Friday, March 22, 2013

I Set a Record.

Dear Diary, 

     Tuesday of this week, I was awoken somewhere around 6:20 AM by the sound of laughter and shortness of breath accompanied by claws in the carpet by taking sharp turns while running. "What is going on?", I thought. As I opened the bedroom door, I see my 3 year old, holding this knife (shown below) and chasing my dog around the living room couches. Right after my eyes tried making a run for it by popping out of my face, I grabbed the knife, wondering how he even got it. Then I sent my son to his room to go back to bed. I'm guessing he'd woken up around 5:45 AM and had been playing for a while. Not the best way to start my morning, but I got over it. Until Thursday

     Thursday morning, I opened my bedroom door and in wafted an overwhelming scent of dog poop. My dog had slept in the living room. Coincidence? No way. I started the search. With eyes squinted and slowly scanning my living room, I watched as my dog tucked her little Twinkie-sized tail under her bottom and lowered her head. Then I found it. A huge pile of dog diarrhea laying at my front door. As if it wasn't bad enough that she pooped in my house, it had to be at the entrance of my humble home, so that every time someone walks in, the welcoming smell is "poop" scent

     Not even 45 minutes after the diarrhea discovery, my daughter yells "ow!" after stepping on a tiny shard of glass on the kitchen floor from a broken baby food jar last week that I obviously missed while sweeping. Blood is spilling all over the place. Strike two

     Attempting to be a fun mom and salvage the morning, I loaded the kids up to take them to Playtopia, a free public park here in Arizona that has TONS of things to play with, all under a gigantic canopy. We were there for 4 minutes and 30 seconds when my son, lovingly referred to from time to time as Evel Knievel (shown above), leaps off of a little toad stool and onto the next. He did this multiple times as I watched him closely. They were low to the ground and I wasn't worried. But wouldn't you know it, the second I look away, he makes an extra special leap that leads him to the biggest gash I have ever seen in the inside of one's mouth. His teeth had mangled up the skin inside. Blood was pouring out of his mouth as he cried and cried. It was split right open, about a 1/4 inch wide and I knew he needed stitches. I loaded the kids up and rushed him to the Urgent Care. Thankfully, the doctor, who I actually thought was out of his mind, said he didn't need stitches. I had to clean out my ears to be sure I heard him correctly. Did you see his mouth??? I've had stitches twice in my life- both from Evel Knievel accidents (I just realized my son got his wild side from his mother) and I knew his mouth needed stitches. But hey, whatever. We loaded up and went home. Nap time approached and what happened next will haunt me forever. 

     I blew up the pool in the backyard and filled it with water for the kids to play around in. I'm taking mental note of all the random turds I need to gather in the yard. I am usually quite on top of the job, but I could see I had a few to pick up. As the pool was being filled, my daughter starts to cry a horrible cry. In her hand is a golden, fresh, sun-warmed pile of dog crap, and it's all over her lips as well. I took that hose and nearly shoved it in her mouth as I fish-hooked out the remainder of unswallowed poop with my finger while she gagged. I looked in the grass and saw that a whole fist full was taken out of this pile of feces. I thought about how my dog ate the food, digested the food, then pooped out the food. Then my baby ate the poop, will digest the poop, then poop out the poop. It was just too many levels of gross for me. 

(This is me, making a sad attempt to gather my sanity)

     This morning, I swung open my bedroom door (I need to start leaving that door open...)and found my toddler on the other side as he yelled, "MOM! Leyla ate my poop!" I'm sure my eyebrows raised up so high in disbelief that they reached my hairline. Could this truly be the poopiest week of all time?! I've got to have set a record somewhere

     I went to the guest bathroom, only to find remnants of poop in the plastic toilet, but the doody was nowhere to be found. I sent my dog outside and told myself that this whole exchange of bodily matter between members of my family has to stop before I go crazy. But it's quite possible I already have. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go program Poison Control into my speed dial. 



Monday, March 11, 2013


Dear Diary, 

     I have such a rough time with newborn babies that whenever I hear of someone getting pregnant, my stomach turns over, I want to vomit and cry simultaneously, and then I'm torn between congratulating them or passing along my deepest condolences

     I love kids, but I have an incredible distaste for babies younger than a year old. They are like crying, squirming, pooping, uncoordinated, head-bobbing, wrinkly blobs of goo. And I don't like 'em. 

     My husband and I have often talked about how we *might* consider the thought of having more children if it meant I could birth a child when it was 18 months old. But then I'd be pregnant for at least 27 months and I wouldn't like that very much. I'd be cranky. And I'd have to have some major reconstructive surgery down south. I wouldn't like that either. But, if anyone figures out how to make that work, let me know. Oh wait, it's called adoption. I'll think about it. 


Me. The Wimpy Mom. 

And just to be fair, I believe newborn babies feel the same way about me as I feel about them. This is the face we both make when we come in contact. Wah. 

Monday, March 4, 2013

My Finest Moment.

Dear Diary, 

     Saturday, I took my kids for a walk in the wagon. But not just any old wagon. It was a rickety old John Deere wagon like the one below (only less ghetto) that my neighbors gave us for free when they were moving. 

As I rounded the corner of my neighborhood with the kids in tow, a succession of cars paraded past us on a busy street. One car in particular had a couple in their 50's or so, driving slowly past us and beaming at the sight of two precious children in an antique-like wagon, taking an afternoon stroll with their mother. I smiled politely, knowing dang well that my kids are quite the attention grabbers (as all children are) and looked behind me to take a gander at those beauties. Just as I turned my head forward, my slow-motion smile and "life is just marvelous" movie moment turned into a big fat, 

"OH, SHIIIIIIIIIII-OOOOOOT!" as I tripped over an uneven piece of concrete in my ever so fashionable crocs I spoke of in a previous post. The only thought going through my perspiring mind (yes, it's already hot here in Arizona, if you can imagine it while there is 2 feet of snow at your house) at this point is how their "awwww-ing and oooo-ing" turned into belly laughs and, consequently, accidental farts from laughing so hard after seeing this All-American family eat pavement. It wasn't my finest moment. But it's me we're talking about. It'll happen again tomorrow, someway somehow. 

Me. The Pavement Eater.