Creep Show

Q: What's worse than having a creeper for a kid?
A: Having two creepers for kids

So we all know how weird, gross, sometimes dangerous, and always insane kids are. I'm sure everyone among us has witnessed their over-the-top bizarre behavior, from public nudity to brutally honest conversation starters (or...enders, as the case may be. Nothing produces a recording-scratching, cricket-chirping silence like a child asking why you have an ugly mole on your face or pointing out how you like to pick your nose in the car).

My kids are no exception.
They're weird. Like, lets put some sand down our diapers and then pelvic thrust for a while just for fun weird.
So it didn't really phase me when Isaac dubbed himself Chancellor of Body Parts and decided to take a survey of what was under every shirt and skirt he encountered.
I mean, I get it.
He's a curious little monkey who wants to know what's up in there and who am I to squelch his inquisitiveness just because it breaks a few social rules?

So he's out there, exploring the nethers of close friends and family. He's looking up my sister's dress and I'm all, Awwww, he thinks he's people, and she's all could you please come over here and handle this?!?! And yeah, sometimes I'm holding him while talking to the UPS guy, not even registering that he has his hand down my shirt and is sort of waving it around (Isaac, not the UPS guy. This isn't Desperate Housewives, people).

But on a humiliation scale of 1 to 10, where 1 is Isaac sitting in a corner being neither seen nor heard, and 10 is him whipping out his little boy weenie in public and urinating on the closest pair of shoes, taking a peek at the female anatomy barely registers a 3. So I've been channeling my inner hippie and letting him have a looksee here and there.

But then I walk in on this scene:

 

And I'm all, THIS IS NOT OKAY, because he's checking out his sister's goods and she's smiling to beat the band, and last time I checked it is not 1932 and we are not living in Southern Appalachia, and GAAAAHHHH COULD YOU GUYS TAKE THE WEIRD LEVEL DOWN ABOUT SIX NOTCHES?!?!?

 

(but not before I grabbed my phone to take a pic because...yanno...precious memories are being made)

 

So I finally decide that maybe we should have the talk in which I explain how it's not okay to look up people's dresses. And he replies by pointing out how Milo is eating and Daddy wears shoes, and I realized the futility of the situation.

And then I look at Avery, knowing there is nothing I can do to prevent her from taking delight in being "aired out" as it were, and I just sigh and save the photo to my hard drive in the folder entitled PHOTOS TO SHOW FUTURE BOYFRIENDS AND GIRLFRIENDS.

 

Because if I can't prevent this creep show from happening, I can at least use it to embarrass the CRAP out of them later.

How To Poop In The Tub

So, you've decided to poop in the tub.
Congratulations!
Pooping in the tub is an excellent way to further explore the weird stuff that comes out of your body that your parents never let you play with. With careful timing and execution, pooping in the tub can be a rewarding experience that can both educate and entertain the whole family. To maximize your tub-pooping experience, we've put together an easy, step-by-step guide that will have you  defecating mid-bath and reaping the benefits in no time!

Step 1: Hell No, We Won't Go (pt.1)
If you're lucky, your parents have not yet attempted to introduce you to the Nightmare Hole they call a "Potty." Count your blessings; a Potty is actually a wormhole that will vacuum suck you into an alternate universe full of sharks and strangers. For those less fortunate, your parents may be trying to convince you to sit on the Devil Pot to rid yourself of bodily fluids and solids. Don't be fooled by promises of candy or high fives in return for this act. There is a limited amount of poop in your body and if you release it into this Terrible Void it will be gone forever and there will be none left for the tub. Simply refuse the potty as per usual.

Step 2: Lights, Camera...
Your parents hate you and want to send you to Shark and Stranger Hell so they can stay up late and not share any of their dessert and jump on the bed in peace. They therefore are highly attuned to indicators that you are about to poop so they can put you on the Potty Suckage Device as soon as possible. It is important that you respond in the negative if they ask you if you have to poop. This can be in the form of a head shake, a verbal "no," or, when all else fails, a spontaneous conversation about trains. At this point, do not squirm, flex your abdominals, or do anything else outside your normal routine. Be aware that even staring off into space can be interpreted as poop readiness, and can prompt the initiation of a speedy Poop Action Plan, or PAP, from your parents. The PAP often involves the Potty and rarely involves the tub, so this action is not advised. Carry on as normal until you are placed in the tub

Step 3: Action
You are in the tub. Huzzah! Let 'er rip.

Step 4: There Is No I in TEAM
Once your parents have discovered that you have pooped the tub, they most likely responded with something akin to "IIIEEEEEEE!!" and removed you from the water post-haste. They are now faced with the task of managing you in all your wet, naked, glory, as well as disposing of the waste and scrubbing affected surfaces. At this point, it is a good idea to help with the clean up process. This can be achieved by attempts to touch and/or smear the wastematter with a toy, a square of toilet paper, or even your hand. Obtaining a bleach-based cleaner from the cabinet while your parents aren't looking is also useful. Just be sure to demonstrate utmost concern for the situation regardless of your clean-up tactic.

Step 5: Hell No, We Won't Go (pt.2)
At some point your parents, undoubtedly thanks to your efforts, will have removed all traces of poop from the tub and have refilled it with water. They will have muttered a dozen or more obscenities (take a mental note; these can be shouted the next time you're in a public space) and if you're lucky, they've ignored you long enough for you to make the most of Naked Time by peeing on the bathroom mat (an action they likely won't discover for days or weeks). They will now attempt to place you back in the tub for final sanitation. This is the perfect time and place to remember that you are actually terrified of your bodily waste and are therefore now terrified of the bathtub. Although you will most likely lose in the end, it is still important to fight your parents with all your strength as they struggle to reintroduce you to water. Screaming, kicking, and even biting are appropriate as long as your parents, who are frazzled and exhausted, are brought to tears.

At this point you have won, and you will probably be left to your own devices for a length of time while your parents, having now been pushed to their breaking point, either argue about some unrelated incident for the remainder of the evening or split a bottle of wine. You can rest easy tonight knowing that your parents are broken creatures who will never fully recover from this experience...which as well all know is your primary directive.

Avery the Asshole Baby

I called the baby an asshole today.
 It wasn't my proudest moment.

But I had just gotten the boys down for their nap, and just arranged my comfy down pillow on the couch, and was just about to enjoy a much earned snooze - which is essentially the eye in the category 5 hurricane that is my daily life...and she started crying.

#IHateMyChildren
#NotReally
#ButSortOf

So I sighed the weariest of sighs, dragged myself off the couch as if I had three times the mass of Neptune, childishly stomped into her room, and told her exactly what I thought of her.

Of course, she didn't seem to care, which is nice. And I don't think she'll remember my calling her an asshole, which is doubly nice. But it just goes to show that long-term sleep deprivation will cause even the most well-intentioned of mothers to resort to obscenities and name-calling once in a while.

It has been roughly 300 days since I've enjoyed an uninterrupted nights' sleep. Okay, I've had the occasional night when the planets aligned and The Divine Being, in all his glory, smiled upon us and granted us respite in the form of overnight babysitting. But in general, I haven't slept for more than a few hours in a row since October of last year.
Ten months, people.
Ten long months waking up to the baby crying.
Or the silhouette of Simon standing in our darkened hallway at 3:00 am like something out of a horror movie (and taking every ounce of effort in my body not to instinctively scream in fear and roundhouse kick him in the face as he slowly walks towards me like a devil child).

And speaking of horror movies coming to life...forgetting to close the kids' door (and subsequently not hearing it open in the middle of the night), and feeling the cat brush against my back as I lay sleeping, and going to swat her and feeling fingers instead.

ANEURYSM-INDUCING PANIC

Isaac almost lost his head that night.
And I almost lost my bowels.

(JK, guys, I totally lost my bowels)

But aside from those super fun Exorcist-meets-Children-of-the-Corn moments, nine times out of ten, its Avery the asshole baby who's waking me up.
Because she's hungry.
Or hot.
Or has a poopy diaper.
Or, I dunno, upset about systematic dissolution of the middle class or something.
And sometimes she goes back to sleep and that's it, but sometimes she wakes up every half hour for the entire night until I finally feed her face-hole because GOD FORBID she go four hours without eating.

I thought Simon was bad, because it took him 7 months to sleep through the night (between you and me, he's a bit of an asshole too). And the problem with that is once you get a non-sleeper (aka asshole) child, you hedge your bets and assume that the next child is guaranteed to sleep through the night at 3 weeks because you've earned it.

We humans are a ridiculous and illogical species.

If there was such a thing as Karma, my ex husband would be in jail and married to an inmate named "Big Jim"...which, last I checked, he is not.  And if there was such a thing as God, I'm pretty sure he's too tied up in the most recent round of Israel vs. Palestine Missile Toss to play SandMan to my asshole baby.

So, lacking Karma and the attention of a very busy God who may or may not be out of his depth in the middle east, I'm left to endure my own little white, middle-class, suburban struggle of sleep deprivation.

All I'm saying is, if I have to deal with first-world problems, can I at least get a Keurig up in here?!?

And somewhere out there, there's a jerk-face person (who was probably an asshole baby too) who's saying "But Lily, you wanted children more than anything. You made your bed, NOW LAY IN IT"

And to them, I want to say:
1. Excellent, if not exceedingly cruel, pun. My hat off to you sir. ...and
2. Go pound sand.
It is an honor and a privilege to be a mother and an honor and privilege to complain about my asshole kids. If you gave me the choice right now, as I'm dropping a mixture of espresso and Red Bull into my eye sockets, to go back and not have kids, I would refuse.
They are my light and my life. They are my world.
They just happen, at the moment, to be assholes.

I'm just calling it like I see it.

So I will continue to wake up every night until they all sleep soundly. Partially because it's an honor and privilege to be a mother, but mostly because I'm required by law to see to their needs.

And also, because I'm already preparing a series of blistering one-liners for when they call me, as parents, and complain about how sleep deprived they are because their asshole babies keep waking up.

#Revenge

Lost in Translation

You know what's making me tired lately?

Well...let me rephrase that.

You know what's making me tired lately, BEYOND THE FACT that I've usually changed 6 diapers by 10:00 am, and we use an average of 4 dishwasher loads of utensils and dinnerware per meal, and I spend the majority of my days breaking up spontaneous mosh pits while lugging around an 18-lb hunk of drooling, cranky, teething baby?

This "sort of talking but not really" nonsense.

I know, I know.
Every parent on the planet is happy to volunteer the ole' "you want them to talk, and then they start talking, and all you want them to do is shut up" gem. (and most of them think they're they ONLY person to come up with this bit of wisdom, god bless their overly-helpful souls). And I am fully aware that clear communication between children and their parents is generally an awful and terrible thing - full of "why??"s and, later, uncomfortable "birds and bees" talks, and what have you.

I am fully aware that there is a lot going on in those overly active brains, and I honestly want nothing to do with 99% of it.

But here's the thing:

When they're just babbling, you can ignore them.
And when they're talking, you can have discussions (or ignore them, depending on your parenting style).
But when they're sort of talking, you spend your days translating seemingly nonsensical terms into coherent requests and observations, mostly based on context rather than the actual noises coming out of their adorable little faces.

It's like traveling to a foreign country, where nothing anybody says is recognizable, and  you struggle to pull out words amongst the jibberish. Problem is, when one of these locals asks you a question that you don't understand, and you try to communicate your confusion, instead of nodding and walking away, they usually start screaming and attempt to slap you in the face. I've never been to France, but I can only imagine it's a lot like that. But with less cigarette smoking and more goldfish crackers.

By the end of the day, my brain is a puddle of mush from trying to distinguish between "car" and "air" and "careful"  and "cat" and lord knows what else. The consequences of misinterpretation range from mild frustration to full on body assaults and tantrums. Mistaking "drink" for "dish" is an act of war. Thinking they want peanut butter when they really want to tell you that they just went Pee Pee (thanks for the info, btw) could result in a roundhouse kick to the shin.

Sidenote: I have so many bruises that for a moment I was scared I was developing some sort of hematologic malignancy before I came to my senses and realized that I've essentially become the Wiley Coyote to their Road Runner.

Dear Boys:
I AM TIRED. Taking care of you and your sister takes a phenomenal amount of physical, mental, and emotional strength. I feed you. I comfort you. I kiss your boo-boos and I retrieve your binkeys and toys from the depths of the crusty, gritty, utterly disgusting couch. I clean your privates and cut your nails and watch horribly predictable and one dimensional cartoon shows over and over again because you love them. I do a lot for you. And all I ask is that you speak coherent words. Talking isn't that hard. I have over-enunciated until I'm blue in the face. Next time, pay attention. Figure out the difference between "M" and "N" and "Sh" and for the love of god, SPEAK ENGLISH. Or Spanish. I will learn Spanish for you if that's what you want to speak. Just speak already. I guarantee you, we will all get along a lot better (and mommy won't fantasize about buckling you into the minivan, putting on a DVD, and walking away for at least an hour).

Love,
The Articulate Pacifist...your mother.