contact me if you would like to send a decoration for display on my fanny pack.

Halloween Costumes

Halloween used to be my favorite holiday.  Now it's inching down the list toward least favorite, thanks to my children.  In the course of one hour, I've been asked to make these costumes:

1. Arcee
2. Optimus Prime
3. Megatron
4. Bumblebee
5. Spiderman
6. Captain Jack Sparrow
7. Wasp
8. Black Widow
9. Sarah Sanderson from Hocus Pocus
10. Winifred Sanderson
11. a photographer
12. someone who goes to a lot of parties
13. robot
14. Queen King Diamond 
15. gymnast 
16. dancer 
17. flower girl

That's for 3 kids, one of whom can't even pick a costume.  I can expect this list to keep growing until a few days before Halloween, when I will throw something together at the last minute out of pure frustration.  Everyone will hate it equally and Ronin will just wear one of the costumes he's worn most of the year.

My dogs are trying to kill me.

I have two dogs.  Pugsley is a 13 year old poodle and Alcide is a 3 year old Shepherd/Husky shelter mutt.  I think they're out to get me.  I'm always tripping over them.  It's like they see me coming with an armful of stuff and they decide to play dead on the floor so I'll trip.

This weekend, we were visiting relatives and about to leave to go home.  Pugsley jumped in the car and I thought the kids had let him out.  I also thought that my husband, Blue, had taken the keys out of the car.  I thought wrong.  I headed out to the car with my things, noticed that the dog was in the car, and saw him get excited.  He was so happy to see me that he jumped right onto the lock button. 

So what did I do?  I tried for over two hours to get him out.  I tried to coax him over to press the unlock button.  I tried using a coat hanger.  Somewhere in there, I called 911, hoping that since an animal was in danger, they would help.  They sent out animal control and later, an officer.  Neither one had any idea how to unlock a car door, so I called a locksmith who had it open in 3 minutes.  By then, my husband had to get home with his animals, so he had gone home and we had decided to stay the night so I could avoid driving 90 minutes in the dark with 3 cranky kids and 2 dogs.

Within 30 minutes, we noticed that no one had seen Alcide.  The gate was open.  I panicked.  We ran in different directions, checked under beds, tables, in closets, and I ran down the street in both directions.  I chased a deer, believing it was him.

Then my brother in law came outside and told me he'd found him.  Alcide looked at me and I swear he gave me the most mischievous dog smile I've ever seen. 

Sixth Sense

I've recently seen a few facebook conversations about how children have a sixth sense, making them prone to sensing things.  I'm starting to become a believer.

How is it that my children can sense which body part is in pain and find a way to make it hurt worse?  It has to be some sort of psychic connection.  It's like they're thinking, "Oh, your foot hurts, Mama?  Let me make sure I step on every toe to make sure I don't miss one.  You have a stomachache?  I'll just sit on your belly and be sure to jump up and elbow you a few times for good measure.  You have a massive bruise on your leg?  I'll be sure to head butt you a few times and then figure out a way to stomp on it.  Don't worry, I'll be extra cute and act surprised when you cry out in pain so you can't get angry."

A letter to my children regarding alone time

Dear Purples,
I love you kids more than life itself, but I'm going to flip out on you if I can't start getting some interrupted time to fold laundry and wash dishes. I stay up half the night to work on my ebay store and wake at six every morning so I can do these few things without having demands for milk, lip balm, toenail clippings, nursing, or questions about the dietary needs or life cycle of a wolf spider.

We spend nearly every waking hour together, and often many of our sleeping hours in the same bed, so I'm sure I can tend to these needs during the other twenty three hours of the day. I fully understand that parenting is a twenty four hour job, but I could do a much better job if I were allowed to poop alone and dress myself without being asked to explain the reproductive habits of ball pythons while you repeatedly step on my feet and demand I read the chicken book for the 179th time.

I'm not one of those moms who ditches her kids in daycare so she can get her nails and hair done. I don't have date nights. I've had one child free weekend, albeit a working weekend, in the past eight years. I just want to be able to focus silently on one thing at a time for one hour a day before sunrise while you sleep.
Please forgive me, for I am about to chug my pint of lukewarm Earl Grey before someone drops a transformer into it so that I can fold the ridiculous amount of laundry you have generated while you all simultaneously try to unfold it. 

One day you'll understand this, I'm sure.  In about ten years, I'll burst into the bathroom while you're taking a shower, throw back the curtain, and start demanding answers about things like butterfly poo, the names of the goblins in the Labyrinth, David Bowie's hair, and the manufacturing and quality control process in chocolate factories.

Love,
Your exhausted and frustrated mother

Modesty?

I've never really been a modest person.  Growing up, I wore whatever appealed to me.  I'd show up for school in a wedding dress and fairy wings, carrying a paint can.  I once showed up in a red slip covered in Christmas tree garland.  I didn't care at all.  The school secretary had my mother's work number memorized because she called about my dress code infractions so often.  I modeled for a while after graduation, and while I never really got used to wearing heels and short skirts, I could do it and look kind of comfortable.

Since then, I've changed.  I rarely wear shorts.  All of my shirts cover my middle.  I still don't care, but I'd rather not flaunt my post-partum belly and my thighs have expanded so much that I'd rather not be reminded of the vast expanse of jiggly whiteness every time I look down.  Also, I carry a lot of stuff.  You can't fit anything into the pockets on a pair of Daisy Dukes.  I also have three children whom I love dearly and am trying to set a half decent example.  I've set a few rules for my oldest two now that they are dressing themselves.

• Leggings are not pants.  They will never be pants.  If you are wearing leggings, appropriate booty cover will be used. 
• Shirts are made to cover your nipples.  If you're wearing a shirt and I can see nipples, you'd better be pretending to breastfeed or on your way to change into something that covers your nipples. 
• High heels will not be worn until you're done growing and can walk through the house without tripping over the air. 
• Your shirts will not flop carelessly off of your shoulders.  It makes you look like you're not intelligent enough to keep your clothes from falling off your body.
• Skirts are okay, but until you're no longer sitting crisscross applesauce, you're going to wear something under them.  No one wants to see your underwear, unless they're some sort of pervert.  This is where the leggings are a great thing.
• I'm raising a gaggle of gingers. Bathing suits will consist of a short sleeve rash guard top. Nearly every adult in the family has had or will have some form of skin cancer, and I'm a hundred percent certain you guys have inherited this gene. I don't care who is wearing a string bikini. You're my children and it's my job to protect you. Does anyone know how difficult it is to get sunscreen EVERYWHERE on three squirmy and impatient children? It's much easier to throw on a rash guard and do arms, legs, face.  

I'm not a prude and I'm not doing this as a religious thing to avoid "stumbling blocks" or any other bullish excuse.  I'm doing this because I'm trying to raise decent human beings who value themselves for what's inside, not for how many catcalls they get per day.

I pity the fool who thinks leggings are pants.