Ode to a Brat*

I'm sick as a dog. Someone please shoot me in the face. (I'd make a Dick Cheney joke here, but it's so passé. And if there's one thing you know I am, it's totally up to date on that crap.)

SO. I have this blog. But see, here's the thing:

1) I never have time to write on it.

2) That's a total lie. I have lots of time. What I don't have is hands-free time. And I really hate typing one-handed. Hence why I just stare at your blog for hours at a time waiting for you to update it.

3) My mind is a blank. And I don't just mean I have writer's block or something like that, I mean I have a completely empty skull, wind whistling through it Homer Simpson-style and everything, 24 hours a day. I don't think anything at all. Ever. Even now I'm staring at these words wondering what the hell I'm writing. I'm sure you and I have that in common at least. It's nice to have friends.

4) Cheese and crackers.

So I have nothing of worth to tell you, but I almost started to feel guilty the other day for not writing anything in nearly a month so I figured I'd better get rid of that feeling right-quick. Wouldn't want the ol' emotions to get in gear after all this time or anything.

Hey, speaking of food, I have a random story to tell you. So back in the church congregation the Husband and I attended when we first got married I was one of the folks in charge of making sure all the kids saw the light and got religion. I remember one of the kids that moved into the ward's boundaries was named Rusty. Rusty was maybe five or six, was very active, and had never been to any church before in his life. The concept of sitting still, without inflicting damage or harm, was completely foreign to him. Speaking of foreign, this kid was German, too. He was born in America and all, but his parents were flat-out German, accents and all (this is important, trust me). He was a big, sturdy, solid, German kid.

So anyway, little Rusty was a handful. The Sunday School class he was in had to have two teachers, despite the class's small number of students: one teacher taught the class, and the other teacher held Rusty down until he got learnded good. Or I'm assuming that's what happened; all I know is it took two of them. And frequently they needed more than that because Rusty was quite often brought to his mother rather than cause any further medical or emotional distress. So one Sunday a group of us gathered outside of Rusty's classroom door, waiting for him to be shoved out by his handler at any moment. He had already been talked to once that day and had been given his last warning, and wouldn't you know it, he didn't seem as if he was going to heed that warning any century soon. So it started with me (one of the counselors) and Bryn (the other counselor), and eventually grew to include, I believe, the secretary (who knows what her name was), and the entire bishopric. Normally, the only member of the bishopric who should have been there was [Kirk], but Rusty usually attracted a crowd and we got all of them. All of us standing in the hall, not two feet from his door, waiting for him to be shoved out, and all swapping Rusty stories in the mean time. [Kirk] told a great tale that day in the hallway. He said one day Rusty was acting up (of course) so he personally took him to the foyer and sat him down on the couch, sat next to him, and they sat there for the remainder of church together. He said their conversation soon turned to Rusty's very solid, German-like frame:

Rusty: I'm hungry.

Kirk: Sorry to hear that.

Rusty: I'm really hungry!

Kirk: No, Rusty.

Rusty: But I'm REALLY HUNGRY.

Kirk: Well, you can't eat right now. You'll just have to wait.

Rusty: But I wanna talk about sausages!

Kirk said it was all he could do to not crack up laughing. It wasn't even that Rusty wanted to EAT sausages, he just wanted to TALK about them.

Kirk, thinking to himself: Geez, kid, how German can you get?

I'm fairly certain that Bryn and I said, "But I wanna talk about sausages!" to each other for months afterwards, busting up laughing each and every time. I still laugh just thinking about it. See, now you're in on the joke, too.

So there you have it. My Rusty story for the day. I'm pretty sure either he'll wind up on America's Most Wanted or wind up speaking to us at General Conference. Either way, I wouldn't be surprised in the least.

*Get it? Brat? 'Cause "brat" is short for bratwurst? Man, I'm brilliant even on my stupidest day.

Hairy Care-y

Couple things. It finally occurred to me this morning that I must not care anymore. I wander out of the house without showering constantly. I run errands first, then come home and shower, not the other way around. I remember a time when I would have rather cut my hands off than leave the home unbathed. And yet, today I didn't even attempt to do my hair before running off to Toys R Us for a birthday party gift. And of course, today's the day the Marine Corps is hanging around at the exit looking for donations for Toys For Tots. Gotta love impressing the Marines with scraggly hair and frumpy clothes. And get this, on Monday I told Greta I was going to the commissary. An hour later I pull into a parking spot, look at the car next to me, and see Greta sitting there looking back at me (she's stalking me; I'm flattered). And of course I hadn't showered yet then, either, because honestly who am I going to see at the commissary? Have I reached some magic point in my life when everything else takes priority over how I look to strangers? That I only shower every day so my husband won't have to see me in my PJs when he comes home at night? What's next, public, drunken nudity?

So Greta. This lovely woman. She claims to be baby hungry so she can steal your baby and babysit her, but really she's just trying to be nice or some such crap. Anyway, I took her up on her babysitting offer the other day. How great of her was that? And she even took pictures of her so I wouldn't have to be a parent and do it instead. Fantastic! Here's one she didn't put up on her blog but still let me have:

Cute, ain't she? No, her hair isn't really that dark, she just needs a shampoo. And lest you think I've been ignoring her hygiene, her hair looks like that about six hours after washing it. It oils up FAST. And to add to that joy, she has dandruff like crazy. And it's not just a little flake here and there, her entire fricking head is peeling. You lift up any section of hair and you see the entire top layer of skin in sections waiting to peel off. It's down-right creepy I tells ya. Other than that, she's adorable. Honest.

It Hurts When I Think

Hey, have you ever taken an item out of its packaging, and then accidentally thrown the item away and held onto the wrapper? And when you look at what's in your hand and realize what you've just done you have to get another item out? And then you do the exact same thing again?

I just wanted you to know what kind of a person you're dealing with here.

Answer: complete moron

Further Clarification

So apparently there's been some confusion about the crazy website. Yes, I wrote it. I also wrote the blog. It's my version of dark humor. I just don't want to be associated with it by name because I value my life. But it is all mine (but my unnamed accomplice did much of the website design).

And because it is mine, I'd appreciate feedback (via email of course). Good, bad, meh, stupid, whatever. Any feedback or suggestions are welcome.

Are You In a Good Mood?

I know I haven't been writing much lately. I'm lazy...so there's that. But I have another excuse as well. Remember that post from about a year ago when I talked about an idea I had for a fun website? And by "fun" I mean scary and legally prosecutable?

Well, it's done, and with no small degree of assistance from my faithful accomplice. I am not going to expose any connection to that site to my blog here (again with the legal thing), so anyone who wants to see it can email me (it's to the right there) and I'll send them the link.

Fun Facts About SweetPea

1) She is either crying, asleep, or seems to have a pair of car's high-beams bearing down on her at all times. She really does seem alarmed by her surroundings. As she very well should.

2) When she starts to cry she sounds like a cat. And this, of course, makes me feel bad when I tell our stupid cat to shut up only to discover it's just SP waking up. Hooray for a mother's instinct!

3) Her poop not only looks like pumpkin innards, it smells exactly like it, too. This makes diaper changes very festive.

4) She has started to smile but is extremely selective toward whom she is smiling. I get smiles because I feed her. And Peawhistle gets smiles because she loves her. Peanut and the Husband don't get any. And neither does that damn cat I keep telling to shut up.

Parenting For Dummies

It's that time again! As in, when I have a few minutes to myself to type and yet have absolutely nothing to say! So you're getting old crap!

The following is yet another article I wrote for the neighborhood parenting newsletter here. It's a tad dated since it mentions my having only the two kids, but I'm fairly confident you can pretend.

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A lot of people accost me on the street and demand to know how I’ve managed to raise two children, ages five and one, not to be serial killers and/or international terrorists. I’ll tell you what I tell all of them: being the mother of 2.5 children makes me an instant parenting expert. It’s as if all of the right answers just flow into my brain like whispers from heaven. This is why I rush up to you and shout parenting advice at you in front of your children. You’re welcome!

Now, word limits prevent me from telling you absolutely everything you need to know to be as great a mother as I am, but I would be remiss (and I am also completely incapable of not doing this) if I didn’t share at least one parenting tip with you: the most important thing you need to teach your children is independence. If you don’t teach them they can live without you, they’ll be living with you until they’re 47 and they’ll wind up on the evening news being hauled away by federal officers with you crying and running behind, insisting that his or her anti-government club had no part in that international incident CNN’s been talking about for the past month. It’s embarrassing, believe you me, particularly when I make fun of you publicly for it.

So how do you teach small children independence? First off, these little freeloaders need to learn to earn their keep. Unfortunately, U.S. Child Labor Laws prevent you from making your kids get a proper job. The people who made these laws don’t have 47-year-old children in a federal prison, either, so what do they know? Fortunately for your kids though, those laws are very loosely enforced. Feel free to send your kids out knocking on doors, selling their various craft projects they’ve stayed up until 2a.m. making for unreasonably high sale prices, all for your retirement fund. And their ultimate well being of course. Naturally. Mind you, make sure to make your kids throw out their really crappy efforts, ‘cause those lousy things will never sell. It’s important they learn when they’re just plain not good enough for the rest of the world. Also make sure the little worker bees are home before dark or the cops will start to catch on. Lastly, teach ‘em to keep their traps shut or we’re all going to prison. And heaven knows that would be counterproductive.

Besides mental and physical independence, your kids need to learn emotional independence. If there’s one thing your kids do, it’s whine and cry, am I right? I know I am. I’ve seen them do it in Safeway. And I know if it’s even half as annoying to you as it is to me, then you’ve got to nip that problem in the bud. If there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that terrifying surprise will be your biggest asset here. As soon as you see one of your children look like they’re about to cry, quickly rush up to them and shout, “NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!!!” in their faces. Only two things will happen at this point: they’ll instantly stop (success!) or they’ll cry harder. Don’t you give up, mom! You just keep screaming for as long as they’re crying and guaranteed, either they’ll eventually give in and stop or one of you will pass out. Either way, you’ve won this battle! Repeat as necessary. Sure, my five-year-old walks in a circle for hours at a time and stutters a bit, and the one-year-old sits in the corner all day twitching and chewing on his arms, but at least they’re quiet. And independent. Now, you see there? Prime parenting at its finest. This one’s on the house, folks.

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Mad props to my lovely and funny friend, Lisa, who read rough draft after rough draft of this piece without complaining. She also made wonderful contributions in the form of pointing out when things were really funny, things weren't funny at all, what could make sections funnier (which I added), and what parts were just downright creepy (I removed those, trust me). Many thanks, Lisa!

And finally, I used to have a bit in there about Machiavelli but too many people didn't get the joke so I took it out. But I still maintain that confusing The Prince with a self-help parenting guide is pure comedic genius. So there.

Oh, What a Beautiful Morning

If my ego is accurate, you're probably worried sick wondering, "Man, what I wouldn't give to know what the heck Abby is up to right now! I'd give all the puppies in the world to know!" Well, today is your lucky day, friend!

What I'm doing is simple: waiting for Peanut's laundry to dry (that kid has soaked his sheets for the LAST TIME, and by LAST TIME I mean NOWHERE NEAR THE LAST TIME), writing on my blog, and eating Cookie Crisp cereal.

I'd like to point out some things with that last one. First, I grew up eating Cheerios and that's it. If I was good (read: rarely) I could get a box of Apple Jacks. But Cheerios was usually all because that's what was healthy and darn it, that's what my mother wanted for us. And I swore I would do the same with my beautiful healthy children. Right up until last week when I took a gander at not just Cookie Crisp cereal in the cereal isle, but Cookie Crisp Sprinkles cereal! Oh yes. They make it. And it tastes like sugar cookies. I've never had the regular kind of Cookie Crisp, but I can't possibly comprehend how it can be any better than the Sprinkles variety.

Second, I had just finished eating an actual sugar cookie (thanks Holly!), contemplated its awesome power of sugarness, and thought I would care for another. However, not wishing to dizzy myself jiggling when I walk, I decided against it. Until I remembered that I had just fed PW her first bowl of Sprinkles Cookie Crisp that very morning and that I wouldn't mind "tasting" it in a very large cereal bowl with lots of milk.

Third, let me summarize this for you: I ate a sugar cookie at 10 in the morning. And then I chased it with a bowl of miniature sugar cookies drowning in milk.

Well, is your curiousity satisfied? I HOPE SO. You made me eat Sprinkles Cookie Crisp cereal to do it! Now apologize!!

A Peawhistle By Any Other Name

Two kids napping at the same time and another off at school? The crap you say! This doesn't happen often as I've discovered over the past month, hence why I made a mad dash to do as many important things as I possibly could squeeze in, namely checking my email and blogging. You know, life-and-death sorta stuff.

Speaking of life and death, guess what Peawhistle did to me last week? SCARED THE POPSICLES OUT OF ME, THAT'S WHAT. So we're in the parking lot of the grocery store and I'm unloading my many, many children to go shopping. I have Peanut in the cart seat and PW is standing next to him while I get SweetPea in the sling. My back was turned to the older two while I was extracting SP and I hear a sick-sounding thwack. I turn around to see PW on the asphalt, flat on her back, head in a puddle of water. My first thought was that she was screwing around as usual and I told her to get up. She lifted her head and let it fall back on the ground in the puddle and she stopped moving. I went to help pull her up and she was completely limp and her eyes went cross-eyed and then started to move in circles. She didn't say a word or make a sound as I started screaming her name to wake up, all while trying to pick her up unsuccessfully. After a while she came around enough so that she wasn't steady, but she wasn't limp anymore, and as I asked her if she was OK she started to freak out and demanded to know why I sounded "weird"(-er than normal). That's when I threw everyone back in the car and sped over to the pediatrician's office. The triage nurse came out and sat with PW while the receptionist called the ambulance. My dear friend Ethel willingly dropped everything (she was in the middle of making dinner by the way) to race over and take Peanut and SweetPea to my house along with her own daughter, Pippy Longstocking. Fortunately, Pippy and Peanut are very close in age and get along very well, or as well as two nearly 2-year-olds can get along. Pippy is Peanut's only friend, which made his evening a little more fun anyway, even if Ethel's (and Fred's by association) evening was all shot to heck as a result of the events. She graciously stayed and entertained my children until The Husband could get home from work and take her and Pippy back home to a very, very late dinner. I will forever be in debt to Ethel and the entire Mertz family for that.

The ambulance strapped PW all up, loaded her in, and we shot off out of there with lights and sirens blazing. They had called around to various ERs and the Children's Center at the main Hopkins hospital had said they were intensely interested in seeing her (and you recall my thoughts on medical professionals being intensely interested in my children). So we flew down to Baltimore in rushhour traffic. The sirens made the stop-and-go traffic not so bad as most people are still good about getting out of the way for an ambulance, even when there seems to be no place for them to really go. However, one or two motorists blew my mind a bit. Here's the ambulance, flying down the highway at 75 mph with lights and sirens and the whole deal, and there were still people who thought it was going too slow and actually cut us off. I'm no cop as we all know, but isn't that illegal or something? And extremely unethical? And supremely jerky? Yeah, well I'll see you in HELL you jerks. Man alive.

So we get to the ER and they rush her off to the trauma unit as a "Bravo," whatever that means (sounds important though!), but they wouldn't let me follow her. Why, because I'm going to start accidentally doing surgery on her or something? I wasn't screaming and freaking out, but I would sure like to see where the crap they're taking my child. Eventually a social worker came and escorted me around the long way to her room, which looked more like an operating room to me (comforting!), and let me stand by the doorway while several people hovered over her. I also had to sign release forms because they were video taping the whole thing, presumably for teaching purposes, or just kicks and giggles later on. Either one.

She had a CT scan on her head and neck to look for internal bleeding or cracks, none of which were found fortunately. And then came the question of why the kid fell in the first place. She kept telling everyone she just closed her eyes, fell asleep, and that's the last thing she remembered. I didn't see anything seizure-like when I saw her on the ground, and nothing else in her recent history would explain why she would just pass out like that. So that is still a mystery to some extent. We're all hoping and assuming she was just playing on the cart, slipped off, hit her head and then passed out, but we can't be positive as I wasn't watching. But they did an EKG on her heart just to rule out any heart defects or issues that would have caused her to lose consciousness.

They considered keeping her overnight until the final results of the CT scan came back, but given that the preliminary results looked fine and she was back to her old self, PeaWhistle-esque Personality in tact, they released her with Hannah Montana stickers and sent her home. I tell you, I fell in love with PW all over again. And not just because I thought I was going to lose her, but I realized just how much I take the little thing for granted. Within 10 minutes of her being admitted to the ER she had the entire trauma staff in her room cracking up laughing at everything she said. She is an absolute riot, no doubt. Combine that with her adorable little singsong voice and you have quite the crowd-pleaser (who knows when she's captured an audience's attention and hams it up to the Nth degree). They asked me if she's like this all the time, and that's when I realized how lucky I am to have such a fantastic kid. I'm used to her funny conversations and cute little voice, and really, really bad jokes that make you laugh anyway, so I don't always think of her as something special. She's just Peawhistle, you know? But she is unique and special and I'm so glad that she came out of this with just a concussion and nothing worse. And I'm so glad she's mine. I love you Peawhistle!

AND SO HELP ME IF YOU EVER SCARE ME LIKE THAT AGAIN I WILL TOTALLY KILL YOU. Love you, Sweetheart!

"Oh, You Better Watch Out...."

I have news of a wonderous variety! I am famous yet again! And by "famous," I mean "nobody knows who the hell I am!" Nor do they care to! I am, of course, speaking of the wonderful new Cake Wrecks book that just came out and is on bookstore shelves as we speak. You recall that awesome website, right? Well, they put out a book with new and old wrecks galore! And if you all care to turn with me to page 47, you will see a very familiar face staring back at you:

Rudolph the Poop-torsoed Reindeer has staged a return more historic than MacArthur storming the Philippines! Unfortunately, my kitchen linoleum is not book-famous as they cut it out of the photo for printing, which means only my money is famous now, in that it was my money that bought the stupid cake in the first place. Not even my colon, which graciously digested the cake, is famous as no one cares that I sacrificed my health to ingest such a wreckacular wonder. I really should be getting awards for this kinda selfless stuff, you know? Something big made of gold with the words "Humble Genius" somewhere on there. Yeah, that should do it.