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).