PutThatDown.com

Where The Hell Have I Been!?

Jen — Mon, 20 Feb 2006 01:59:00 +0000

I am making this entry because I am so freaked out at how long it's been since I've written. There is a reason for it, but I won't go into it. Let me just say that I am under an incredible amount of pressure and stress -- the kind that wakes you up in the middle of the night and keeps you awake. So I have not had the energy or motivation to write. The good news is that this is temporary. I hope to be back to normal soon.

The Number One Male Obsession

Jen — Thu, 12 Jan 2006 00:17:00 +0000

The other day, Gabriel came up to me, and, with a sly smile that said I'm about to say something REALLY FUNNY, asked "Mom, could we have a diarreah casserole for dinner tonight?" He continued to stand there looking at me with that silly George Dubya smirk, sure that I would bust out into peals of laughter. I responded with a dry Roseanne-style answer that I would eat a little something and try to whip one up. I noted, for the millionth time, my son's preocupation with all things poop.

Just a few weeks earlier, he informed me that he needed to go to the bathroom. "Do you have to poop?" I asked, since I would be the Designated Wiper (if they could see me now). He proceeded to fart audibly, and answered "That would say 'Yes'".

That's not to suggest he did not mention poop or farts at all in between those two instances. As anyone living with a young boy would agree, there is some mention of it, many times, every single day.

But it does not end there. My little one, my sweet three-year old Baby Boy, for crissakes, sings about it, jokes about it, and laughs about it, all day long. "Happy Birthday to STINKY! Happy Birthday to POOP!" "You better watch out, you better not POOPY! Santa Claus is coming to POOP!"

And, the day of the casserole request, my husband, MY GROWN HUSBAND said to me, "I was just watching The Deer Hunter, and the credits were rolling, and do you know what the name of Vietnamese Enemy #1 is? 'Poo Poo Pee'. Isn't that FUNNY?"

Well, in the world of men, I'm sure it is. If it had been Vietnamese Enemy number two, it would have been funny to the rest of us. But to a guy, just the fact that his name was a derivative of the word "poop" is hilarious all by itself. (The "pee" part was an added bonus.) Any kind of poop reference is a favorite, sure-fire laugh-getter for all males, rising above every known boundary including age, race, class, income, party and religion. Sure, it goes from fart jokes to anus jokes to steaming turd jokes and every possible variation in between. The only difference is the level of sophistication. Once, right after Nicholas sung one of his poop songs, I turned on a sports radio show just in time to hear a song about shit in four part harmony, sang with all the seriousness of a ballad amid the snorts and chuckles of the all-male crew ranging in ages from 25 to 53. FOUR MEN ACTUALLY SAT DOWN AND WROTE A SONG, WENT INTO A RECORDING STUDIO AND SANG INTO MICROPHONES AND EDITED AND PRODUCED TO THEIR SATISFACTION A SONG ABOUT SHIT AND THEN LIVED TO HEAR IT AIRED ON A MAJOR MARKET RADIO STATION FOR ANYONE WHO WOULD LISTEN.

Now, don't get me wrong, sometimes I laugh. Sometimes I laugh really hard. And sometimes I even make my own poop jokes, usually in a pathetic attempt for acceptance into the fraternity. But there is no denying it. This "Poop" thing is the number one male obsession. Sure, there's the food obsession, but that stops at about age two and may not return until the teen years. And, of course, there's the sex obsession, but that doesn't even enter a boy's mind for years. On the other hand, make a fart noise to an infant boy, and he'll laugh about it for the rest of his life.

DEATH To The Invisible Woman of 2005

Jen — Sat, 31 Dec 2005 06:37:00 +0000

Well, well, WELLLL.... I just polished off my second glass of Bailey's Irish Cream on the rocks... I've been doddering (is that a word?) around the house for days all depressed because I only have two pair of jeans that still fit and I know it's only because they're stretchy. I've put on about 10 pounds in the last six months and I hate myself. And that is NOT to say I am only 10 pounds over weight. I'm just 10 pounds fatter than my most recent fat self. Comfort often comes in the form of the instant gratification that occurs upon the consumption of something REALLY BAD... Like leftover cheesecake from Johnny Carino's, or the Jack-In-The-Box Monster Taco Combo with Seasoned Curly Fries, or gourmet Heath cookies from the dough I got at the school fund-raiser, or Oreos with whole milk or bread with real butter or pumpkin milkshakes (when in season) or chocolates that were a gift from a neighbor or -- AAAAHHHHHH!!! IT NEVER ENDS! WHO AM I?!?!?!!

I know who I used to be. I was one of those people who worked out nine out of every ten days. In January, I'd reassure the other 'regulars' at the fitness center that the New Year's Resolutioners would clear out by March, and we'd have the whole place to ourselves once again. My boyfriends always worked out too. I NEVER ate fast food. I was so disciplined, people hated me. I'd often get asked for advice on how to get in shape. I used to tell people that they had the time to work out, they just didn't take the time. I have since apologized to those people. I never imagined I would go months without working out. I never imagined I'd drive through McDonalds for a McFish Sandwich and not feel a twinge of remorse. I NEVER IMAGINED HOW FRICKIN' HARD IT WOULD BE TO DEAL WITH SMALL CHILDREN AND ONE LARGE ONE WHO IS A REALLY BAD INFLUENCE, AND TRY TO EAT RIGHT AND WORK OUT. PLEASE FORGIVE ME EVERYONE WHO FELT LIKE A SCHLUB BECAUSE I MADE YOU FEEL YOU WERE WEAK! I AM WEAK! I AM THE WEAKEST EVERRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!

Whew. Now, it's time to be accountable. I know this isn't just about eating. I know a lot of this is because I feel left out of the mix. It doesn't matter to anyone if my pants are tight. I am invisible. People look right past me. Sure there is a kind of freedom that comes with that -- I can now leave the house without even washing my face and there will be no consequence. Nobody cares. I used to have a reputation to keep up. Now, I have a different reputation... One that I never aspired to. I am now the middle-aged, peri-menopausal, overweight, stretch-jean wearing, no make-up wearing, small child-toting, no job-having, not interesting-seeming, Invisible Woman. The fact that I was once known to be attractive and funny, relevant and hot is lost on everyone, including me. Now, I'm not saying I want to be who I once was -- she's gone and that's fine. I just want to be who I ought to be at this time in my life -- and I have let myself down.

I am going to get a life outside of being the Invisible Mom. I got myself an insurance license a year ago and it's time I made some of my own money. That's right -- I don't need to feel totally dependent on someone else. That is the WORST. Probably because my husband sometimes plays the "I'm the one who makes the money" card. Boy, do I hate that. (Don't pass judgement -- we're all flawed.) If I feel like I can make a financial contribution, I will feel better about myself anyway. And, I will get some gratification from that. I need gratification from other sources besides taste buds.

Where else can I get gratification? Forget sexual gratification. I am peri-menopausal and I hate my body. I don't even want to fantisize about sex because I don't even want to be seen naked in my dreams! My poor husband. I try to do my job -- THAT'S RIGHT, I SAID "JOB", but lucky for me, he usually falls asleep on the couch before the kids go down. And he's not in very good shape either. I had the good habits when we met, and I thought I would be a good influence on him, but it turned out to be the other way around. Not that I'm blaming him -- I am responsible for my own predicament. But he sure didn't help. When I get myself back in shape, I will feel desireable again, and THEN I might bother to wake my husband up.

So, although I've never been one to make New Year's Resolutions, I'm going to have to do it. I've had it and I have no one to blame but myself. I want to feel good about myself again without having to be single and in control of every aspect of my life. I have to be able to eat right EVEN IF I HAVE TO KEEP OREOS IN THE HOUSE. EVEN IF I HAVE TO TAKE TWO PROTESTING CHILDREN TO THE HEALTH CLUB WITH ME. EVEN IF I HAVE TO DRIVE THRU FOR HAPPY MEALS AND GET A SALAD FOR MYSELF. EVEN IF MY HUSBAND HAS A GUT AND CAN'T GIVE UP BEER. I also have to make some kind of career for myself, albeit part time. Even if I have to do business with TWO SCREAMING CHILDREN IN THE BACKGROUND WHEN I'M ON THE PHONE. EVEN IF I HAVE TO DRAG THEM WITH ME OR FIND SOMEONE TO WATCH THEM FOR FREE IF I HAVE AN APPOINTMENT. EVEN IF I HAVE TO GET DINNER DELIVERED... Oh, wait... I already do that. EVEN IF I HAVE TO DO IT MORE. WHATEVER IT TAKES! THINGS ARE GOING TO CHANGE, BABY, THINGS ARE GOING TO CHANGE!

I got one more day before 2006. I'm gonna have to eat something REALLY GOOD.

A New Prince On The Throne

Jen — Tue, 20 Dec 2005 04:22:00 +0000

Nicholas just turned three in November. Several months before that, he discovered the Big Potty and would pee in it to be like his big brother. Anyway, after a while, the novelty of the potty wore off, and the convenience of the pull-up won over. For a little while, I didn't mind, because I remember that Gabriel did the same thing. You can't force it, as much as you try. So, to entice him, I bought him some new underwear of the Buzz Lightyear, Spiderman and Nemo varieties. "I wanna wear my nunderwear!" Oh, I thought I had him for sure... No problem. We're on our way!

So Nicholas put on his 'nunderwear' and had a few accidents. That's to be expected. But one would think that after pissing on oneself several times, and realizing the unpleasantness of it all, one would stop. And, after a while, Nicholas DID stop peeing in his underwear. Instead, he would run into his room, take off his underwear, put on a pull-up and PROCEED TO PEE! Afterword, he would remove the pull-up, drop it in the trash and put his underwear back on. Backwards, I might add, because the cool picture of Spiderman is on the backside, and what good is it if you can't see it! Anyway, this wasn't all bad, except when he pooped, because I still had to clean that -- and that boy's poop is as bad as any grown man's.

Anyway, last Sunday morning was the last straw. He woke up with a dry pull-up, announced that he was going to put on his Scooby-Doo underwear, stood there and emptied his bladder into his pull-up before replacing them with backward underwear. "THAT'S IT! NO MORE PULL-UPS! PULL-UPS ARE FOR NIGHT-NIGHT ONLY!" I gathered every last pair and put them up in his closet where he could not see them. "LET THE GAMES BEGIN!"

The first time he had to pee, he ran into his room looking for his little pull-on porto-potties and found none. "I wanna pull-up!" he cried.
"Nope, pull-ups are for night-night. Pull-ups are all gone. You have to pee in the potty." And I walked out. He looked around frantically, crying "I wanna pull-up! Where's my pull-up!" I just shrugged and said "All gone". Finally, he couldn't take it anymore and almost didn't make it to the potty. But he did. And later, he had no choice but to poop in the potty too. Oh, he was HYSTERICAL! Sitting on the pot, holloring for a pull-up, furious that he was not in control! Well, he got quiet for a moment, and all of a sudden I hear "I DID IT!" And he continued to do it for the rest of the day. And now, it's been a full week and it's over! No more panic when the pull-up stash gets low! No more fear of running out of wipes! No more fear of having to USE the wipes! No more rolling the trash can as far away from the house as possible! I can't believe the joy I am deriving from this victory. The thrill I get from casually passing by the diaper section of the grocery store knowing I'M DONE WITH THAT CRAP! LITERALLY!

Gabriel 1; Craig 0

Jen — Sun, 04 Dec 2005 03:37:00 +0000

My husband never learns. He makes promises to Gabriel for stuff he'll do tomorrow, believing his own bullshit that he'll want to do it. Yesterday, he told Gabriel (five years old) he'd take him bowling, and Gabriel has been talking about it all day. Well, Craig slept in, so he had a late start to begin with. Then, it was a gorgeous day, and lucky for him, Gabriel likes to fish too. So, he told him that he'll take him fishing, and THEN bowling. So, after returning at dusk, and polishing off a steak dinner (during which Gabriel asked if we were going to have seconds because he was anticipating how much longer it would be before we left for the bowling alley), Craig realized there was a big boxing match on HBO. Straight from the pages of "Bad Parenting", and the chapter entitled "Enslaving Yourself To Your Child Through Bribery", the exchange went something like this:

Craig: "Mister (we've called him "Mister" since the day he was born, as if we knew our ranking even then), how about we go to the bowling alley tomorrow and we could stay twice as long!"
Gabriel: Crinkles his nose and shakes his head as if to say, "I don't think so".
C: "But Mister, we could stay a lot longer and have a lot more fun tomorrow!" Keep in mind, he's saying all this with a "Hey! I've got a GREAT IDEA!" tone of voice.
G: "I'd rather go tonight."
C: "You know what? Tomorrow, first, we could go to Home Depot and buy some wood and build that desk you want, and THEN, we could STILL go to the BOWLING ALLEY!"
G:"....I'd rather go tonight."
C: "But Mister, isn't that a better deal?"
G: "You promised we would go."
Now this whole time, I'm very annoyed, pointing out that if he keeps breaking promises, his kid will never believe anything he says, and SHAME SHAME SHAME FOR BRIBING HIM! But, he's a desperate man, and Bernard Hopkins is fighting tonight.
C: "Mister do you know what a "deal" is? Here's a good "deal". We could go bowling tonight, OR, we could go tomorrow, and go to Home Depot for some wood to build you a desk AND TOYS, and THEN we could go to the bowling alley too, and THEN get ice cream at Sonic. Isn't that a better deal?"
G: "I don't care, I want to go tonight."
C: "Mister listen. Which is better. We could build a fire and have hot chocolate tonight, and THEN go to the bowling alley tomorrow, AND go to Home Depot, AND eat ice cream at Sonic, OR... go bowling for a little bit tonight. Which would you rather do?
G: "Let's go bowling tonight, and then do all those other things tomorrow."
C: NO! THAT'S NOT HOW THIS WORKS! WHICH IS A BETTER DEAL! DOING ALL THOSE THINGS TOMORROW AND HAVING HOT CHOCOLATE BY THE FIRE TONIGHT, OR, JUST GOING BOWLING TONIGHT FOR A FEW MINUTES. WHICH IS THE BETTER DEAL?"
G: Silent.
C: (Obviously encouraged by Gabriel's pause) "Doesn't that sound like a better deal? Doing ALL THOSE THINGS TOMORROW! GOING TO HOME DEPOT FOR WOOD TO BUILD TOYS AND GOING TO THE BOWLING ALLEY AND GETTING ICE CREAM AND HAVING HOT CHOCOLATE TONIGHT BY THE FIRE? OR... going bowling for a short time tonight and not getting to do all those other things at all. Which is the better deal?
G: (Smiling) ...ummm...going tomorrow?
C: YES! ISN'T THAT MUCH BETTER? ALLRIGHT! GOOD BOY, MISTER! THAT'S THE BEST DEAL!

Thank God I'm the one who stays home with this child. If we changed places, Gabriel would have a checkbook and keys to the city by the end of the week.

My Big Fat Family

Jen — Fri, 02 Dec 2005 01:58:00 +0000

Every five years, we have a family reunion in San Antonio and we take a big group picture. Sounds pretty typical, until you get into the numbers. I remember when I saw "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" and Toula said she had 27 first cousins alone. I said to myself... WUSSY. There are 61 of us (including myself) who are first cousins. And, since my mom and her sister married my dad and his brother in a double wedding, I have 10 first cousins who are related to me both on my mother's side AND my father's side. Of course, this family reunion was only my dad's side, so 19 of my first cousins on my mom's side weren't there. But about 300 people were. These are descendants of my grandfather and his two brothers, and my grandmother and her two sisters. That's a whole lotta lovin' goin' on. The sheer numbers may lead you to believe we are Catholic, and you would be right, so the stereotype doesn't offend me at all.

One of my cousins just got married in Vegas (the rebel!) and had an open house reception over the holiday so that everyone would be in town to wish them well. I love this when a poor hapless outsider gets introduced to my family. That greek wedding movie may have seemed corny, but it was very real for me. We are of Lebanese descent and are very much like the Greeks -- some of the food is very similar. And quite delicious. So we are ethnic and loud, love to eat, multiply in abundance, and get mistaken for Italians. Most of the men and women look like they could be cast in The Sopranos. The young groom and his mother got to be present for the panoramic photo shoot complete with bleachers and color-coded t-shirts. It was hard to tell if their wild-eyed look was bewilderment or fear. We took the photo outside of our church where a big section of the parking lot was taped off (I say "our church" because my family built it, thank you very much). At the reception, the mother didn't say much except for "I have one cousin". Poor baby.

So the reunion was on Thanksgiving and the wedding reception was on Friday. Well, on Saturday, one of my aunts and her husband celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary. Their eleven children threw quite a party.

We drove back to Rowlett (just east of Dallas) on Sunday evening. Damn, things sure are quiet over here...

Palm Sunday

Jen — Wed, 23 Nov 2005 01:22:00 +0000

I went to Mass with a friend on Sunday. About two-thirds the way through, my peripheral vision picked up an image I had to confirm. The tiny woman in front of me had put some change in the collection basket and, wait a minute -- did her hand look really huge? The Seinfeld episode of the beautiful woman with the "man-hands" came to mind. I mustered up an image of what I thought I saw and decided for certain I was exaggerating it with my own mind. No, those thumbnails surely were not the size of quarters. I waited for another glimpse, but her hands stayed concealed. I thought of mentioning it to Catherine, but decided against it -- that would be wrong, especially in church. Then suddenly, without warning, it was time to recite the Our Father and everyone raised their hands to shoulder height and clasped the hands of their neighbor. Lord, I had not made it up. I swear, her thumbs were the size of mice. They didn't look like diseased hands either, they weren't twisted or frozen, just otherworldy-large. On a petite little lady. I glanced at Catherine, her eyes wide with disbelief and her mouth hanging open, and she was taking in the woman's right hand, then her left, and then she looked at me and we both knew what the other was thinking and we just lost it. There's a special kind of laughter that is so inappropriate, so out of control, so difficult to smother, that it's usually reserved for funerals. I shared that kind of laughter with Catherine on Sunday. We never said a word to eachother as we shook violently, somehow managing to stay relatively quiet. We could not look at eachother. I had tears streaming down my face as I frantically searched for a kleenex and gasped for breath. We could not speak, we dared not let this lady wonder why we were laughing. Because she had to know. She had to know she had freakishly large paws on the ends of petite, graceful forearms. Then it was time to give eachother the sign of peace -- which means shaking the hands of everyone around you. Next thing we knew, her meaty stumps were reaching out to us and we had to muster Academy-Award-winning performances to protect her from our obvious shock. This woman could feed a small family Thanksgiving Dinner with the meat from one hand. I couldn't look at Catherine until we got outside.

Unfortunately, after reading this over, it appears this is one of those stories where you had to be there... Man, it was so damn funny when it happened...such a shame.

I Wanna Live In His World

Jen — Wed, 16 Nov 2005 04:55:00 +0000

Nicholas turned three today. Wow. It seems like only yesterday when... (flashback comes into focus here) I was big as a house, in my third trimester with Nicholas, and I found myself shopping at Walmart one evening. I was very happy, because I was all by myself, having left Gabriel (two at the time) at home with his dad (probably the ONLY time that ever happened). I was shopping, which is different from running through the store replacing what you've used up. You see, you get to "shop" when you don't have kids with you; you simply "replace", as fast as you can, when you're towing kids. Anyway, I was really enjoying this, though exhausted, because it was a true luxury to get to shop. So, I called Craig, to ask his opinion on a purchase I was considering, and the exchange went something like this:

"Hey, Honey I just --"
"I CAN'T TALK! OMIGOD YOU WOULDN'T BELIEVE --"
"What's wrong?!"
"GABRIEL JUST SHIT ALL OVER THE PLACE! HE GOT IT ALL OVER THE CARPET! IT WENT ALL THE WAY UP HIS BACK! UP TO HIS SHOULDERS! I CAN'T BELIEVE IT -- IT'S EVERYWHERE --I GOTTA GO!"
"Wow, sorry --"CLICK.

At this point I found myself grinning from ear to ear. I continued to stroll ever so leisurely through the store, sighing happily, truly in ecstasy, knowing that my dearly beloved was suffering what I had come to know as EVERYDAY LIFE. I even found myself laughing aloud, while taking my sweet time. No, I was in no hurry to get home.... yeah... Let HIM handle it.

Well, I arrived at home only to discover how well he "handled" it. As I approached the back door, the smell of shit smacked me right in the face because Gabriel's pants had been tossed outside. That's the way my husband "puts away" everything -- he just lets go of it, and it ceases to exist in his world. Well, in my world, there was a small pair of pants full of shit at my feet. I stepped over them and went inside only to find the smell was in there as well. "I was afraid to clean the shit off the carpet because I don't know how to," Craig offered. My head began to fill with raging blood at this remark, and I began to yell. "NOBODY JUST KNOWS HOW! YOU JUST DO IT! THAT'S HOW YOU LEARN! YOU'RE NOT BORN KNOWING HOW TO CLEAN SHIT OFF THE CARPET! YOU JUST DO IT!" I was ready to pop a vein. "YOU JUST LEFT IT FOR ME, DIDN'T YOU! WELL, YOU CAN JUST FORGET IT! I'M NOT CLEANING IT! AND I'M NOT CLEANING THE PANTS!"

My words were still hanging in the air when Craig said "Call Ralph." Whaaa?... Ralph is our carpet cleaning guy. You see, if Craig doesn't want to do something, he just throws money at it. Of course, that's only after he can't get his wife to do it for free. Nice world he lives in. Ralph said he'd do it for forty dollars. "Just keep it moist with wet paper towels." Ewww...

And the pants? Craig told me to just throw them away. End of story. Wow. I like his world. If I behaved like that in my world, we wouldn't have anything left and I'd have to go replacing all the time with the kids. No thanks. In my world, I clean the shit off pants with no help from anybody. And that is true to this day.

Today, Nicholas turned three and gave me a present... A large, stinky piece of shit in his pullup. Happy Birthday.

Spiderperson

Jen — Fri, 04 Nov 2005 07:44:00 +0000

I took Gabriel to a schoolmate's 6th birthday party today with a Spiderman theme. About 10 or so boys were playing together when the grandpa yelled out that there was a Surprise Guest outside. I stood in the foyer looking outside with some of the other parents and saw the boys talking to Spiderman himself. Or so I thought. The foam muscle under the suit didn't seem to fit very well, so I asked the mom if he was a friend or a professional. She laughed and said "Professional". I looked back outside and thought he just looked odd. And short. We all joked that he was really Toby McGuire.

So Spiderman herded the children into the house to sit in a circle on the floor. As he made his way through the doorway, we adults heard his voice for the first time. No, that would be wrong. We adults heard HER voice for the first time. That's right, folks -- it was an Equal Opportunity party gig featuring a Super Hero who was most certainly getting 75% of what a man would get doing the same job. And I didn't help matters much when I suggested to the parents to demand a discount.

Next, the hormonally-challenged Spidey did magic tricks and sang songs and danced with the kids. Although she tried to move like a man,
her moves were somewhat effeminate. She didn't look exactly like a woman because of the fake muscles and flattened boobs; she just seemed like a really, really gay Spiderman. (Now, the name Peter Parker seemed kind of fitting.) Most of the parents were either trying hard not to laugh or trying hard to pretend this wasn't disturbing. We all shuddered when she threw around the name "Mary Jane" to up her credibility. It was painful to watch. There were two boys who didn't participate at all -- they just weren't buying it. They simply looked on with a high degree of annoyance like some giant fraud had invaded the party... A giant fraud who shouldn't be wearing a skintight suit that gave away the fact that 1) she had carried at least one child, 2) she had the hips to birth that child, and 3) she did not have the equipment to be the father of said child.

Afterward, I asked Gabriel what he thought of Spiderman.
"Mom, that wasn't really Spiderman."
"Why do you think that?"
"Well, Spiderman doesn't have that weird voice", he said.
"Whattya mean?"
Exasperated, Gabriel just looked at me like I'm some kind of a dumbass, and declared "MOM. SPIDERMAN'S NOT REAL. THAT WAS JUST A COSTUME."

Oh YEAH? Well, let's talk about SANTA, shall we?

Fear Factor

Jen — Thu, 03 Nov 2005 05:20:00 +0000

Today, Gabriel fell asleep in his carseat with a handful of live earthworms. Yecchhh! They died there in his palm after dehydrating for 20 minutes. I had to use a baby wipe to clean them off his hand -- they were kind of stuck to him. I am so grossed out.

Mom! I'm Gonna Take This Umbrella, Jump Off The Counter, And FLOAT To The Ground!

Jen — Wed, 05 Oct 2005 07:10:00 +0000

I'm forever returning shoes to our neighbors whose children forget them at our house, and likewise retrieving my own children's shoes from their homes. This is one of those things that separates the adult mindset from a child's. Can you imagine going to someone's house, taking off your shoes, and then walking home and not realizing you're barefoot? Unless you live on a tropical island or you're really, really drunk, it's just not gonna happen.

Another thing that is so refreshing about children is they think everything is possible. Case in point: Tonight, as we were watching television, Gabriel turned to me and said "Mom, can we get a hot-air balloon? Please?" So cute.

But If She's Got The Mumps, I'm All Over It

Jen — Fri, 30 Sep 2005 21:31:00 +0000

The guys on the afternoon show of my favorite talk radio station (SportsRadio 1310 The Ticket) were doing a bit called "Ladies' Day" where they take calls from female listeners and try to get sexual innuendos in as much as possible. After one particular caller said she just got new boobs, the guys were oohing and ahhing. Then she added, "Yeah, I just had breast cancer and now I've got new ones so they don't SAG anymore!" Complete silence commenced. It was as if they went off the air. Then one of them mentioned "pant deflation", and another one summed it up with "Cancer is a real chubby-killer". I can learn alot from these guys.

Lights Out

Jen — Thu, 29 Sep 2005 22:37:00 +0000

My husband is out of town, so I was the only one in charge last night. During a sudden, tumultuous thunderstorm, the electricity went out. The lightning was relentless, but that was a good thing, because it provided light while I scrambled for candles, matches, flashlights and -- oh yes -- our youngest child.

Right before the outage, I had Gabriel, my 5 year-old, at the front window of the house watching the rain and lightning in an effort to keep him interested in a "Wow, look at that!" kind of way rather than the usual "WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE" kind of way. It never occurred to me that the power would go out. Meanwhile, Nicholas, 7 weeks short of 3, was on the computer in our office playing games on nickjr.com. He was so obsessed with Lazytown games, he ignored the loud report of the thunderclaps that would normally have him filling his pull-ups. He usually comes running to me at the sound of a garbage truck -- just to give you an idea of the hold The Computer has on him. I kept calling out for him to come see the cool lightning bolts, but he had no time for such foolishness. That is, until the lights went out.

All of a sudden, Mommy became popular again. I had put Big Boy underwear on him less than an hour before, not foreseeing an event of pee-in-your pants proportions was about to occur. After I found poor little wet Nicholas, I managed to locate some candles and matches. I'm very uncomfortable with the candles because they don't work unless they're ON FIRE, so I wanted very badly to locate the flashlight that I had recently purchased for just such an occasion. Turns out, our only two flashlights were several feet out of my reach behind a giant wall unit in our office. Apparently, the kids (mine and our neighbor's) had tried to get our two cats to come out from behind said unit by putting light in their faces. Great plan. The cats eventually came out, but the flashlights did not. I had to snag 'em with a straightened wire hanger by the light of a votive candle with a small child under each armpit as the unairconditioned temperatures rose into the upper 80's. Good times. And my reward was one burnt out flashlight, and another one in the shape of a lion that roars when you turn it on, and then turns itself off every thirty seconds.

The rest of the evening was rather uneventful, since we were forced back in time to the days of no electricity. I bathed the kids by candlelight and read them a couple of storybooks, pausing only to turn the flashlight back on every thirty seconds. I couldn't believe it when Gabriel suggested we go to sleep! Well, no TV, no computer, no light to play by, hell -- let's crash!

I have to say, however, once I had some form of light, I enjoyed the entire evening. Those little boys seemed so much smaller and innocent than usual in the candlelight, their big eyes looking to me for comfort. They were dressed down to their tighty-whities, and their little bodies were constantly huddling around me and I ate it up. I was hugging on them right back -- they smelled so good and felt so soft -- they're the best thing that ever happened to me. The three of us piled into my king-sized bed in the pitch blackness of the then quiet night and my feelings of contentment were tempered only by the pity I had for my poor husband who had missed out on our little adventure.

Call Social Services...

Jen — Wed, 14 Sep 2005 16:45:00 +0000

A friend of Gabriel's from school came over for the first time yesterday. I picked him up from his house and immediately felt self-conscious as I buckled him into my 4-runner. "I've been meaning to clean this truck out, but it's been so hot..." I said to his mother as she looked on. I tried my best to wipe away the gum, Nerds, and graham cracker crumbs from the seat I was strapping her kid to, but she was cool, or perhaps just happy to get rid of her 5-year old for a few precious hours. When we pulled up to our house from the alley and opened our gate, I suddenly noticed all the crap we have in our back yard and strewn about the patio, creating an obstacle course to our back door. He's just a kindergartener who is NOT thinking we're slobs, I kept telling myself. "Sorry about the mess", I hear myself say. What the hell? I know DAMN WELL this kid doesn't even know I'm talking to him.

Then, we enter the house.

Sneakers and socks on the floor...cold food on Spiderman plates...juice spills on the table...a tricycle and a scooter in the house...Dora the Explorer on the tv...and this is just the living room! I immediately begin to rationalize...

When this kid grows up, he'll have fond memories of the Todd Family. "I used to love to go to Gabriel's house", he'll reminisce. "His mom was the coolest. At our house, we always had to keep it so neat -- my parents were so strict. It wasn't ANY fun. But at the Todd house, ahhh yes, they were so warm and loving and loud and messy -- I just THRIVED there! They weren't all caught up with "making their beds" and "picking up their clothes" or riding their bikes "outside" -- they REALLY knew how to LIVE LIFE. I want MY house to be like that. I want MY son's friends to remember OUR house that way... (Sigh) I wonder how ol' Gabe is doing..."

That lasts for about a minute. Then I realize I'd better get some of this crap put away before I infect this kid with salmonella, or he trips over a scooter and breaks a bone, or Gabriel accidentally pulls up porn on our computer, or I start yelling and scare the hell out of him........

In Case of Fire...

Jen — Wed, 31 Aug 2005 22:47:00 +0000

Whenever I see firemen in full fire-fighting garb, I remember a time they came to my rescue. Sort of.

This particular event occurred sometime in the 80's when I was living in an apartment building in Denver, the kind with elevators and a lobby. I was working at a nightclub and dating a musician, so I dare say, I was pretty cool back then.

One night, I was getting ready to go to bed and I had just turned the lights out in the living area. I was really tired and knew I would fall asleep within seconds of hitting the bed, and I couldn't wait to crash. As I walked by the little kitchenette, I just happened to glance at the vent above the stove, and this is where it all goes awry. Why couldn't I have just continued on and gone to bed? I asked myself that question over and over that night. I'll never know why this thought entered my mind, but it went something like this..."Hmmm, I've never turned on that fan in that vent as long I've lived here." And lord knows why, but I reached over in the dark, barely slowing my stride, and flicked it on. And it burst into flames. That's right. Fire. The flames went out almost as quickly as they appeared, and I moved in to check it out. I looked up into the vent and could see a small flame, still burning, out of reach, with no indication that it would burn itself out. So there I was. All ready to snuggle in my warm bed, but unable to because I'VE STARTED A FIRE. Why couldn't I have waited until morning to try it out? And what had I expected would happen when I flicked the switch? It's not like I had never turned on a vent fan before! Did I expect this vent fan would be different from other vent fans? Omigod, this one is different! IT CATCHES ON FIRE WHEN YOU FLICK IT ON! Should I throw water up there? No, you idiot, this is an electric appliance! So, even though it was once again dark in my apartment, that damn flame was up there and I was on the seventh floor of a 14 story building -- people were at risk! I stood there and tried to rationalize going to bed. It wasn't gonna happen. As small as it appeared, it was a fire, dammit! I had no choice -- I had to call the fire department.

I'm sure I was one of the most uncertain 911 callers ever, but I was connected to the fire department. I told them exactly what happened and was really hoping they would tell me not to worry about it and to go to bed. But NOOOOO, they told me to go to the lobby and wait for them. I go downstairs and I'm the only one there. Apparently, this was a fire that was big enough for me to evacuate my apartment, but small enough to let everyone else slumber on unaffected. As I sat on a step in front of the elevator, in my pajamas, the fire truck arrived quietly. Apparently, this was a fire that was big enough to dispatch a firetruck, but small enough to do so without sirens. They spoke to me briefly and courteously, then headed to my apartment. Now here's the vision that will always be etched in my mind. Four firefighters, in full dress, yellow hats, oxygen masks, and axes in hand, pushing the button to the elevator... That's right, folks. The thing you are supposed to AVOID IN CASE OF A FIRE. There they stood, waiting for the elevator, as I looked on in disbelief. There's a sign right there that said, "in case of fire, use the stairs", but they paid no heed. Apparently, this was a fire big enough to don gas masks and wield axes, but small enough to take the freaking ELEVATOR. It dinged, the door opened, and they filed in, faced outward, and with Another Day Another Dollar looks on their faces, the door slowly shut. You could see one of the firemen reaching over to push "7" on the panel just as the door closed.

I guess it was about half an hour later when the firemen came down the elevator and told me it was safe to go back. I thanked them and returned to my apartment. Finally, the moment I had waited for! I turned out the lights, and made my way to my bedroom, carefully avoiding the urge to flick on appliances. I then crawled into my warm, snuggly bed and laid there. For hours. Wide awake.

Never At A Loss...

Jen — Sun, 28 Aug 2005 21:19:00 +0000

Comments from a five year-old:

Describing a fellow kindergartener: "He's an African... or very, very tanned."

Referring to The Three Stooges: "Those guys are good actors!"

Argument for the existence of ghosts: "I saw it on Scooby Doo."

Comments from a two and a half year-old:

A song he made up: "Stinky, poopy diaper... (pause) Cat butt."

A telephone conversation: "Hello! What? What? (pause) Cat butt."

At the end of EVERY SENTENCE: "... (pause) Cat butt."

Sweet Madonna

Jen — Sat, 20 Aug 2005 01:59:00 +0000

My 5 year-old boy, Gabriel, started kindergarten this week. After all the sentimental stuff about how my baby is growing up, there's the practical part -- okay, maybe selfish part -- about me getting a freakin' BREAK. I remember fantisizing about what I was going to do with all those hours... maybe I'll clean out closets, organize the office, get my fat ass to the gym, get a career, sleep if I feel like it -- WHAT? He's in class for only 3 hours? You mean, after I drop him off, I can do a load of wash, and then I have to pick him up? That's right, ladies and gentlemen. THREE SHORT HOURS. Now, I DID have a choice. The school in our area DOES have full day kindergarten. We're talkin' a full 8 to 3. But, on the recommendation of professional people whom we respect, we had him tested for the magnet schools, and he tested in. So my choice was between giving my son what may be an exemplary education, or giving myself HOURS AND HOURS OF FREEDOM AND THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS... I am ashamed to say that I did take pause, but, as most moms do, I decided in favour of my child. Oh, sweet, giving, Madonna -- Yeah, RIGHT. I still have a two and a half year old boy named Nicholas to deal with, so I was screwed all along.

Thief

Jen — Sun, 07 Aug 2005 04:54:00 +0000

I always feel a little more attractive right after a haircut, and this day was no different. Afterword, I had gone into the changing room to remove the salon's robe and put my shirt back on. After checking my new do in the mirror, I walked out with a bounce in my step waving goodbye to the hairstylists as they admired my coif. I got in my car and drove to Walmart, since I had some time to kill before picking up my boys from Mother's Day Out. Plus, I was lookin' too good to be alone in my house.

So I'm talking to a friend on my cell phone while looking at some cheap jewelry when a call comes in. I ignore it until I'm off the phone. After hanging up, I look to see who'd called and it was my hair stylist. She'd left a message. "Hi, Jennifer. Listen, could you check and see if you're wearing the right shirt? A woman here says the shirt in the changing room isn't hers and I saw you leave with a white shirt on..." At this point, the message seems to be in slow motion and IIII'MMM SSSPINNNNINNG AROUNNNND, PULLLINNNG FRANTICALLLLLY ONN THE TAGGG OF THE SSSHIRT TRYINNNG TO REEAAAD TTTHE LLLLABELLL......TALBOTS! Omigod! My shirt is NOT from TALBOTS! That store's pretty expensive, isn't it? I AM NOT WORTHY OF THIS SHIRT! "...and if it is, we know you didn't take it on purpose..." WHAT? THEY THINK I TOOK IT ON PURPOSE? As if they know this shirt is nicer. OH CRAP! THEY KNOW THIS SHIRT IS NICER! SHE'S GOT MY SHIRT! AND I GOT IT FROM... HERE! WALMART! OH PLEASE, GOD, DON'T LET THE LABEL SAY WALMART!

Well, it didn't matter if the label said Walmart, when I called the owner of the shirt I was soiling, I blurted it out... THAT'S RIGHT, SISTER. I SHOP AT WALMART. And not just for groceries and such. Yeah, sometimes I'll pick up a shirt... And your fancy more expensive shirt? WELL, IT LOOKED SO MUCH LIKE MY WALMART SHIRT, I MISTOOK IT FOR MINE. So, NOW who's the fool, eh? EH?

Yeah. I think it's pretty clear who the fool is...

"Crazy Cool" Mom

Jen — Tue, 02 Aug 2005 19:03:00 +0000

So there I was sitting with a young (meaning "younger than me") woman pitching a cleaning service to me. I make her laugh a couple of times because dammit, I'm funny. She was impressed and even said something like "You are so funny". She thought I was COOL! Desperate to not just maintain my funniness in her eyes but to also prove to her that I am CRAZY cool, and without even pausing to think of what I was about to say (because I'm funny, dammit -- I can trust my instincts), I shoot out what I think is a hilarious remark:

Younger Than Me: "...and one of the things we do do, is --"
Me: "You said 'doo doo'." (With a stupid youknowI'mfunny smirk on my face/twinkle in my eye.)

Now, to begin with, I've never even seen a single Beavis and Butthead episode, so that's pop-culture-reference-FRAUD. Second, is that show even in re-runs? Would that make it out-of-date-pop-culture-reference-FRAUD? How LAME is THAT?! And third, she's a girl -- not in the Beavis and Butthead target demo -- so she probably didn't even get it! So what does this mean? IT MEANS SHE DOESN'T THINK I'M "CRAZY COOL", SHE JUST THINKS I'M CRAZY!

Thoughts going through Younger Than Me's head: "Did she just say that? 'YOU SAID DOO DOO'? What the hell is that supposed to mean? What, is she a twelve year old boy? And the way she was looking at me? Ewww! SHE IS SICK. Omigod, please just sign this contract you WEIRDO! I'VE GOT TO GET OUT OF HERE BEFORE SHE TRIES TO FONDLE ME OR SOMETHING!"

Of course, I couldn't really hear what she was thinking, but I could sure sense something. And although my what-is-cool/funny instincts are somewhat off, my I've-made-an-ass-of-myself instincts are right on.

So, here is what I know to be true: YOU CANNOT BE COOL DURING A MIDLIFE CRISIS. Learn from this. Save yourself the humiliation.