Dogs are Idiots

MrDartt really wants to get rid of our dogs. And when I say, "get rid of," I mean eliminate. Send them to doggie heaven.
Here's the latest: that last windy, rainy storm, which blew our fence over, also caused some of the dirt on our hill to slide down, leaving space enough between the bottom of the fence and the dirt that the dogs can slide through and escape.
Not only do they run off, but they run faster when we call them. They're gone for hours. And when they come back, they're both limping and often bleeding. Louie, for instance, has a huge bloody bite mark on his front right leg. He has a bite mark on his left ear. And he has no use of his left back leg right now because he has a torn ACL. Just minimal use of the right back leg, because the torn ACL on that one healed just recently. And Lola is limping too, favoring her right front leg and her right back leg. But every time they go outside, the make for the hole in the fence.
MrDartt, bless his heart, keeps trying to fix the hole. He keeps putting rocks there, thinking the dogs won't move them. Notice how I said, "keeps"? Yeah, doing the same thing over and over, expecting different results.
Anyway, the worst thing about all of this is that Lola likes to bring back deer legs. Intact. Real deer legs. She hordes them under a bush on the hill. Right now there are two deer legs on the lawn.
Check out the picture.

Where's Waldo? Part 2

There is a sippy cup in the toilet.

Where's Waldo?

I was missing a pair of black shoes the other day. Where do you think they were? That's right! You guessed it! They were in the garbage can in the office/weight room.
A huge storm with lots of strong winds came through, and knocked our fence over (hats off to the guys who installed it crappy the first time, and then fixed it, only to have it fall over again in the next big storm). So I was going to go outside and try to fix it. I wanted to wear my hiking boots. Where do you think they were? Yep! They were in the boys' laundry hamper.
I went to put on mascara in my bathroom one recent morning and couldn't find it (the mascara, of course, not the bathroom). Bathtub.
CD case, which was in the office/weight room, next to the CD player? Our bedroom, under the bed.
The belt for my robe? Living room floor, with Zorro hat.
My red snowflake sock? The planter behind the front door.
The Christmas card that sings "Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer"? Under the entertainment center. With the bullwhip.
The culprit? Little Boy, who has really gotten the hang of walking around while carrying stuff.
The other day I found a half-eaten pear on his little musical chair. Gross.

Crying Wolf

Big Boy has recently potty-trained himself, so all cries of "I have to go potty" must be taken seriously -- until now.
Today we went to a playgroup kind of far away. On the way home, Big Boy started saying he had to go potty. Bad. He's had diarrhea for the past couple of days so I thought maybe he needed to go Number Two.
Big Boy: "I have to go potty. BAD. I don't feel good. My tummy hurts."
Me: "Can you wait until we get home?"
Big Boy: "No. I have to go poopie. BAD."
Me: "Okay, let's find a gas station."
So we stopped at two gas stations. They were both closed. We had to drive for another 8 to 10 minutes to the next gas station. I've been driving our pickup truck for a couple of days so when we got to the gas station, I had to open the passenger door and reach behind the seat to get Little Boy, then walk around the truck and open the driver door again and reach behind that seat to get Big Boy. Then we're walking in, and Big Boy's saying, "Carry me!"
We finally got in and I got a toilet liner, which he usually begs for, and he didn't want that.
Big Boy: "I don't WANT that!"
So I let him sit on the toilet seat.
So he sits on it.
And sits on it.
And sits on it.
Me: "Is any poop coming out?"
Big Boy: "Not yet."
Me: "Do you even have to go?"
Big Boy: "YEAH, I DO."
Me: "Do you really have to go, or are you just trying to trick me again?" (You see, this has happened before, when we were out running errands, and all of a sudden he said he had to pee so we went to a store to pee and he didn't even go!)
Big Boy: "I REALLY have to go, Mama." (He has taken to calling me "Mama.")
Me: "Well then push it out!"
Big Boy: "Mama, I just have to relaaaax, remember? Just relaaax."
Yes, like many of my other parenting ideas, my potty-training mantra -- "just relaaaax," has backfired.
And if you're wondering, he never pooped. He was trying to trick me.
I explained how if he keeps saying he has to go, but doesn't really have to go, then I'm not going to believe him when he really does have to go, and then he's going to poop his pants.
Big Boy: "I'm really sorry, Mama."

Vacuum Review

I think the maddest MrDartt has ever been at me was the time when I invited some Kirby vacuum salespeople into the house to give me a demonstration of the Kirby.
Here's how it went down. MrDartt was working late so I had my parents over for dinner. A nice-looking blonde lady knocked on the door and asked if I wanted her to clean my carpets for free. Of course I did, so I invited her in. She said in just a few minutes her associate would show up and clean the carpets. A few minutes later, sure enough, her associate, a very short, very muscular Hispanic man, knocked on the door. My parents were aghast that I'd let someone in the house. So they stayed there with me. The blonde lady left, probably to go knock on more doors.
MrDartt arrived home. He busted through the door between the garage and the dining room, where we were all still finishing dinner (not the Hispanic guy. He was sprinkling baking soda on the carpet). He was very angry (MrDartt, not the Hispanic guy.). A strange van was parked in front of the garage door, blocking him from parking there.
For those of you who haven't seen MrDartt, he looks very mean and grumpy, especially now that he doesn't wear glasses. It's his job to look mean and grumpy and he's good at it, if I do say so myself. So anyway, he was mad at the van driver (Hispanic guy, who was now vacuuming up the baking soda and dumping it and dust and debris on little white disks to show us how well the Kirby picks up baking soda and dust and debris and also how dirty our carpet is). He was mad at me for inviting people into our house. Really mad.
Anyway, MrDartt once went to a presentation (he thought it was a job interview but it was a presentation) about selling vacuums, so he knew the guy would be there for like THREE HOURS. I thought it would be a 30-minute deal, but MrDartt was right. These people were there for THREE HOURS. Before we knew it, the Hispanic guy is taking us into our bedroom and vacuuming our mattress. No kidding. Vacuuming our mattress.
As the Hispanic guy was cleaning up his stuff, he was asking us where we're going to store this vacuum. Which closet will we keep it in? Who will use it, me or MrDartt? So on and so forth. He rolls out the price: $2,450. You read that right. TWO THOUSAND, FOUR HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS.
Right.
So anyway, our vacuum died some time later. MrDartt's brother and his wife were getting rid of a vacuum -- guess what kind? A Kirby!
So they gave it to us.
I HATE it! I would NEVER pay for this vacuum. Maybe $10 at a garage sale.
First of all, it weighs 800 pounds. Sure, you can put it in neutral and roll it quite easily despite its mammoth weight. But what if you have to carry it downstairs? Or UPstairs, for that matter?
Second, to switch from carpet vacuuming to hardwood floor vacuuming, you have to take the thing apart. Yes, you have to take off one head, which requires turning a plastic handle, and then turning a very difficult-to-turn metal handle thing. And then you have to put on another head, which means you have to turn that metal handle thing again.
Third, when you use the hardwood floor attachment, the pipes always come undone. So if you go too fast, the bottom falls off and you're no longer actually vacuuming the hardwood floor.
Fourth, it weighs 800 pounds.
Fifth, the parts are hard and metal. So if you hit a child, dog or your own foot with the darn thing, you're definitely going to do some damage. Ever tried to vacuum while avoiding a three-year-old, a one-year-old and a dog (two two-legged and one three-legged creature?)?
Sixth, I always break the belts. Over and over. Most recently MrDartt vacuumed up one of those soft baby shoes and broke the belt.
I think that's about it.
My advice: NEVER buy a Kirby vacuum, even though you can vacuum up a lot of baking soda, dust and debris.
You can't lift the vacuum. You have to break your fingers to switch heads. You have to switch heads. You have to change the bag (which doesn't make me hate the vacuum, it's just something you should know). You might break your toe or someone else's. You must spend an hour vacuuming the hardwood floor because you have to do it at snail speed.
And it weighs 800 pounds.

Parenting Tip Number 2,542,356

Never feed your kid tuna salad for lunch, then put him on your shoulders and jump up and down. Especially if you're facing a mirror so he can see how much fun he is having.
He WILL barf in your hair, and you WILL see it happen, as if in slow motion.
And it is hard to rinse out.

Are Your Kids Really Eating?

Deception. It starts early.
Last night I barbecued some chicken thighs, cooked a sweet potato and steamed broccoli. That was the dinner I served to Big Boy, Little Boy and myself (MrDartt was not home).
The hot spot on the barbecue cooked one chicken thigh very quickly, so I lovingly and painstakingly cut up Little-Boy-bite-sized pieces and put three neat piles (the chicken, the sweet potato and the broccoli) on his tray.
The barbecue ran out of propane before the other thighs were done so I put them in the oven on broil. To do so, I had to get out a cookie sheet, cover it with foil, and then put a rack on top of those. Then I transferred the chicken from the barbecue.
During that time I noticed that Little Boy had finished almost all of his food. Even the broccoli, which he usually doesn't love.
So I put three more small piles on his tray.
I glanced over a few minutes later and he was using his left hand to casually drop a piece of chicken over his left shoulder -- a careless observer might think he was just feeling his left ear.
I took this as a signal that he was done so I picked him up. There were dozens of Little-Boy-bite-sized pieces (yes, the very same ones I'd cut up so lovingly and painstakingly) smashed between his back and the high chair seat!
When I went to change him into pajamas a little while later, I discovered dozens more pieces inside the back of his onesie.
I guess he didn't eat as well as I'd thought.
Little stinker.

The po po car

Don't tell this story to MrDartt.
The other day, my mom and I took the boys to Wal-Mart. We had to get a few follow-up birthday presents for Big Boy, who celebrated his third birthday.
During the trip, Big Boy saw one of those little cars kids can drive. It was a Dodge Charger with a Hemi engine. It was a police car. It was awesome. It had police emblems. It had lights.
If I haven't mentioned it, he's going to be a SWAT team member for Halloween. Ever since he got his costume (it is SO cute -- handcuffs, sunglasses, a flashlight, a walkie-talkie, a baton and a baseball cap), he's been talking about how he's a po po and he's chasing and catching bad guys. So of course the car was the answer to his dreams.
He really wanted to get that car. He made my mom take him back over to look at it again after we'd walked away. He talked about it all the way home -- "I drove my po po car and I got a bad guy and put him in the back and then he escaped and then I followed him and then I chased him up a hill and some other po pos helped me get him and we put him in the car and then I drove him to the jail and then he got out and then I chased him and then I drove my po po car home," and so on.
We got home and he talked about it all night. How he wants it for his next birthday (tomorrow, when I turn 4, he said).
I told him we'll have to save up for it. It costs a lot of money (the damn thing costs $300).
"Well, you save money when you buy groceries," he said. "You and daddy just need to buy a lot of groceries and then you'll save a lot of money and then you can buy the po po car."
He called me down to his bedroom four times after I put him to bed, so he could tell me how much he wants that po po car and how he likes it.
This has NEVER happened. There's been stuff at the store, like toys, where he'll say, "Can I get that ball?" and I'll say, "not today," and he'll say, "okay," and we'll never talk about it again.
But all night, he talked about that car.
"I REALLY want that car."
"I need that car."
"We can go back to the store tomorrow and buy groceries and pick up that car."
"Are there more of those cars? What if somebody buys that car?"
Finally he fell asleep. The next morning, he called me down (his customary morning greeting) and I went down to get him.
Here's what he said: "Mommy, I don't want that po po car any more. I want the Barbie car."

Just Another Word?

Warning: this post contains profanity. If you're sensitive to that, you should probably stop reading.

Last night, Big Boy was using his kid-sized Spiderman couch as a tee for the indoor baseball game he was playing. It fell over, and he said, "Fuck!"
"What did you say?" I asked.
"Fuck!" he said.
My mom (who was there for our weekly Wednesday night dinner) and I looked at each other, trying not to laugh.
"That's a grown-up word," I said. "It's not a very nice grown-up word, so let's not say it."

Guilty. The other morning, I was trying to put away the carton of eggs, and I was balancing a few other things on top of it, holding the whole pile with one hand. As I opened the refrigerator door, the whole pile toppled over, sending the egg carton crashing to the floor. Sure enough, about 18 eggs came out of the 12-egg carton, and ALL of them broke on the kitchen floor.
"Fuck!" I said.
"Why'd you say fuck?" Big Boy asked.
Because I'm an idiot and I should not say fuck in front of you, I thought, immediately realizing my mistake.
"Because I dropped this whole carton of eggs on the floor," I answered.

I just knew it would come back to haunt me. I can't wait until he says it in line at the grocery store, at playgroup, or at church (actually, we don't go to church, but you get the picture).

My Stay-at-Home Mom Idol

There's a girl in my MOMS Club who is just amazing.
She can craft like there's no tomorrow. Every time she bakes cookies, they're perfectly uniform, super soft and VERY delicious. When I had Little Boy she made me a little door hanger that said, "Shhh, Little Boy is Sleeping." She also made a onesie with "I love MOMS Club" on it. When I ended my term as secretary on the MOMS Club board, she made each board member a little embroidered, personalized handkerchief. Her kids' bedrooms are decorated beautifully, with color-coordinated paints, furniture and accessories. She always makes just the right amount of food for each potluck (for my first MOMS Club potluck function, she hosted and said to make enough for 20 people. Well, I made about 10 gallons of potato salad. More than half of the 20 people were kids 2 and younger so they did not need as much potato salad. MrDartt and I were eating potato salad for weeks. Too bad you can't can potato salad).
Anyway, one time she told me how she hopes her neighbors don't ever hear her screaming at her kids. I just couldn't imagine this sweet woman screaming at her kids.
Then I had my second son.
Now I know why she screams.
Here she is, baking beautifully shaped, perfectly soft, delicious cookies, or hand-stitching a handkerchief.
And one of her kids is on timeout for hitting and he's throwing himself on the floor over and over again. Her other kid is putting his feet in the dog water bowl, splashing around (okay, these are things my kids do while I am baking over-cooked, hard, misshapen cookies, but you get the idea).
And so she's screaming.

Beautiful Space

I don't know what we were thinking when we bought two acres of land.
Okay, I do know what we were thinking. We were thinking, "Gosh, look at all this space. This will be so much nicer than living in our little tiny condo with two shared walls and a little tiny fenced yard."
Or maybe we were thinking, "Gosh, this will be a great way to destroy our marriage and/or live in squalor in just three short years."
Just more than four years ago, we were living in my teeny tiny, 1000-square-foot condo, which I'd bought when I first moved here. It was small and cozy. We were about to get married so we thought we'd buy some land and build a nice spacious house and then, several years down the road, we'd have a kid or two (well, I wanted three or four, but that is still up for discussion).
Well, right after we got married, I got pregnant. Surprise!
So throughout my pregnancy, we were building the house. It went fine, and we moved in when Big Boy was 2 months old. It was the dead of winter and our entire lot was full of dirt. And big rocks. And a few scrub oak plants.
Little did we know that when spring rolled around, we'd be surrounded by wasps the size of hummingbirds and weeds the size of redwoods. Have you ever been to Northern California? Redwoods are very, very big. So are our weeds.
We have spent tens of thousands of dollars on landscaping. I am not exaggerating. We have some very nice trees (12 trees), some very nice plants (at least 13 or so), a big lawn (and a sprikler system that waters the lawn about 8 times per day, even though it's set to run only once) and lots and lots of crushed granite. Oh, and a beautiful patio MrDartt built (I've mentioned it before -- it almost caused a divorce but looks very nice). And we have a HUGE, GIGANTIC hill in front of our house. It has six trees on it. And some plants. But it's mostly dirt. Dirt, dirt, dirt. There are weeds everywhere. Weeds, weeds, weeds. The weeds behind our house look like trees. It's like a prickly, spiky forest back there. Seriously.
We have decided that although we love our house and we put a lot of work into it during the actual building and since we moved in, we want to move somewhere that has a little tiny yard, which is already landscaped.
MrDartt just asked if, in my writing, I've come up with something to do with our two acres. No I have not. He said, "Besides winning the lottery and having somebody come in and lanscape the whole thing?"
There's the ticket. Any other ideas?

Worst Mom In America -- or Possibly the Whole World

Little Boy suffered his first injury during our camping trip. And it was all my fault.
Sunday morning, we cooked breakfast on the campfire. A few hours later, one of my MOMS Club friends came over to talk to us. MrDartt was in our little cabin helping Big Boy change his clothes, and I was talking to my friend and watching Little Boy crawl around the campsite. He was happily walking along the stroller, pushing Big Boy's bike. I looked away for probably 45 seconds, and he crawled over to the fire pit. He burst into tears and I looked over to see him sitting down right next to the fire pit.
I went over to get him and I checked his hands. They didn't even look red. He stopped crying immediately when I picked him up. I didn't think anything of it.
The next day, he had a slight fever (100.7 under his armpit). I gave him some Tylenol, his fever went down, and I didn't think anything of it.
THEN, the next morning, I noticed a HUGE blister on his hand. HUGE. It was right on the crease. It was already open, and very deep. I inspected it and realized that it was a blister from the burn he got when he put his hand on the fire pit. When I wasn't watching him!
That big blister was open, and there was a trail of smaller blisters all the way across the crease.
Of course I immediately packed him up and took him to the doctor.
She inspected the burn with a little light.
"He has a pretty good burn there," she said. Yep. I know.
She gave us some cream to put on it and told me to bandage it.
"That probably hurts, so you should give him some Motrin," she said. Good thinking.
As she was leaving, she said, "Be careful around those fire pits!" Thanks. Got that one figured out.
My mom and some of my friends have told me not to beat myself up but I feel so BAD! My Little Boy and his huge burn! He just keeps pulling off the bandage and picking at the loose skin, and then crying.
Other than that, he's recovering just fine. We go back to the doctor tomorrow.
I think he'll live.

Can't Even Think of an Appropriate Title

We went camping over the weekend.
It was our first trip since Big Boy's previous terrorist attack during a camping trip (he claims it wasn't him -- that he was possessed -- and I believe him!). We had a blast and I will save that for a later post.
But here's the funny story (I promise it relates).
I'd packed all our clothes in one suitcase. I packed on Friday during the day, and then left the suitcase in the living room because Big Boy was having fun rolling it around. MrDartt and I went out to dinner and a movie to celebrate our anniversary, and my parents watched the boys. Saturday morning we left for camping. We got back Sunday afternoon and I left the suitcase on the floor in the living room as I unpacked it little by little.
Monday morning, Little Boy was climbing on the closed suitcase, which was lying on the floor.
Big Boy came over and gave Little Boy a swift shove, sending him face first onto the floor. His knees were still on the suitcase, and his head was turned to the side, with one of his cheeks smashed into the carpet.
MrDartt yelled to Big Boy, "Why did you do that?"
To which Big Boy responded, "Grandma and Grandpa said he was going to fall down anyway!"
MrDartt carried Big Boy to timeout and sat him down, then knelt down and told him, you need to sit there for a few minutes, and then you need to apologize to Little Boy for pushing him down.
MrDartt turned to pick up Little Boy, and there he was, not making a peep, with his knees on the suitcase and his cheek pressed into the carpet.
He'd held that position for at least 60 seconds. Didn't even care.

Potty Training: An Almost-Three-Year-Old and His One-Year-Old Sidekick

Big Boy has decided he is ready to wear Big Boy undies and go potty in the potty.
So we got out the undies we'd bought a couple months ago.
First issue: These are mommy undies, not daddy undies. These have short holes, not long holes (translation: these are briefs, not boxer briefs like daddy's). So I showed Big Boy how there's a little flap in the front of his, just like in daddy's so he can go potty without taking off his undies.
Second issue: He can't open the flap on his own. There is a lot of digging going on. MrDartt suggests that Big Boy just pull down the front of his undies ("That's what I do," he says.) Big Boy refuses. Maybe that will be too much like what mommy does. So I have to help Big Boy open the flap and get his pee pee out. This makes me very uncomfortable because you really have to get in there, and it seems very physically uncomfortable for him.
Third issue: While I am distracted with the flap-opening situation, Little Boy is madly crawling for the potty, and before I can stop him (because I'm determined to give Big Boy the right amount of attention during this whole potty-training thing), he's splashing in the toilet. Really. So Big Boy says, "Going toilet-diving, Little Boy?"
Fourth issue: Once the pee pee is out and Big Boy is peeing, he's forced to hold it pretty close to the end because of how the flap sits. So he gets pee on his hand EVERY time. So he has to wipe off his hand and his pee pee with toilet paper after he's done.
Fifth issue: Big Boy either spends the entire day in the bathroom, trying to go potty over and over again (but of course, most of the time there isn't anything there because he's in there literally every three minutes), or he refuses to go, and then suddenly it becomes very urgent because a tiny little bit of pee has come out.
Sixth issue: Sometimes not all the pee comes out the first time. So then Big Boy has his undies and pants pulled up after he's gone potty and then a little more pee comes out. So we're taking Auntie Laurel's suggestion and telling him to pretend he's a firefighter: the pee pee is the hose, the pee is the water and the toilet has a fire in it. Squirt 'til you can't squirt no more. Put out that fire. Seems to be working.
Seventh issue: Pooping. Big Boy held his poop the entire first day. But yesterday while we were eating lunch, he jumped off his barstool and ran to the back of the house (he insists on using the potty in mine and MrDartt's bathroom). I said, "You're going potty again?" He yelled, "I have to poop!" Sure enough, by the time I got back there, he'd pooped in the potty! Ah, a major success. He got mommy cheering, jumping up and down and yelling, plus ice cream for that one.
Eighth issue: We don't have enough undies. We have three pair. Yesterday he had three pee accidents right in a row! We were out of undies! So we have to buy more today. And I'll be looking for boxer briefs like daddy's.
There's just so much to think about, but I LOVED not changing a poopy diaper yesterday. Because Big Boy poopy diapers are BIG BOY poopy diapers. And I admit, this is kind of fun!

My 100th Post! Vegan Cookies.

I am sitting in a coffee shop right now. I brought my laptop and am supposed to be working on some writing projects. But something funny happened so I thought I'd break to blog.

Two women just came in, and were talking about another woman, who they'd come to buy some coffee and a cookie for. The coffee shop worker said the coffee shop is all out of cookies.

"But we have some vegan cookies, over there," she said.

"Ew! Vegan cookies! That sounds gross," said one of the patrons. "What does that mean, that they don't have any animal oil?"

"Well," the coffee shop girl said, "it means they're made without eggs or dairy or any other animal by-products."

"Gross! I don't think she'll like vegan cookies."

The other patron said, "Yeah, if they don't have real cookies, we'll probably have to get these bagged cookies. These look better."

Another couple of people came in to the shop and overheard some of the conversation.

The two women left, sans cookies.

The woman from the new couple said, "These vegan cookies are huge! Where do you get these?"

"We order them from the company," the coffee shop girl said.

"I'll have to try one sometime," the woman said.

The couple left.

Another woman walked in.

"Look at these huge cookies," she said to her boyfriend/husband (I only know they're romantically linked because they couldn't keep their hands off each other and they are kissing right now, as they've paused before exiting the door!).

"They're vegan," the coffee shop girl said.

"Oooh, vegan cookies!" the woman said.

These cookies are getting a lot of attention.

Little Boy's First Birthday

Yesterday, Little Boy turned one. I think he had a very nice day. We went to the park, and he got to swing, play with dirt, put dirt on my pants, and eat dirt. What could be better? We went to the store and he and Big Boy drove a car cart, and even shared the steering wheels very nicely. We even went to the pediatrician for his one-year check-up. His head is in the 90th percentile (which means it's bigger than the heads of 90 percent of his fellow one-year-olds). His height is in the 10th percentile and his weight is in the 5th percentile. Seriously. Huge head.
Anyway, as I was reflecting on his actual birth day, one year ago, I was thinking about how much kids change in just one year. This little baby who came out of my tummy SCREAMING his big head off is now the moving, shaking, dancing little boy who immediately upon waking up crawls over to the pretend guitar, finds the right button to turn it on, and stands up to start rocking out. The little baby who barely made a peep during his first few months now shouts, "LOLA!" every time he hears a dog bark.
It seems like the doctor just hollered, "We have a BOY!" and now that boy is refusing help when eating and throwing little tantrums if he doesn't want a certain vegetable.
I was feeling all nostalgic all morning about his infancy, and kept thinking, "I need to focus on cherishing every moment because it goes by so fast."
Then we went to the pediatrician's office, and the ENTIRE time I was trying to talk to the doctor, Big Boy was interrupting, because he wanted me to unroll the roll of bags I have in the diaper bag, which you're supposed to use to put poopy diapers in. He was getting right in my face, saying, "MOMMY! EXCUSE ME! I want you to give me a bag!" "MOMMY! I want a bag!"
I kept saying, "Just a minute, Big Boy. I am talking to the doctor. You need to be quiet for just a minute." And he kept saying, "MOMMY!" "MOMMY!" "MOMMY!"
I thought, "Ha! Cherish every moment! Right!"

Time Traveler's Wife - SPOILER ALERT!

My birthday was on Friday and MrDartt surprised me by arranging for my parents to babysit the boys so we could go on a date.
We went to the movie, "The Time Traveler's Wife."
Overall it was a good movie, with an interesting story and mediocre acting.
One thing about it kind of bugged me, though.
If you haven't seen the movie and plan on seeing it, I'm about to give away part of the ending.
When the Time Traveler, Henry, meets the family of his fiancee, Clare, the movie kind of emphasizes how the father is a gun-toting, hunting, Republican. It's kind of a joke. The mother even tells Henry he can bond with the father during a killing spree, as the father and some friends are outside shooting some birds.
Partway through the movie, we find out that the Time Traveler, Henry, eventually gets shot and dies.
Toward the end of the movie, Henry travels back to the same meadow where he originally met Clare. It happens to be just outside the home where Clare grew up. It's winter, and Clare's dad is -- guess what? -- hunting. When Henry lands, naked in the snow, there's a moose (or maybe it's an elk or something, didn't pay too much attention). He's looking at the moose, and then all of a sudden, Clare's dad shoots at the moose/elk and -- guess what? -- shoots Henry, fatally wounding him.
I guess I just felt like the movie had so many other opportunities for killing Henry -- every time he travels through time he has to steal clothes and angry people are always chasing him so maybe one of them could have shot him. Or maybe he could have time traveled right into a gun fight. Or maybe he travels into the Revolutionary War. I mean, if we're sticking with Henry getting shot, the choices are almost endless. Not sure if they movie was making fun of Dick Cheney or what, but it was just kind of a bad choice, I thought. It annoyed me and took away from the drama of the situation.
I still want to read the book (the books are usually better than the movies, and I enjoyed the movie enough to read the book), but definitely am wondering if it turns out the same way.

Dogs

Okay, I can't believe this will be my first blog after my birthday hiatus.
Dogs are so disgusting!
First of all, I admit that I am a bad doggie parent and we haven't had Lola, the Great Pyrenees, spayed.
Similarly, my parents have not had their dog, Mongo, neutered.
My dog, Lola, must be in heat because lately Mongo has entered our yard at every opportunity (he sneaks through this tiny rabbit hole under the fence in the upper corner of the yard). He comes over and he and Lola hump each other's heads until the cows come home, or until MrDartt discovers them and runs outside, grabs Mongo by the collar and throws him out the gate, thereby getting a huge gash and bruise on his back when he scrapes it on the latch.
That is not the gross part.
If you think dogs are gross, just click off this page now.
Otherwise, here's the gross part:
Our other dog, Louie, is neutered. A while back, around Thanksgiving, he tore the ACL in his left back leg (it's a part of his knee). The vet said it would cost $1500 to fix, but the surgery doesn't usually work anyway and the dog goes lame in the injured leg. So we let it heal itself, and it's just about healed, but he still limps on it. Sure enough, now he's torn the ACL in his right back leg. So he's walking on three legs again, but the left back leg is still very weak.
Do you know that he can still find a way to hump Lola?
Is that amazing? Is that totally disgusting?
Here he is, whining when he runs inside, scuttling around the slippery wood floor because his leg is too weak to get a good grip, sitting down at every opportunity he gets, and he's still humping Lola.
Gross.

Computer Customer Service ... Bleh!

Customer service probably has deteriorated in every sector, but recently I experienced it with regard to my computer and I am really peeved!
Lately my computer has been on the fritz. I'm a writer and I haven't been able to use Microsoft Word to do my work. Every time I open Word, it just freezes up and won't let me do anything. So of course I was gone all weekend and then had a bunch of projects due Tuesday and Wednesday.
Anyway, I figured out that my hard drive was totally packed. The spec sheet for my computer says I should have 60 GB of space on my hard drive. I have two hard drives. The C drive says it has 21 GB available, and it was totally full. The D drive says it has about 7 GB available. I'm no math whiz but I'm pretty sure 21 and 7 add up to 28. Which I believe (again, I'm no math whiz), is less than 60. It's about 32 GB less than 60.
So I went online to Gateway (that's the kind of computer I have and a computer tech told me it's not a good kind), and found that Gateway sold the line of computers that includes mine. So I'm supposed to go to this other site to get information. I click on "chat with a Gateway representative" anyway.
The web site has already scanned my computer and found the serial number.
Finally a Gateway representative comes on. He says he can tell from my serial number that my computer is out of warranty and so as a one time courtesy he'll give me a best effort conversation to help me. Thanks so much! After spending $1000 on this darn computer (granted, it was 4 years ago and that's a million years in laptop years), I get a lousy best effort conversation. Which, he adds, will include some "self help" I can use to fix the computer.
I'm pretty sure this one time best effort conversation isn't going to help me with my parenting skills, my wife skills or my work-life balance skills. This
I tell (type) him my problem and he types to me that it sounds like a hard drive issue. He tells me to do a system recovery (which my computer will not do, by the way) and then if that doesn't help then I should replace the hard drive. REPLACE THE HARD DRIVE. No problem. Let me get my screwdriver.
So I ask, "What happened to my 32 GB?"
He types, "MrsDartt, I've given you the steps to resolve your issue."
That is not very helpful.
Anyway, the next day, I followed my mom's suggestion and backed up all my photos to an external hard drive. I realized they were taking up 5 GB of space on the hard drive so I took them off this computer and now it's working like a dream. No thanks to the Gateway computer representative.
But I did some great self help.

Finally -- an Adventure!

Over the weekend, Little Boy and I went to L.A. to visit a friend who just had a baby.
Big Boy stayed home with MrDartt to do fun Big Boy things that Little Boy is too little to do.
Little Boy and I flew in a little tiny airplane that had propellers. Propellers.
I'm pleased to say that he's a very good traveler. On the way to L.A. (it's about a 1.5-hour flight), he ate lunch then fussed a little, then wrestled me for about three minutes before sleeping for about an hour. He woke up about 10 minutes before we landed and cried for about five minutes as we descended and, I assumed, his ears popped.
The visit with my friend was very nice. She picked us up at the airport, and then we had lunch with my roommate from college. The baby is adorable, of course. We had some good girl time, which was nice. I haven't seen my friend in almost four years!
The only mishap we had was in the security line at LAX -- I'd set his carseat on top of the stroller so I could push him through the airport. The seat and the stroller don't actually go together and as I turned around to pick up the suitcase, the stroller broke, sending the carseat tumbling to the floor, with Little Boy in it!
Luckily he was strapped in, and as the carseat flipped over and over again, he just gave a startled cry. When I turned him over he looked at me like, "What the heck just happened, Mom?"
The man who had lurched forward as he saw the carseat tumbling off the stroller, in an attempt to catch it, said, "Geez, he's a tough little guy. Didn't even cry."
(Probably he was thinking, "And you're crazy, lady!").
These two women were saying, "Oh, my God!" in hushed voices. Then they avoided making eye contact with me.
Anyway, after that I put Little Boy in the stroller and hooked the carseat onto the rolling suitcase and awkwardly made my way through the airport.
During the flight home, Little Boy ate some cookies, drank some milk, and played with toys and an empty cup. He got a little restless at one point and threw himself backwards. He hit his head on the window and cried for a few seconds, then realized how fun that was and did it over and over for a while.
Other than that, he was awake and happy.
When we got to the airport, Big Boy was excited to see us through the window but as soon as we got inside, he was more interested in inspecting the tag on my suitcase than he was in a happy, hug-filled reunion.
Now I've had my adventure fix and I can wait a while for another one!

The Bumblebee - an update

Just a quick update on the bumblebee situation: last night after I put the boys to bed I came upstairs and he was flying around the living room. He finally showed his face.
I couldn't find the fly swatter so I chased him around the house with the dustpan and finally he landed on the wall next to the sliding glass door.
So I swatted him and he fell on the floor but his legs were still moving in slow motion. My mom was there and she asked, "Is he dead?"
"Not yet," I said.
I gave him a few more swats with the dustpan, then I scooped him up and threw him on the back porch.
This morning, that was the first thing Big Boy asked about -- he wanted to know if I'd caught the bee and put it outside so it wouldn't sting him.
I forgot to mention the great example of sheer hysteria I set for him when the bumblebee got into the house. He opened the door and it flew in and I totally freaked out. I was like, "Oh, no, Oh, no, there's a bee in the house!"
And then the bee followed me into the kitchen, where I flinched and tried to duck away from it, screaming.
Idiot.
So of course Big Boy is scared too.
Good thing I got rid of that bumblebee.
The tiny, very loud fly is still here.
And so are about a dozen moths I let in last night when I tossed the bee outside.
Oh, well.

Freaking Out

Right now, there is a HUGE black bumblebee in my house. He's been in the garage all morning, and when I was out putting a load of laundry in the washer just now, Big Boy opened the door between the dining room and the garage, and the HUGE black bumblebee found his way into the house.
Unfortunately, there also is a tiny, very loud fly in my house right now. The tiny, very loud fly is buzzing all over the living room, literally crashing into windows, making me think it's the HUGE black bumblebee every time. I keep flinching, thinking the HUGE black bumblebee is going to come after me in anger because he can't get out the window.
And even worse, I can't find the HUGE black bumblebee anywhere. I want to find him so I can smash him before the boys get up from their naps. But he is hiding. He is using the tiny, very loud fly to fake me out, and before I know it, he'll swoop over and sting me.

Shopping Carts

Call me nosy.
I LOVE looking in people's shopping carts at the grocery store and trying to guess what kind of family they have, what kind of lifestyle, what they watch on TV, you name it.
Like yesterday I saw this tall blonde lady and she had about 18 loaves of bread. Seriously.
I'm thinking she probably has a whole brood of little kids at home and she lines the bread up on the counter, slaps bologne on every other piece and throw the sandwiches together before tossing them down on the long table where all the kids' little hands eagerly grab for the food.
I saw this man and his wife -- he was short with big muscles and a mullet and she was small with big, 80s-style hair, and they were buying crackers. Just crackers. Maybe they had a bunch of cheese and wine at home and they were going back for a romantic evening. They were singing aloud to "Glory Days" while picking out their crackers ... maybe they were planning on taking themselves back, you know?
There was this other lady who was probably in her 60s, and she had on these white cotton short shorts with fake black leopard print and red flowers, with this crocheted top, tucked in, with this huge belt. She was overweight and pale and her legs were very wiggly. Also she had on high-heeled sandals with more crochet. Her fingernails and toenails were done perfectly. Her hair was perfectly coiffed. Her makeup was applied just so.
She asked me very politely if she could step in front of me (I was waiting in line) because she wanted Wintergreen TicTacs, which were on sale, and the line she was in did not have any Wintergreen.
She had a very high voice. I didn't even see what was in her cart and I'm afraid to say, I didn't want to.

"Newlyweds"

I've been doing this new thing where I take my computer and go to a coffee shop and work for several hours, sipping a coffee, powering through my writing with no laundry, dishes, children or dogs to distract me.
I did this on Saturday afternoon, and partway through my writing, I saw a couple coming in the door. They were probably in their late 70s or early 80s, and they were holding hands as they walked through the parking lot.
He opened the door for her.
"Thank you, my dear," she said to him as she walked in.
"You're welcome, sweetheart," he answered.
They walked up to the counter, discussing what they'd order this time, and the guy working there asked if they'd have the regular. They said yes, and she went to sit at a table. Before she got there, she realized she had all the money, so she said, "Oh, honey, here you go," and gave him the money.
He paid and waited for their drinks while she sat down. He brought her drink to her, and she thanked him, so sincerely.
They started chatting it up with the kid who was working there, asking him the name of a newer employee who wasn't there that day. "He's a nice guy," said the kid. "I've known him for a long time."
"Oh?" the woman said, "for how long?"
"Since junior high," the boy answered.
"That is a long time," the woman said, then pointed to the man and added, "I've known him since junior high."
WHAT?!
The way these two had been acting, I could have sworn they were newlyweds or in the dating game. Nope. If my guess was right and they really were in their 70s or 80s, then they have known each other for 60 years or so.
And they chatted away the whole time they were there, talking about this and that ...
I just hope that after MrDartt and I have been married for that long, that we still hold hands, thank each other for things like opening doors and bringing drinks, and have conversations like we're just getting to know each other.
Who ever said romance was dead?

Doctor's Visit

After two days of Little Boy's barking like a seal and wheezing between pitiful cries, we took him to the doctor this morning to make sure he wasn't having trouble breathing.
I felt kind of silly because I just took the boys to the doctor 10 days ago to make sure they didn't have ear infections (mostly Little Boy, because he was so fussy and cried for five hours straight one day).
When the nurse practitioner came in, I told her I promised we're not going to turn into one of those families where she sees our name on the chart and thinks, "Oh, no, not them again."
She laughed but then Little Boy started coughing and she said, "Geez, it's a good thing you brought him in."
He just has croup, which is inflammation of the airways. It was serious enough that the nurse practitioner thought he should have a dose of steroids (and I trust her because she rarely recommends medicine, and only if it's necessary). So she asked about his appetite and I said it hasn't been good.
She recommended a shot.
Uh oh.
So the nurse came in and gave Little Boy a shot.
He cried for about 30 seconds, and then was okay.
Big Boy and I have talked about shots before, because Curious George gets a shot in one of the stories we have. But the concept must be kind of abstract to him still, because when we got back in the car, he asked, "Why did that nurse poke a hole in Little Boy?"

The Contest

For the past month or so, my husband and the members of his "team" at work have been competing in an ab contest -- whoever has the best six-pack at the end of the month will win the money in the pot (each contestant put in $20).
During the past month, this contest has caused a teeny tiny bit of marital strife -- the money spent on protein powder and "No Explode" (a scary-sounding workout enhancer) and the time spent on workouts during the mornings when I'm trying to get ready and MrDartt is pumping away while the boys run rampant -- but last night was the best. The contest was supposed to end yesterday.
MrDartt came home and announced that the contest had been extended another month, because some of the contestants want more time. He's been in the lead, because he's the only one who's been working out and dieting (he has lost weight and put on muscle and he looks great, by the way).
Another reason for the contest extension: waiting on the judges.
"Who's judging?" I asked casually, even though I've had my suspicions from the start.
"All the girls in the office," he responded, just as casually.
Uh huh. I had mentioned this possibility a month ago, and he denied it would happen.
"Who decided they'd be the judges?" I asked.
"I think they kind of decided when they heard about the ab contest," he said.
Of course, he places the blame on them...but in a male-dominated office, it's probably exciting to all of them to be called on for such an honor.
Is it just me, or is this annoying?
All but one of the contestants have wives/fiancees, and could have come up with some way for US to judge the contest (maybe by taking photos or something).
But I suppose having the women in the office judge is way more exciting.
I don't want my husband lifting his shirt for anybody other than me.

Going Potty With Grandpa

My poor dad.
Yesterday I was making a delicious sour cream chocolate cake for my friend who just had a baby. I'd bought sour cream, but realized after I put it into the batter that I didn't have enough left in the container for the frosting. So I called my dad because he was out and about, and asked him if he could pick up some sour cream for me.
He brought it over and then Big Boy wanted to show him the big new bed. When they were downstairs, my dad asked Big Boy if he could use the bathroom. Of course, Big Boy said, "sure," and so my dad went in. Big Boy asked if he could come, too. I didn't hear my dad's response, but then I peeked down the stairs and thought I overheard Big Boy playing in his room. A few minutes later I realized they were in the bathroom together.
I called in and asked my dad if he wanted to send Big Boy out, and he said, "Well, it's too late now."
They emerged a couple seconds later.
Then, last night, when I was helping Big Boy brush his teeth, I noticed that he'd put the stool normally in front of the sink over next to the toilet. I asked him if he'd gone potty when grandpa was here and he said, "Yep, we were taking turns."

Too Smart for My Own Good

Big Boy is officially too smart for my own good.
He throws a toy. I say, "We don't throw toys." He says, "That was a toss."
He hits the wall. "We don't hit the wall," I say. "That was drumming," he says.
He colors on the wall. "We color on paper," I say. "This is beautiful art work," he says.
He's supposed to be eating. World's slowest eater, by the way. He's taking a bite about every five minutes, talking and playing in between. "Eat," I say. "I am eating," he says, displaying the bite still in his mouth. "There's a bite in my mouth right now." Meanwhile, he is talking, singing, running around the living room, you name it. But he still has that bite in his mouth.
"If you finish your cereal, you may help me make a cake," I say. Whack. His cereal, previously perched on the table, is now on the floor, the milk splattered across the kitchen, the bowl upside down. "My cereal is gone. I can't eat it. Look, it's on the floor. Can I help you with the cake now?" he says.
Seriously? Already?
He's sitting at his picnic table, turned to face away from the table, with his feet in the plant. "Sit down at eat," I make the mistake of saying. "I AM sitting down," he says.
Help!

Terrible TERRIBLE Manners!

Yesterday we took Big Boy to the blue park, which has the scary slide. I'd promised him that next time we went to the blue park, I would leave Little Boy home so that I could go down the scary slide with Big Boy.
MrDartt ended up coming with us, and he held Little Boy while I went on the play structure with Big Boy.
The scary slide is a high, twisty, covered slide.
So I climbed up the little ladder with the tiny opening to get up to the scary slide, and got Big Boy on my lap. There were two kids playing at the bottom of the slide, so before we went down, I said, "We're coming down! Excuse us!"
After we'd already started heading down, the little girl (probably about 7 or 8) started climbing up the slide. Let's face it: I'm already too big to be going down this darn slide, and it's nearly impossible to stop myself, with Big Boy on my lap, from sliding right into this little bratty girl whose parents obviously aren't watching her (or don't give a hoot about her manners) even though they're sitting at a nearby table in plain view of what's going on.
So then I said, "Excuse us, we're coming down."
And she said, "You can just go past me. Go on."
And she tried to move to the side.
Of course, the slide is not nearly big enough for two children and one adult to fit through one place. We made it through and she climbed up.
The second time we went down the slide, she did the same thing, only this time, she made it almost three quarters of the way up before we were one quarter of the way down. When we met her, I said, "The slide is for going down."
"I know," she said.
I said, "Why don't you turn around and go down? There are a lot of people behind us, waiting to go down."
Again, she tried to move to the side so we could go past her.
Another kid, waiting at the top of the slide asked her, "Is that your mom?"
I turned around and said, "No, that is not my kid. My kids would not have such terrible manners."
"No kidding, I know," said one of the older girls who was helping a younger boy on the play structure.
The little girl with terrible manners ended up walking back over to her mother after that, getting a drink and sitting down for a while.
Of course, she came back after that and continued her slide-climbing.
I know every kid wants to climb up every slide now and then, but I just think it's so rude that she was climbing up even when she knew other people were going down!
Am I just expecting too much from kids on a playground?

Zero Tolerance

With high hopes of correcting Big Boy's suddenly-outrageous and terrible behavior, I have implemented a Zero Tolerance policy with regard to the four-rule Rule List we came up with (and ceremoniously decorated).
The rules:
1. Be a Good Listener.
2. Talk Nicely to Everybody
3. No Throwing Things
4. No Hitting, Kicking or Scratching (Big Boy came up with that one on his own).
If Big Boy breaks a rule he either gets timeout, or I take something away (like one of the two stories we read before naptime and bedtime).
Unfortunately (or fortunately) I've found that this Zero Tolerance Policy means Big Boy is on timeout most of the day.
Yesterday Big Boy got out of bed at about five minutes to seven.
He was on timeout by 7:05.
"Was that a throw?" I ask as a truck flies across the room.
"Yep."
"Timeout."
Then he gets on timeout and immediately says, "I'm sorry for throwing the truck, Mommy. Can I get off timeout?"
I set the timer so he knows when he can get off timeout.
Then, when the timer goes off, he says, "I'm sorry, Mommy. What am I sorry for?"
"For throwing the truck."
"I'm sorry for throwing the truck, Mommy."
"Okay. You can get off timeout."
He gets off timeout and starts picking leaves off the plant.
"Please stop picking leaves off the plant."
(No Change)
"Please leave the plant alone. You are not being a good listener. That is the first rule on our list."
(No Change)
"Timeout."
"Sorry for pulling leaves of the plant, Mommy. Can I get off timeout?"
Who knew it would be so hard to follow four rules?

So Embarrassing!

Hugely embarrassing.
Yesterday at a playgroup, a very nice woman showed up, who hasn't come to many activities lately, maybe because it's summer and her oldest daughter hasn't been in school. Anyway, she has four daughters and she had three kids with her. She's also been a foster mom.
Two of the daughters were participating in the storytime, and the third kid was in the baby seat the whole time. The third kid was wearing a blue and green outfit with frogs on it.
So at the end of storytime, the mom was holding the little baby. I said, "Who's this cute little guy?"
She said, "This is Charlotte!"
Foot in the mouth, totally. Charlotte is the baby she had several months ago. Granted, Charlotte was wearing boys' clothes. But still! It's like I totally forgot that she had that baby. I should have known that was Charlotte. To make myself feel better, I keep telling myself that we haven't seen them in a long time, and that Charlotte is way bigger now than she was the last time I saw her.
Terrible.
Unfortunately, at the house where we were having the playgroup, there wasn't anywhere for me to go and hide!

Rules

Yesterday during a visit to the pediatrician's office, the boys' pediatrician said we should make a little poster with rules on it for Big Boy. She said even though he can't read yet, we can go over the rules and he'll know they're posted on the wall. She said to put up only three or four rules. If I could put up as many rules as I wanted, here are a few I'd like to see him follow (and I know I should phrase them positively, like "use only an inside voice" but for brevity's sake ...):
1. No screaming
2. Be nice to your brother (no pushing back on his head until he falls over, screaming)
3. No throwing food, clothes, toothbrushes or liquids on the floor
4. No digging with your feet in the plant's dirt, saying, "drill, drill, drill" and knocking potting soil on the floor
5. No taking the cushions off the couch when guests are here, revealing the coins, puzzle pieces and pens (and dirt) underneath them
6. Finish all food on your plate, every time
7. No changing your mind -- when you ask for milk, don't ask for apple juice immediately after (Vice versa)
8. No taking off your diaper without telling anyone
9. No getting into the refrigerator without telling anyone
10. No getting out of bed before 7 a.m.
11. No shaking your sippy cup so the drink splatters all over the place
12. No watering the plants by yourself
13. No getting 13 blankets out of the linen closet because you are looking for a washcloth
14. No crying when you're on timeout
15. No talking or asking for stuff when I am trying to watch ONE news item on TV
16. No pulling the cat's tail, unless she is going potty in the plant because she doesn't like the new litter box with the lid on it
17. No getting clothes (especially dresses) and shoes (especially high heels) out of my closet and parading around the house in them (because the dresses drag on the floor and get walked on and the high heels are dangerous ankle-twisters)
18. No opening the drawers on the entertainment center
19. No sitting on my lap when I'm a:on the computer or b:eating
20. No shutting your brother's fingers in the doors of the entertainment center when you finally shut them after having been asked not to open them in the first place
21. No hitting or kicking
22. No spitting
23. No making messes of any kind anywhere in the house

That's about it for now. Do you think I'm asking too much from someone who hasn't reached his third birthday?

Finding Delight in Otherwise Undelightful Things

I make many small discoveries each day, thanks to Big Boy and Little Boy.
I have learned that if I don't find them charming or funny, they'd drive me totally crazy.
Here are a few:
There is a Cheerio lodged in between our phone and the little clip on the phone.
My little travel jewelry box is filled with Play-Doh.
My toothbrush is in my bathtub.
About half of the dog's food is in his water dish.
There are a dog-water handprints on the window next to the dog's dishes.
The dish towel is in the sink with the dirty dishes.
There is a sticky Fruity Cheerio in the medicine dispenser cup.
My letter confetti (that you put in the envelope when you send someone a card or letter) is out of its bag, in a neat little pile on the weight bench, as well as scattered on the floor below.
Puppy dog stickers are stuck in various places -- the coffee table, MrDartt's belt, the couch ...
The toilet paper has been completely unrolled from the roll and is piled underneath where the roll hangs.
The cat food dish is overflowing, her water dish is filled with cat food and there is cat food all over the floor.
Of course, all of these things don't usually happen at once, but at any given time, you'll find several of them happening in our household.
Just delightful!

The Terrible Threes

So, Big Boy will not turn three until October, but just like when he was approaching two a year ago, he's gearing up for three with a bunch of really terrible behaviors. Friends have told me that three is worse than two, and if the past week is any indication, it will be for Big Boy, too.
Here are some of the behaviors:
This morning, when it was my turn to sleep in, he came into our bedroom and MrDartt got up. "I don't want you to get up, Daddy," he said. "I want Mommy to get up." MrDartt responded, "Well, it's Mommy's turn to sleep in." Big Boy ran all the way around the bed to wind up and kick MrDartt in the leg.
A few days ago, Big Boy was going to take his post-dinner shower. Before he got into the shower, he chose a green towel. After his shower, he said he didn't want a towel; he wanted to walk around naked and wet. So I walked out to the living room. He chased me all the way, screaming, "I want the green towel!" So I went back into the bathroom (my own mistake) and got the green towel. He screamed, "I don't want the green towel!" So I walked back into the living room. He chased me again, screaming, "I want the green towel!"
Two nights ago for dinner, Big Boy said he wanted fish sticks. So we cooked the fish sticks and cut them up and put them on a plate. We set them in front of him on the counter (we usually eat at the kitchen counter, which has bar stools). He threw his fork and slid the plate across the counter. "I don't want fish sticks!" So I put them in the fridge. "I WANT MY FISH STICKS!"
Seriously.
I've read before that sometimes toddlers just aren't really sure what they want. That's why they change their minds frequently.
Bull.
They know exactly what they want, and they want to make their parents crazy.

Big Boy's New Bed, and Teeth

Yesterday, Big Boy got a new bed. It's a loft bed with stairs up one side and a desk on the other side. When we went to the furniture store and saw the bed, he was so excited and he kept asking for a stairs bed. We'd already planned on getting him a loft bed and that was pretty much the only one they had at the store, so it worked out perfectly.
Anyway, we watched the delivery guys set up the bed with their drills, and Big Boy spent the rest of the day working on the bed, with his own drill, hammer, pliers and wrench.
Throughout the day, when he misbehaved, I told him maybe he wasn't a big enough boy for his big bed, and maybe he wasn't going to sleep in there. I told him maybe he could sleep in Little Boy's crib.
And at dinner, I told him he was getting a bath and he said he wanted a shower like a big boy. But then he asked for help taking bites of his grilled cheese sandwich. I said, "If you're not a big enough boy to eat your sandwich by yourself, then maybe you're not a big enough boy to take a shower."
He said, "I'm a big boy, look at my teeth."
He opened his mouth (full of grilled cheese, of course), and pointed to his teeth.

Making Whoopie Makes the News

It does, apparently.
The other night I was watching the news, and the news anchor started out a new story announcing that some people in some faraway state (maybe Arkansas?) were having really hot sex. He went on to explain that they were about to have sex when their house caught on fire.
Cut to the guy involved.
This guy is toothless. He hasn't shaved in about two weeks. His hair is bushy, gray, unkempt. His eyes are huge. His mouth is moving constantly (think someone on meth) and he is, very seriously, explaining to the news person behind the camera that he and his wife were about to make love when their bedroom caught on fire.
"I was naked," he says, "and she was in her underwear."
Okay, I did not want to think about this guy making whoopie with anybody and I certainly don't want to picture him naked (no, they're not one and the same to me).
Turns out one of them dropped a lit cigarette on the floor during foreplay.
What I want to know is, when did a small house fire, contained to one room, become national news? It only became national news because the people involved were having sex when it started.
I cannot believe the man would talk to news cameras for this story, and I cannot believe stations across the nation would air the interview. Totally humiliating for the guy (if not, it should have been) and totally disturbing for me (and probably the millions of other people who saw it).

Lesson in Child-Rearing

I learned a crucial lesson in child-rearing yesterday: if your child has been showing interest in looking at his poop every time you change a poopy diaper, do NOT, under any circumstances, let him walk around the house in a diaper.
Here's what will happen: said child will poop in his diaper, then swipe some of his poop onto his finger to look at it. Then he will sneak off to the bathroom and wipe the poop on the toilet paper, which he will leave on the roll. Then you will change his diaper and say, "yuck," and he will say, "is it diarrhea?" and you will say, "no, it's just bright green," and he will say, "I just wiped my bright green poopie on the toilet paper."
After you change his diaper and wash his hands and your own, you will discover that he did, indeed, wipe his bright green poopie on the toilet paper, which is still on the roll in your bathroom.
You will be extremely relieved that you found the poopy toilet paper before you used it, and you will learn not to let your child, who has been showing interest in looking at his poop, run around in a diaper.

My Grandpa

Last night, when I was changing Little Boy's diaper before putting him to bed, he put his hand over his eyes, as if my changing his diaper was the worst possible thing he has ever been made to endure.
The movement reminded me so much of my grandpa -- his nickname was Grumpy because he was usually grumpy. He'd walk into a room and say, "What the hell's going on in here?" If he heard a story he didn't like, he'd say, "Jesus Christ" (He was Jewish), and put his hand over his eyes, just like Little Boy did last night.
My grandpa died during my pregnancy with Big Boy. I was six months pregnant. I know it's selfish of me to wish he'd lived long enough to meet Big Boy, and even longer to meet Little Boy -- I just know he would have gotten a kick out of them.
When I first told him I was pregnant, he was so happy! I'd called my parents right away to tell them, but I'd waited to tell my grandpa in person. I could hardly wait. His eyes got big and they filled up with tears. Later, he once said to MrDartt, "MrDartt, how's your fat wife?"
He would have loved how Big Boy talks nonstop and wants to do everything himself and how Little Boy waves at everybody while smiling this goofy, nose-wrinkled smile.
But most of all, I would have loved to point out to him all the things they do that remind me of him.

Barack Obama on TV

The other morning as MrDartt turned on the TV, Big Boy asked, "Daddy, are you going to watch Barack Obama on TV?"
This is how you know our president is on TV a lot.
Whether you like him or not, he's on TV all the time. I've never seen a guy hold so many press conferences. Someone told me it's because he wants to have a very transparent presidency.
Then, a few minutes later, Barack Obama was on TV giving a press conference. It was just a coincidence, of course, but then Big Boy asked, "Who's that guy?"
So we were able to show him who Barack Obama is.
The point here is that when your almost-three-year-old can rattle that name right off, you know it's a real household name.

Summer: Tough on a Marriage

One of my friends recently asked me if I thought the season of raising small children was a hard season of marriage. I know she wasn't talking about nature's seasons, but you know what's a hard season for my marriage? Summer.
Here's why: summer is a great time for starting a project. Last summer it was a patio. It's a beautiful patio. But to make it, MrDartt had to spend weekend after weekend out in the front of our house, tearing up sod, leveling the ground, laying sand and then laying brick. One brick at a time. I was hugely pregnant at that time, so I was stuck hanging out alone inside with Big Boy, unable to help or contribute in any meaningful way.
This summer, it's the shed. MrDartt's friend bought a house that came complete with a shed. The friend didn't want the shed, and MrDartt offered to take it off his hands, all the while telling me, "This is great! We'll get a free shed and we can store some of the stuff from our garage in there!"
Well, guess what? The shed is not free. I'm not even counting the gas money we spent for MrDartt to make the one hour drive several times to go dismantle the shed and bring its parts to our house. But we had to pay for concrete for the footings, as well as enough wood to build a whole new house. There's plywood for the floor. There's two-by-fours for the walls. There's wood to fix the broken trusses. More plywood for the roof. Then we have to buy roofing material since all the shingles were thrown away. Plus, MrDartt is out there every weekend, building that darn shed. MrDartt's brother, Uncle S, has been over helping MrDartt with the shed. Slave labor, as a birthday gift to MrDartt, thanks to Uncle S's wife, Aunt L. At least this year, Big Boy is able to go out and play while they work on the shed, but now I'm relegated to watching Little Boy while they work on the shed, and I'm unable to contribute in any meaningful way. And I want to contribute, believe it or not.
At least MrDartt has conceded that we've saved only about $90 worth of siding materials, compared to what we'd have paid if we bought all the materials new ourselves.
I told MrDartt, no more big projects for at least two years.
We already know we need to relocate our wisteria to a place where it won't eat our siding, but that shouldn't be too big of a job if we wait until it's not in bloom.
So last night at dinner, he says, "There's just one more project I want to do."
Uh oh.
This is how it always starts.

My son, possessed

Is there a moment, in every mother's life, when she wonders if her darling, love-filled, cherub-faced child, who was created in a moment of love and passion, may, in fact, be the spawn of some evil, sleep-swallowing force?
I have many such moments, as Big Boy is a very strong-willed child, full of energy (we'll call it that) and very stubborn.
One of those moments occurred last night. I was very tired yesterday because I went to a late movie with my mom. I know, I shouldn't complain, I chose to go to the movie. But I swore to myself that I'd go to bed early last night. So I was in bed, lights out, by 10:35.
At 1:30, Big Boy woke up. He was crying so I went into his room. He said he wanted to cuddle. So I cuddled with him. He said he needed more ice in his water. So I got him more ice. He said he needed a book. So I gave him the book. I said I was going back to bed. He said he wanted to cuddle some more. I cuddled some more. Finally, about about 1:58, I was back in bed. I must have fallen asleep because at 2:20 I was startled awake by Big Boy's screaming and running up the stairs. I got up and carried him back downstairs. He wanted to cuddle. I cuddled one more time. He wanted me to tell him what the words were on the first page of "Cat in the Hat," but I said no. You've got to put your foot down at some point, right? I told him, "I'm going to be tired and grumpy tomorrow, because you are keeping me awake. It is the middle of the night."
I know it's immature, but still.
So he started jumping out of bed, over and over, chasing me to the door, over and over, crying, half between screams and growls. Over and over. I put him back in bed over and over. He continued to scream/growl and then launch himself out of bed and jet toward the door. Over and over. It was weird. I was really beginning to think he was possessed.
Finally, I grabbed him by the sides of his face and said, "You need to stop."
He stopped crying. I started to walk out of his room and he started up again.
I went out and shut the door.
I texted MrDartt to tell him that his son is possessed.
MrDartt got home a few minutes later and I fell asleep at 3:30 a.m.
Little Boy woke up at 5 a.m.
Big Boy woke up at 6 a.m.
I am tired and grumpy.

My House: Through A Guest's Eyes

Isn't it funny how, when you know someone's coming over, you look at your house totally differently?
Normally I can see past the muddy dog prints in the entryway or the dirty handprints on the door to the garage. I can ignore the slimy finger smears on the sliding glass door and the stack of movies atop the entertainment center. I can step around a pile of toys on the living room floor a hundred times without noticing it, but when someone's coming over, it looks like a mountain (Mount Everest, probably).
I'm having two friends and their kids over for dinner tonight and I'm just going to let it go. I'll spot clean the spit up stains off the wood floor (they're those splotches you don't notice happened until they're dried, and then, by the time you remember to clean them you're on your way to the laundry room with your arms full of laundry and you can't clean them because your arms are full and you think you'll come back to them but then you forget because when you're done with the laundry you remember the dishes are clean and ready to be put away and then the next time you see the spit up stains you're on your way downstairs to get the screaming baby).
Anyway, so I'm not going to freak out and scour the house before my friends come. They'll still like me, despite the stack of bills on the kitchen counter and the half-dead cactus in the dining room.
And I promise I will not make my friends uncomfortable by saying things like, "Don't mind the muddy dog swipes on the front door," or, "Oh sorry, I didn't find the time to wipe down the bathroom sink, which Big Boy used to wash off his dirty hands after he made a beautiful art project of the potting soil."
And I swear I will have a good time, and I won't even think about whether my friends are noticing the sticky apple juice spill (why didn't I notice that before they got here?) next to the bar stool in the kitchen.

My big scare

Last night I had quite a scare, and then quite a laugh.
I went out on the front porch to feed Lola, and there was a HUGE tarantula right next to her bowl. Okay, it wasn't that big, for a tarantula, but it was big for a spider, and it was black and hairy. And those things can jump, you know.
So I quickly went back into the house and called my parents to ask what to do. I know, what a baby, right? Anyway, I told my dad, "I don't know what to do. It's right next to Lola's bowl."
"I'll be right down," he said. I argued with him for a few minutes, but I could sense his excitement building. In the meantime, I watched through the window as Lola sniffed the spider and sent it scurrying away. I told my dad it was gone, but he came down anyway.
I heard his truck pull up, and I walked onto the front porch, where I saw it curled up in the corner, probably hiding from Lola. My dad emerged with a big orange Home Depot bucket and a broom.
Before I tell the rest of the story you should know that my dad is not a small guy. He is about 6'3", and was a lineman in college football.
So he spots the spider, and comes onto the porch and tries to sweep it into the bucket. It runs to the edge of the front porch. My dad leaps back.
At this time MrDartt, who was working late last night, calls and I relay the story to him. We're cracking up, and MrDartt says probably my dad wants to capture the tarantula and put it in a terrarium so Big Boy can raise it. My dad has mentioned this idea before.
My dad tries again to sweep the spider into the bucket. This time, it goes into the bucket, but it crawls right back up the edge of the bucket and jumps out. My dad leaps back.
Then he's trying to sweep it into the bucket, while he's standing half on the patio and half on the lawn. The spider's not going in and my dad keeps jumping back.
For such a tough talker, he's kind of skittish around this spider. But you'd better believe I'm not touching that sucker. MrDartt and I hung up.
Then my dad tells me, "This is half the size of the tarantula we found in our garage. Your brother stepped on it and the legs came off and they were still moving!"
No wonder he was skittish.
Finally, he got the spider to stay in the bucket and then he ran across the lawn and threw it onto our big hill.
Whew.

Where do they get that ...

Is it worse to wonder where your kid got an idea, or to know exactly where he got it?
Two examples:
Big Boy's new thing is to run away from me when it comes time to put his diaper on. So yesterday morning, he's running away from me, I'm chasing him, and he runs between the coffee table and the couch. He's laughing, "Ha ha ha, ha ha ha," and then he says, "God damn it," and then keeps laughing. "Ha ha ha."
In this case I know exactly where he got that. It's MrDartt's standard exclamation, whenever something happens. He drops an ice cube when filling his glass. (Every single time he fills his glass.) "God damn it." He hits his hand with a hammer. "God damn it." He is mad at Big Boy. "God damn it."
The second example comes from one of my closest friends. Her son is three, and they also have a seven-month-old girl. Well, to speed up the bathing process, one parent sometimes jumps in the shower with both kids. The baby sits in her little bathtub on a big step in their shower. They use a little cup to rinse her. The other day when my friend's husband was bathing the kids, the three-year-old, who's been potty-trained for quite some time, picked up the baby's rinsing cup and peed in it! He set it down, full of pee.
The worst part, my friend said, was that the baby would have gotten rinsed off with it if my friend hadn't seen the whole event and dumped the pee.
She has no idea where her son got that idea.

Big Boy's Photography Skills

Over the weekend, we had a mini adventure.
I know, I asked for it.
Grandpa Dartt gave the family a boat. It's a small boat and is appropriate for taking fishing on the small lakes around here. So Uncle S and Aunt L are fixing it up, and it's in their possession right now. They invited us to go fishing with them on Saturday.
We bought the life vests and put on sunscreen. We packed snacks and hats and the camera.
Big Boy, of course, had to take some of his own pictures. I thought it would be cute to post them here.
So I was scanning through the camera to find a good one, and there's a problem.
The first one Big Boy took is of Aunt L's bottom. It's an up-close shot of her bottom in the driver's chair, from the left.
The second picture he took is of Aunt L's bottom. From the right.
The third picture is of -- you guessed it -- Aunt L's bottom. From the back.
They're ALL up close and I know she would just die if I posted one on the internet.
Needless to say, I won't be posting any of Big Boy's pictures from our boating trip.
I think when Big Boy is taking pictures, he just holds up the camera and pushes the button -- he thinks that whatever he's looking at is going to be in the picture, regardless of what he sees in the viewfinder (I am pretty sure he doesn't even look at the viewfinder). Although, he may be taking pictures of Aunt L's bottom on purpose -- he always has had a soft spot for her.

Our marriage may survive, after all

A couple of weeks ago, MrDartt was convinced that our marriage was doomed for failure because I like meat pizza and breadsticks, and he likes veggie pizza and wings.
I, while thinking about becoming a vegetarian, want meat pizza every time. And he, who loves meat above all other food groups, wants veggie pizza, every time.
So last time we went to pizza, he said he thought our marriage was doomed. Luckily, we got half meat pizza and half veggie pizza (plus an order of breadsticks).
Finally, last night, we found harmony.
We decided on pizza and wings. We both like pizza and we both like wings. We got half pepperoni and half pepperoni and onions. That's our standard sharing pizza. When we got it home (nobody delivers where we live so we have to pick it up), he asked me, "Do you like the drumettes or the wings?" I said, "The drumettes."
"Ah," he said. "Harmony at last."
Yes, I like the drumettes and he likes the wings.
Our marriage just might make it.

My Broken Speedometer

Is it my speedometer, or do some people just drive painfully slow?
I think it's acceptable to drive five miles per hour, maybe even nine, faster than the posted speed limit. I am pretty sure police don't pull drivers over for speeding unless a)they're going 11 or more miles per hour faster than the speed limit or b)they have some other secret reason to pull them over, like they think the driver is smuggling prohibited chinchillas across state lines.
So what drives me totally batty is when a driver keeps his car in the fast lane, going exactly the speed limit, when he could easily pull over to the slow lane to let me pass. Or worse, when a driver sits in the fast lane, going exactly the speed limit, right next to someone in the slow lane who also is going exactly the speed limit. And inevitably, one of the drivers speeds up just enough to make me think maybe I can pass him, really quickly. But then he slows down again, right when I'm about to make my move. Then there's times when I REALLY want to pass someone, and it's like he knows, and he slows down on purpose, right when he gets lined up with someone else. How about the guy who is going so slow for 10 minutes until you get to a stop light and then he drives like he's trying to outrun a tornado, and you can't keep up with him to save your life, or, Heaven forbid, to pass him.
My favorite is the guy who's driving along, looking off to the right the whole time, which slows him down to unbearable speeds. Or the guy who's gesturing to his passenger the entire time and therefore can't drive any faster than five miles per hour under the speed limit.
Sometimes I think my speedometer is really broken. That's when I'm giving humanity the benefit of the doubt.

Total Embarrassment

Yesterday I literally almost died of embarrassment.
My mom, my sister-in-law and I took Big Boy (and Little Boy, of course -- don't leave home without him) to see a police K-9 demonstration at this local arena. The state's K-9 officers are in town this week for a training and they put on a free show for the public.
We got there early and walked around for a little bit, to get Big Boy's last-minute wiggles out. Of course, as soon as we took our seats, Big Boy announced, "I'm poopy."
Of course, I'd left the diaper bag in the car. So we walked out to the car to get diapers and wipes and of course, all I had were Little Boy diapers.
So we went back into the arena, and of course, the first two restrooms I went into did not have diaper changing tables.
I was in a hurry -- the show was about to start -- and Big Boy held my keys while I changed his diaper.
We got back to our seats and the show started. A while later, the guy who was announcing during the show (he was standing in the middle of the demonstration area) announced that someone had found some keys in the men's restroom. He went on to say they were Volvo keys, and that the police departments were going to have a nice new Volvo.
That's when I realized they were my keys. Big Boy must have dropped them in the restroom (we were in the women's restroom, I swear!). And then in my rush, I forgot about them.
My mom, sister-in-law and I raised our hands but the guy didn't see us. A while later, he brought up the keys again, and this time he saw us raising our hands.
He said, "They're yours? What were you doing in the men's restroom?"
And Big Boy announces, "I pooped! I pooped on the potty and I got four chewy bears!"
(Big Boy really pooped on the potty the day before, and got TWO chewy bears, but four is apparently his go-to number). The guy couldn't hear me or Big Boy, but of course everybody in the stands could.
Then he wanted me to tell him what was on my keys, to prove that they were, indeed, mine.
Well, I started to list off a few things, but he couldn't hear me through the plexiglass (this is a hokey arena and even though it's not hockey season, the plexiglass was up).
I felt my face turning red. I looked at my mom and sister-in-law, and their faces were red, too.
The guy started looking at my discount cards, and he started asking me which discount cards I have on there. Of course, I have about 18 since every single store now offers one.
I must have looked fairly believable and VERY embarrassed -- he eventually sent another police officer into the stands with my keys.
I'm so glad someone turned my keys in, but I also am glad I survived the embarrassment!

Learning Things

Both of my children are learning lots these days.
Little Boy is (finally!) learning to crawl. It goes like this: hand, hand, knee, foot. Tummy. Hand, hand, knee, knee, hand, knee, foot. Tummy. Back. Tummy. Hand, hand, knee, knee, hand, hand, knee, knee. Tummy. And so on. His head is just so big, I think, that it's hard for him to balance for very long and to hold his head up at the same time.
Big Boy is learning to catch. And to go poop on the potty. And to carry stuff.
This morning he came up the stairs carrying his giraffe, a small elephant, a polar bear, and a lion. He slept past his night light (we put it on a timer so he'd stop getting up at 5 a.m.), and he went to bed last night without crying. So he got a sticker for his chart. When he came upstairs, he set all his animals on the kitchen floor and wanted to take a sticker back downstairs for his chart. So he got his sheet of stickers and tried to pick up all those animals again. Dropped the elephant. Picked it up and dropped the polar bear. Picked it up and dropped the lion. Picked it up and dropped the stickers. "Why do I keep dropping stuff?" he asked.
No idea.
Yesterday, Big Boy asked, "Am I starting to poop?"
"I don't know," I said. "Want to try to poop on the potty?"
"YEAH!"
So we went into the bathroom and he tried and tried, and finally, he pooped on the potty. Just a little tiny bit. But he was trying so hard! I thought he must have to go more, so I got his little potty so it would be easier (he likes to sit on the regular toilet). Warning: here's where it gets graphic. No more came out, but he did manage somehow to get a lot of poop smeared on the back of his little potty. So we wiped that off, and he got back on the big potty, and no more came out. So we wiped his bottom, he flushed about four times, and he got two chewy bears (that's what he calls gummy bears. He gets one for pee and two for poop).
This morning Big Boy wanted to play catch with his big green ball. But every time he goes to catch it, he hits it up with his arms. So I'm telling him, "hug it to you." So then he get it, and he's catching it and then bending down over it and hugging it for five seconds each time. I throw. He catches. He hugs.

My Accident-Prone Husband

I think MrDartt is particularly accident-prone.
Yesterday, on one of the hottest days yet this year in Arizona, he got a flat tire while driving on the highway to Phoenix. It was probably 110 degrees outside and he had to change a flat tire. Then, while he was getting the tire out of the trunk, it got stuck on something (I think he said the carpet in the trunk) and flipped over, smashing his finger. Blood came out from under his fingernail.
One time, he was trying to get a wasp out of our house (have I mentioned that we have hummingbird-sized wasps?). It was up near the ceiling. He tossed a throw pillow at it (Ha! He threw a throw pillow). The pillow came down, and as he caught it, the wasp landed on it, stinging him in the hand.
Another time, he was building a patio in our front yard. He smashed a wasp with a hammer, rolled over to get another brick, and got stung by another wasp.
This stuff happens all the time.
When we were building our house, he took a good swing with his brand new hammer (he was very excited to have his own brand new framing hammer), and whacked his hand with full force. He had the waffle-pattern embedded in his hand.
That's all I can think of for now.
Maybe we should play the lottery. MrDartt has an uncanny ability to succeed at very unlikely things.

Funny Guy

You've probably seen him, or at least, someone just like him.
There's this guy who walks around the town where my husband works. He's always, always wearing a big, fur-lined parka and big heavy boots. Even when temperatures climb into the 90s and 100s. He's obviously homeless.
In the past, my husband and his co-workers have made fun of this guy for wearing the darn parka all the time.
One of MrDartt's co-workers also is really involved in his church and recently participated in an outreach project for local homeless people. The parka guy showed up. MrDartt's co-worker got to talking to him and at one point asked, "Doesn't that parka get hot?"
Parka guy explained that he was homeless by choice, and lost his son when his son was five years old. He has some reason to believe his son might come back. He said his son had last seen him wearing the parka, so he always wears it in case his son comes looking for him.
We've all made fun of people we deem "crazy" or whatever, but this sure puts things in perspective.

Getting Beat on Thinking Ahead

Isn't it awful when you think you're thinking ahead, but despite your best intentions, things don't turn out as you expected them to?
Here's what happened: we've been hunting for a kid-sized table for Big Boy (and Little Boy, when he gets bigger). We wanted to put it in the play area so he could sit there and color, or so he could play with his big castle or his blocks there.
We debated about which kind to get -- should we get a wooden table with four little chairs? Or should we get one of those inexpensive fold-up card tables with two chairs?
Finally, we decided on a little picnic bench whose seats are attached -- we were thinking that way, Big Boy wouldn't cart the little chairs all over the house. He already carts the big barstools all over the house, so he can climb on them to reach things. You go to sit down at the barstool and it's not there; you then find it in the bathroom (no idea).
So anyway, we bought this little picnic bench that's supposed to seat four kids. We put it in the play area.
And despite our best intentions, Big Boy is dragging it, benches and all, all over the house!
I keep finding it haphazardly placed between the play area and the living room, half on the wood floor and half on the carpet. Or in the kitchen.
"Why do you keep moving the table?"
"Because I want to."
So much for thinking ahead.

Superman in the ER

Yesterday was Big Boy's second trip to the ER.
It was my day to sleep in, and at 7:45 I heard Big Boy start crying, loudly. He was saying, "I want my grandma! I want my mommy!"
MrDartt came blasting through the bedroom door and announced, "I think we might need to take him to the hospital."
In my just-woken-up daze, I didn't see anything wrong, so I asked, "What happened?"
Just then, I saw the huge goose egg on Big Boy's forehead.
He'd been playing on the couch and he fell and hit his head on the coffee table. It immediately started swelling and it turned practically black.
We decided to take him to the ER just to make sure he didn't have a head injury -- with that much swelling so quickly, we thought, he must have hit his head pretty hard.
Of course he was wearing his Superman pajamas, so there were multiple crash landing jokes.
Then, when the nurse came in and asked him what happened before he fell, he said, "I was flipping over."
Then, the doctor came in and was chatting it up with Big Boy.
"Hey Superman," he said. He asked Big Boy a few questions and then asked, "Do you have any cool tools in your belt?"
"Just some guns," Big Boy said.
What is with this kid and guns? He's constantly talking about guns.
All's well that ends well -- Big Boy doesn't have a head injury. He didn't pass out or throw up.
They told us to watch out for irritability, but that is Big Boy's almost-constant state of being, so we weren't too concerned with that.
We ended up having a pretty nice day. We went to the donut shop after our hospital trip, and then we went to Peter Piper Pizza (it's kind of like Chuck E Cheese's, but not quite as cool) for dinner.
Big Boy is irritable right now. All's well.

Real or Fake?

Last night, I dragged MrDartt to the annual Rodeo Dance downtown. He had fun despite himself. In addition to his rendition of the two-step, which he called the three-and-a-half-step, we had fun people watching. We played, "Real or Fake," in which we looked at people and guessed whether they were real cowboys or fake ones.
You see, every year, there's a five- or six-day rodeo in town. It's a big deal and the local bars are swamped with participants (the real cowboys). This rodeo and all its associated events (like the Rodeo Dance, which is in the parking lot of a shopping center, and is complete with hay bales for seating around the dance floor) draws a lot of locals who dress up in Western wear just for fun during the weeklong festivities (those are the fake cowboys).
Some things to look for when playing:
The hat. Is it black and shiny? Does it have rhinestones? Does it have feathers? If the answer to any of these is yes, then the hat is probably not on a real cowboy. If it's a baseball cap, it's probably only on a real cowboy if it is fitted -- and if he's wearing the right shirt. Read on.
The shirt. Is it tucked in? Is it plaid? If yes to both, probably it's on a real cowboy. Here's a contradiction, though: one guy was wearing a super-tight black and white striped shirt that showed off his big muscles. He had on what looked like a real cowboy hat. And real cowboy boots. But the shirt was so goofy! It was SO tight (I know I already said that, but seriously. It was SO TIGHT). And it was tucked in to his jeans, which were so high on his waist. We decided he was a real cowboy because of the way his jeans fit and because of how well he could do the two step.
The belt. Does it have a big buckle? Not all cowboys wear belts, and some fake cowboys wear the big buckles, so this one is not a dead giveaway.
The jeans. This is a big one. Are they baggy? If so, this almost certainly is not a real cowboy. Cowboys wear those nice, tight, perfectly-fitted jeans. This is one of the best things about cowboys and about the rodeo and about the Rodeo Dance. I know MrDartt will read this, but I have admitted openly that cowboy bottoms are often nice-looking.
The boots. Are the boots squeaky clean and brand new looking? Or are they dirty, scratched, dusty and mud-caked? There was one young guy who almost had us fooled. He was wearing loose jeans and a loose name brand T-shirt, and he had spiky hair (no hat, and no hat hair). But the dirty boots gave him away.
The dancing. Any decent cowboy has perfected the two step to any song, fast or slow. He can twirl a girl around the dance floor -- darting here and there, to and fro, between other couples who do not do the two step very well (read: MrDartt and MrsDartt), and all the while, he looks totally bored.
So next time you're at a rodeo dance, or next time you see a cowboy walking down the street (which happens more often here than it does in other parts of the country), you'll be able to spot whether he's a fake.
Remember, if he has rhinestones on his hat, he's probably a fake.

"The Ignorant"

I love people.
Today as I was driving Big Boy and Little Boy to our music playgroup, I stopped at a stop sign to turn onto the road that leads to the highway. A woman driving a Honda Civic Hybrid drove past us, and I waited for her before turning onto the appropriate road. As she drove past, she was looking in the mirror, fluffing her hair with her hands. I pulled onto the road behind her and was alarmed at the sheer number of bumper stickers she had on her car.
They said things like, "The Ignorant Should Not Reproduce."
"You are not the car you drive. You are not your f**king khakis."
And so on.
It doesn't really matter.
The two things she did that I found noteworthy, especially after I read the bumper stickers, are: she was driving like a maniac! She was tailgating and at the first opportunity she decided to pass someone so she jammed her car between the one she was behind in the fast lane and a slightly slower one in the slow lane, so she could go around the one she was behind.
Then, she was smoking.
Really? Are you serious?
So here is this girl insinuating that she is not ignorant and that she is not her Honda Civic Hybrid and not her khakis, either, and she is driving like a maniac and she is smoking.
Driving like a maniac shows that she is not as Zen as her bumper stickers were trying to make her sound. They were shouting, "I am Zen! I am relaxed! I am better than you even though I am implying that you think you are better than me. I am better than you because I know I am not better than anyone." And her driving is shouting, "But I am driving like a maniac so get the HELL out of my way! Because I am better than you and your driving sucks!"
And then she is smoking! Her smoking is shouting, "I am so ignorant! I am smoking even though everybody knows by now that smoking is terrible for you and it can kill you! But the ignorant should not reproduce!"
And don't forget the hair-fluffing. She may not be her Honda Civic Hybrid or her khakis, but she is definitely her hair style.
I love these people.
I hope she is not reproducing.

The Big Tweeze

When did the shape of women's eyebrows become a matter of concern?
I have very hairy eyebrows. The darker main part of my eyebrow looks okay, but then down below that, there's a ton of blond hair. All these teeny tiny little blond hairs. And a few big fat dark ones. I wax them about once every three weeks, and pluck in between. But it's a hassle. Between showering, putting on my makeup and doing my hair, I rarely have time to tweeze.
I don't see many men tweezing, waxing or shaping their eyebrows. I don't see them applying mascara in the rearview mirror. I don't see them shaving or waxing their bikini areas. I know some men wax their back hair or chest hair, but when's the last time you saw one shaving his legs in the bathroom sink before rushing off to the pool?
It just seems unfair.
I'm going to take a stand and stop shaving all together.
Yeah, right.
I'm really just going to keep shaving. I'm going to keep tweezing. I'm going to keep waxing. For the rest. Of. My. Life.

The Fastest Grocery Store Trip EVER!

I've found a new way to increase the speed at which I complete a grocery store trip: sheer panic.
Yesterday, for the first time, I left Big Boy at the Kids Corner in our grocery store. He's been asking for weeks to go in there, and since we were running late, I finally caved and turned in the paper work I'd filled out several weeks ago. It's a locked room, where a fingerprinted childcare person watches the kids and lets them play with toys or color or watch movies. Both the child and the parent have to wear bracelets, and only the person who dropped the child off can pick him up. Only two ways exist to get into the room: a keypad outside the door and a button inside the room both open the door. So it's pretty safe. Also, there are monitors throughout the store you can look at and see your kid.
But when I left my little boy there, very cheerfully, I might add, I felt like crying! He's just so little and I've never left him with strangers in a strange place. Not that the grocery store is that strange of a place, but you know what I mean.
So I rushed through the store, at a run (not really, it was too crowded). I grabbed the yogurt, the bread, the meat and the tuna. I threw the apples, bananas, and celery into the cart. For once, I didn't miss anything as I went through the store, and I never had to turn back. I was done, including checking out after a woman who wrote a check (yes, people still write checks), in less than 30 minutes, with our weekly shopping trip.
Less than 30 minutes. It's a new record.
Amazing.
That's what panic will do for you.
And when I went to get Big Boy, he came out, happy to see me and ready to go, but having had a great time building a road with the Kids Corner girl.
He talked all the way home about the sticker he got and the road he built and the games he played.
And we both survived.