a flair for the dramatics

Wyatt's preschool teachers use to tell me that he 'wears his heart on his sleeve'. I admit, when I first heard that I romanced it like a Shakespearean sonnet... Wyatt's just putting himself out there, he's allowing himself to be vulnerable, he's letting the his classmates see his emotional side... that's what they mean by the wearing his heart on his sleeve bit.

But spending this last month or so with him home for the summer, that was just me being delusional.

He's bossy.

Like seriously bossy.

There is no tip-toeing around if Wyatt is mad, you will know it.

And there is an irony to us naming him Wyatt and it rhyming with quiet, because he is absolutely not.

But he has been known to wear his Spiderman costume to the gym, to keep it on while watering the plants, to stay in character even when it it nearly 100 degrees outside. If you are wondering what type of mother lets her child wear his Halloween costume in June, 'hello (waving hands high), it's me!' I'm the enabler to Wyatt's theatrical addiction.

At least being bossy taking the lead and being the loudest one in the classroom lends well to each other when your costumes are hanging at the ready.


Did I mention he's (the not good kind of) dramatic too?

*sigh*

on Wednesday night

A man committed suicide, in the porta potty, in the park half a block away from our house. It's our park, it's the one we are at at least twice a week. We could have been the ones to discover his body if I just said 'let's head out to the park' instead of saying 'let's play basketball in the driveway this afternoon.'

Thank God we didn't find him.

And I only wish to God it was my neighbor that was the one to discover him. He's a doctor, he would have known what to do... what to say. Instead he was there, he shut the slightly open door of the toilet and said something to his wife about 'a porta potty door should be closed.'

Instead it was a four year old boy who found the body.

It could have so easily been been my four year old, Wyatt or Henry or one of the boys I watch. We are so often the only ones there, and of course, I say 'go ahead, head to the bathroom by yourself'.

I won't do it again, ever.

My guts aches every time I drive by our park. I can't even think about going there again, watching the boys play, thinking about what he did.

I'm pissed that he killed himself in a park. In a park where any four year old could find his body.

That this little boy could be affected by this, for his entire life.

Suicide feels so selfish.

step up to the plate

There are things that I remember about Kindergarten, like pretending to sleep so hard at nap time that my classmates had to physically shake me 'awake', like getting my Strawberry Shortcake doll; the one that smelled like lemon meringue pie; stolen from my backpack, and learning things like how to tie my shoelaces.

But apparently, 'learning how to tie shoelaces' isn't on the curriculum at Henry's school. He's going to be entering the second grade and hasn't yet been taught. Ugh. This means that I will inevitably have to step up to the plate and teach him.

I hate having teach him stuff.

But I equally hate having to listening to him groan on about the velcro on his shoes getting stuck with fuzzies.

Oh, the tragedy of fuzzies in your velcro, Henry!

Thank goodness for YouTube...



Feel free to sit your child in front of my blog and have them watch the video 'how to tie your shoe' along with my son, just make sure to thank me in your comments for teaching your child this life skill. (I'm kidding... sort of.)

Unless it's acceptable for the average adult to only wear velcro shoes, then forget all that stuff about being a life skill and continue on as usual.

(And does anyone else think it's hilarious that this video has almost 400,000 views?! Seriously, what did we parents do before YouTube.)

we're (still) not famous

Henry is fascinated with being famous, at least the idea of being famous. From the back seat of the minivan, he'll ask about someone one the radio, 'how famous is she?'. I don't want him to think of being famous as something to achieve to be, you know... so I generally, the loving mother that I am, try to scare him... 'pretty famous, but so famous they get chased by people... sometimes people want to hurt them; steal their money, break into their homes, have lies told about them'.

He turns to look out the window contemplating what I just told him, or so I think.

He chimes in 'but I wonder how much money she has, do you think it would be in a pile as tall as our house? That would be so cool!'


Apparently, I need to work on my scare tactics.


(And no, Henry isn't on television, just practicing up before a local parade goes live.)

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photo freak

I think it's weird that people take pictures with their phones of things like food. When a nice plate of something delicious gets put in front of me, my first thought is 'dude, where's my fork?', it's not 'let me grab my phone so I can take a picture of this and put it on Facebook.'

That's probably just me though.

I have iPhone envy.

But then on Sunday, this teenage girl snapped a picture with her phone of Edy in Target (yes, I was in Target again, for the third time in one week. Apparently short trips are best for Edy and this girl just caught Edy walking through the door... err, still happy.)

But I thought 'Did I just see that? Did she just take a picture of my baby?'

Umm, yes she did.

Then she started taking pictures of the sample lady and the donuts, so I just let it go. I figured she must just be deprived of the fabulousness of a Super Target or she's from Alaska or something.

Then I looked back at my little girl, her little lock in a barrette for the first time...

heck yeah, I'd take a picture too!

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ten

I'm pissed. My baby is 10 months old today. Yep, I'm a little pissed about her nearing the 1 year mark, but what I'm most mad about is the nagging little voice in my head 'nine months to put it on, nine to take it off'.

Whatever.

I clearly missed the mark.

Where's the unless you've had four kids... are over thirty... really like Oreo's exceptions.

I'm sort of in the mood where I say f* it.

So I signed up for a 10K, because even though I'm the girl that would walk the mile physical fitness test while my PE teacher yelled from the sideline 'hurry it up, Buns!', I sort of (gasp) like running now.

And even if I'm not the weight I'm suppose to be... I use to be. I don't look like I use to look.

I can run.

Faster and farther than I could in high school.

Screw the scale.

Screw the books that put that little '9 months on, 9 months off' crap into my head.

Rant done.

Sorry.

pee in your face, big disgrace

Being that it's closing in on 100 degrees this week (and no, I'm not complaining, I'm clinging onto it like my Tivo remote on Biggest Loser night... because I live in Minnesota and I know snow will fall probably by September).

But being hot, I'm seeing little Edy's diaper hanging out of her sundresses more often. It is adorable (period).

It reminds me though, of a story about how my mother's mother use to put her pee-filled diapers on her face as a baby. I've been told, it's some old wives' tale for clear skin.

My mom could have done the same to me, I'm not really sure, it's one of those things she seems to brush over with one of her famous 'sounds like a plan' answers; the kind of answer she gives when she's not really listening to you.

(And Mom, it's nothing against you, hang up the phone. We all have these defense mechanism in the survival of motherhood. We all need to zone out once and a while to save ourselves. Mine is usually more of a nodding of my head, maybe throw in some 'umms' too).

Back to pee in your face.

Is this weird to anyone else?

Anyone else traumatized in a similar fashion?

(Or maybe it's just my family.)

Finally, a post I can put a picture of my naked baby's butt, and it's sort of relevant.

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just roll with it

I don't know why, but my daughter apparently hates my favorite place on earth. On multiple occasions, she will not make it 5 minutes past the doors of Super Target before she's a blubbering mess. The only way I can make it through a trip is by having her hang on my hip while I push the cart with my free hand. Add to that, if Wyatt's sitting the cart, he'll sporadically stand up in the cart like he's captain of this ship, swaying it to the left or right.

I attempt to ready to course for the 10 items or less lane. Wyatt suddenly remembers that he suppose to get Pokemon cards for his 20 stickers. (And by 20 stickers I'm talking about the bribery chart we use for him to not go to the bathroom 17 times stay in his bed at night and get himself dressed in the morning. Yes, I bribe my child to get dressed in the morning, don't judge me.)

So Wyatt screams that he 'needs out of the cart!' to pick out his cards. I move Edy off my hip and put her in the cart seat, she starts balling again. I quickly pull Wyatt out of the cart and somehow, he's managed to kick the carton of cheery tomatoes out of the cart. Edy is still wailing, so I resort to moving her so she's sitting on the ground and finally, she stops crying.

In the middle the check-out lane, I'm running around trying to grab rolling balls of f'ing cherry tomatoes, breaking into a sweat at the scene we are causing. Wyatt keeps stomping around the cards (and the tomatoes) trying to pick out the one with the most metallic on it. Edith is on the floor of Target and she's managed to grab the bottom railing of the cart, pushing back and forth, much to her excitement.

I finally managed to toss the majority of the tomatoes back into the carton and threw them on the counter to pay.

The cashier asks me then, like she hadn't even witness any of the debacle that just happened, "how are you doing today?"

I looked at her like her hair was on fire and managed to mutter "I'm just fine".

She goes on, "did you find everything you needed today?"

Kill me now.

I so wanted to say "Yeah, sure! Except my patience was lost somewhere in the bakery department and if you see my sanity anywhere around the aisle 13, just let me know".

and in that corner

Lucky she's cute,


because she's physically abusive. (Look at how she manhandles a Ritz.)

She lures me in with her twinkling eyes, then grabs one fist full of my hair with her left hand (and I swear, she wraps it around her fist) and with her right hand, she grabs my nose and rakes her little fingers up and down until she sees blood or I start screaming.

And now I have a hickey on my boob.
(No, I will not be posting a picture of my boob)

This girl is a super distracted nurser. If she even hears the slightest bump, she pops off to take a look. She stretches her back and neck as long as she can and surveys to see if anyone is in her vicinity. If they are, she'll flash them one of her gummy smiles, kick her feet a little bit and then suddenly remember, 'oh yea, I was doing something here,' then hastily starts sucks away again.

Except she doesn't always make it to, you know...where she's suppose to suck, and let me tell you, she has one powerful suction.

If you happen see me around with scabs on my face and bruises on my chest, I'm just letting you know it's from the cute one in the corner.