Logic has no place in preschooler conversations

I’ve been working on a post of a serious nature, but I’m just not in the mood right now to make it right.  Maybe I’ll bless you with some pearls of wisdom next week.  Ha!  In case you’re wondering, this post is brought to you by my fantastic new computer.  She has a 20 inch screen and is a real looker.  It will be nearly impossible to shove her into the oven or give her motherboard a drink, so I think she may be rooming with us for awhile.

Now, onto the business at hand.  What do I do when I have nothing to say?  I exploit my children for gain because that’s what Mommy Bloggers do.  Some seriously funny shit comes out of the daughter’s mouth and I feel I’d be remiss in not sharing.  Without further ado, I give you some quotables from the past few weeks:

1) Elliot: How old am I again?
Me: Three and a half.
Elliot:  But I’m a big kid. I wanna be five.
Me: That’s not possible.  You are three.
Elliot:  Actually, I decided.  I’m five.  That’s it.

2)Elliot: I don’t like watching the news.
Me: Why?
Elliot: Because there’s no princesses or bears and stuff.

3) Jason has a charming ability to joke with Elliot relentlessly until she cries.  After one such episode, Elliot finally seemed to figure out her dad and said the following: Oh, daddy.  You’re just joking.
Jason: Nope.  We don’t joke in this family.
Elliot, now in tears slams her fist down onto the coffee table like she’s delivering a guilty verdict: WE JOKE IN THIS FAMILY!

4) After watching Arlo in the bath. Elliot: I see Arlo’s boobs.
Me: Honey, boys don’t have boobs.
Elliot: Yes, they do.
Elliot, clearly not tired of the hilarity that comes with saying words like “boob” says to her fully-clothed father: I can see your boobs, dad.
Jason: Oh, ya?  I see your penis.

Listening to this all day makes me wonder why I bother to pay for cable.

The state of things

RIP Sweet Laptop:  December 26, 2007 - June 29, 2008

I apologize from the bottom of my tech-geek heart for how you were treated.  You were truly too good for us.  First, your thoughtless owner burns you alive.  Miraculously, with only a few surface scrapes, you pull through.  You allow us to back up all of our photographs - for that I will be eternally grateful.  But we continued to take you for granted.  We assumed all was well, when we should have been drinking up every sweet moment of screen time.  Caressing your keyboard.  Staring in awe at your shiny screen.

But the wee girl decided to finish the job that her mama started.  Maybe she thought you were thirsty?  That’s what I told myself when her clumsy elbow propelled an entire glass of water into your keyboard on Saturday.  I reacted quickly.  Gently drying you with a hair dryer.  Crossing my fingers.  It appeared you escaped death once again.

We enjoyed your company all day Sunday.  Until, inexplicably you lost the will to live.  Who wouldn’t after everything you’ve been through?

Jason and I have decided that in order to ensure that no more of your kind are unnecessarily harmed, we will (of course, NEVER EVER store a computer in the oven again and) we’ll buy a new desktop instead of a laptop.  Sure, they are your older, less-hip cousin, but honestly, if a child decided to bash or pour mystery liquid into his keyboard, I’d only be out $40, instead of $800.  I’m so grateful that I have a learning account at work that will reimburse me for Desktop’s purchase, or I would be even more pissed.

Once the children are older and I can risk having the occasional nice thing that won’t be ultimately destroyed by their hands, I know I’ll learn to love a Laptop again.  Right now, the wound is too fresh.  I’m too focused on what I’ve lost.

I’m so sorry my little Pavilion friend.  You were a fighter.  And you will be missed.

Love,

andi

*I don’t blame Elliot - it was an accident.  It was only a matter of time before I did the same thing.

** On a totally unrelated note, but you may have been wondering - Arlo is feeling much better.  At first I feared he might be turning into a bit of, well, an a-hole, quite frankly.  Turns out an ear infection was making him cranky.  Will the fun never end?

Be careful what you wish for

Last night I was thinking about how I have nothing to blog about. I haven’t gone to drastic lengths for blog fodder since the baked laptop incident (see how far I’ll go to entertain you people?) Luckily, the universe ponied up and sent me the most craptacular day I’ve had in awhile.

The day began with me waiting for a house appraiser. He was supposed to be here at 8am. I told work I might be a half hour late. At 8:30am, I left him a message, livid that I’d taken time off work and he still wasn’t here. He phoned back 10 minutes later to tell me “something came up.” What the fuck comes up at 8am exactly? Methinks he slept in. I was over an hour late for work and had to reschedule the bloody appraisal.

Then, right after lunch, I see the daycare’s number show up on my call display. Fantastic. Arlo has a high fever. So I had to take the train to Jason’s work, where my car is parked, and pull him out of a client appointment to tell me what floor of the 10-floor parkade the car was on. While I’m running to his office, I wonder, what else is going to happen today? Perhaps I’ll get hit by lightening in the approaching storm? Maybe the tornadoesqe winds will pick me off my feet? Or I’ll get stuck in the elevator on the way to his office?

Naturally on my way out of the parkade, I got stuck behind some douchebag who couldn’t figure out how to pay at the machine. Do we need to start making people pass IQ tests before they park so I’m not stuck behind their insufferable selves while they curse at the ticket machine? Seriously! Can we all please get our shit together? It’s a good thing I’m not bitter about any of this. Heh.

By the time I get to my red-cheeked son, it’s 45 minutes later and I’m in tears. He looks like he’s taken some bad drugs - all glassy-eyed and tired. He’s sleeping now, but the fever seems to be going down. When he’s conscious he’s a charming mixture of clingy and screamy. Poor thing. Elliot and I are watching what’s sure to be the first of many encore performances of High School Musical 2. Save me!

Cross your fingers that the day doesn’t hold any other surprises for moi, like projectile vomiting or diarrhea poonamis . I could use a little boredom at the moment.

***********************************

On an entirely unrelated note, due to said boredom and the very persuasive nature of 4 women I adore, I’ve done the unthinkable and joined Twitter. Are you there? I’m still not entirely sure I get it. I’m feeling like quite the dork over there, really. So would you mind helping me feel like less of a loser and following me (you know, if the site stops crashing every 5 seconds - honestly, what is up with that?) I’m here: http://twitter.com/PootAndCubby Thanks, peeps.

How to embarrass yourself at work

In case you have any doubt about my mad dumbassery skillz after the melted laptop post*, I present to you the following tips about how to transfer your aptitude towards idiocy at the workplace:

1) Build-up a solid reputation as the resident Grammar Nazi. Then forward a report that you wrote and checked over a bazillion times to upper management, only to be told that you used the word “modal” instead of “model” throughout.

2) Tell a co-worker that he bears a striking resemblance to your husband - they could be brothers. Notice nervous laughter from co-worker and wonder why your brain thought it necessary to share this vital piece of information. When you recount the story to your husband he says this: “So he must be a sexy bastard, too.” Congratulate yourself on your restraint and ability to save face by not repeating the husband’s comment to co-worker. Even though you thought it was hysterical, you’re really not up for a sexual harassment suit at the moment.

3) Reason with yourself that you could multi task at lunch by getting an audio book. You could knit or eat and read at the same time. Take out The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao thinking because it’s a literary read, that it might be appropriate to play in your cubicle while your neighbor is working through lunch. Have the volume on embarrassingly loud while repeat occurrences of THE N WORD and FUCK are screaming out of your otherwise innocent, worker-bee cubicle. Wonder if your neighbor noticed. Briefly contemplate explaining to the sweet-seeming woman that you barely know that you are not a member of a profanity- obsessed KKK sect.

*Have you seen the comments on that post? You people are so awesome! Thank you for making me laugh and making me feel less stupid. Jason found the comments very educational, and was shocked that so many people he told the story to said they would have done the same thing. Oh, and Jen’s comment was amazing. And here I thought I was crazy looking down to see if I’m wearing pants when I walk out the door in the morning.  Jen, you are my official co-queen - that was the funniest shit I’d read in a long time.

5 Years

5 years ago today…

We walked hand-in-hand down my aunt’s stairs toward twenty-four smiling faces in the living room below.

You in a simple dress shirt and black pants. Me in a black and gold dress.

We never claimed to be traditionalists.

We passed through an aisle made up of two rows of our closest family and friends – each of them giving us a flower that we placed in a vase next to my waiting grandmother.

Sarah played the piano - that song from Amelie that always sends shivers up my spine.

Grandma spoke our handwritten ceremony at the make-shift altar. Our brothers read poems – one, ee cummings. One, mine.

We lit candles. Exchanged rings and vows.

Cried.

Were secretly proud that we made everyone else cry.

Kissed.

Signed papers making everything legal.

We created a new last name – some letters left over from our previous lives joined together. A new name for a new family.

Before dinner I realized I’d forgotten to ask the caterer to bring tables. We laughed as Sandy’s neighbors and in-laws dragged tables across the front lawn in the rain.

After we ate, we thanked every person in attendance. Told each of them what they’d meant to us.
More tears.

We partied into the early hours on Sunday. Returned to work on Monday. In one week, we would move into our first house.

Five years later…

I’m still planning the honeymoon. (Maybe on our ten-year anniversary?)

I remember every moment of that day.

My grandma will continue to send us cards every year, signing them as “The Commissioner.”

We have two wee souvenirs of our union.

Our lives are full and happy. Happier than I ever thought possible.

Because I married my best friend. And you still are – I really do love you more each day.

Happy anniversary, Jay.

That’s Queen Dumbass to You

Here’s the score:  Mommy Brain: 1 million; Me: A big fat zero

It’s possible that I may be a tad absentminded.  That I may have so much crammed into my tiny brain that sometimes things get pushed out.

Yesterday, I was laughing at myself because Jason had to remind me to take my coffee out to the car.  Then he had to remind me to take it out of the car.  Then I forgot it in the kitchen at work.  I’m always misplacing things and forgetting words in the middle of sentences.  Jason calls it my “early onset dementia” and just keeps shaking his head in my general direction.

Which makes it all the more puzzling why he thought it might be a good idea to hide our laptop in the oven.  (You know how this ends, don’t you?)  After a few break-ins in our area and Jason fearing that we could be next, he thought we should hide the laptop during the day.  Of course, it’s a trifle inconvenient to walk it up to the second floor or down into the basement.  So what’s a convenient place that no one would ever think to look for a laptop?  Why, the oven, of course.

When he first mentioned this idea to me, I told him it probably wasn’t so great to put my baby, I mean, a valuable piece of electronics, inside of something that can generate enough heat to destroy it.  Especially when I’m the only one in the house who uses the oven.  And when I turn on the oven, I do it like I do many things - on auto-pilot, while I entertain myself with the million thoughts dancing in my head.  I don’t think about it.  I don’t think, “Gee, let’s see if there’s a bloody laptop in the freaking oven.”

Jason thought my objections were a bit crazy.  I mean, how could anyone forget something so important?  He would never forget such a thing.  So, after one close call of me turning on the oven and then quickly remembering that the laptop was in there, I was convinced I could do this.  That I could play the role of the sane person who didn’t possess the mind of an 80 year-old Alzheimer’s patient.  To be honest, I was getting frustrated with the state of my forgetfulness, and was embarrassed to admit that I might forget the laptop again.

After work yesterday, we galloped through the door.  I turned the oven on to make pizza because I was going out soon after dinner.  Arlo was a grumpy beast because of lack of sleep and a runny nose.  I was trying to entertain him by singing, “If you’re happy and you know it” and alternately saving him from his sister’s suffocating bear hugs.  I was preoccupied with work thoughts.  And getting-ready-for-the-next-day thoughts.  I was plotting my revenge on Laundry.  I was planning what flavor ice-cream I would eat on my outing.  And generally, as with most things, I’d let my auto-pilot take over and I wasn’t paying attention to much of anything.

It was while me and the kids were shouting, “Hooray!” that I noticed it.  A burning plastic smell.  It was the smell of my mouse melting at 260 degrees.  FUCK.  I froze.  I panicked.  Jay looked at me in disbelief.  I pulled the plasticky corpse from the belly of the oven.  I freaked.

It wasn’t so much that I destroyed my beloved laptop (although I was all weepy that I may have lost many of the kids’ photographs) it was more that I was frustrated that my brain failed to cooperate at such a crucial time.  And I was mortified.  Skin-crawlingly embarrassed. I just wanted to rewind my life a few minutes and make a different decision.  Even thinking of it now (and I’m sure for years to come) I’m cringing.  Do you know that feeling?

So here’s the good news.  My HP Pavillion (hear that HP?  Want to send me a new one?) is a little fighter.  Despite looking like this -

she still works!  In fact, this very blog post was written on her unscathed keys.  Some of her bottom was melted, but the CD-ROM and everything else still functions.  We just have to buy a new mouse - it still works, but is more warped and wonky.

Despite my humiliation, Jason was understanding and sweet about the whole thing.  He agreed that it may not have been the best idea to hide the laptop there.  But I still can’t help but wonder if he envisions spoonfeeding me applesauce and pinning my name and address onto my jacket in his near future.

Can you all please help me stop cringing and convince Jason that I haven’t lost all of my marbles?  Please leave me your best (or worst, I guess, depending on how you look at it) absentminded incident/story in the comments.  I realize probably no one will come close to stealing my Queen Dumbass crown, but it would be awfully comforting to know that I had a bit of company in my court.

Random letters

I love writing letters, so when I saw a post of Jennifer’s a few weeks ago where she wrote a bunch of short, random ones, I decided to steal her idea. Shh…

Dear Elliot,

I know you don’t want me or daddy to be the boss. That YOU want to be the boss. But saying it 1000 times is not going to make it happen.  I’m sorry, but you’re just going to have to suck it up.  In 15 years, I promise you can be the boss.  Just don’t come crying to me because you want to go back to being a helpless kid who has no responsibilities and legions of slaves.

Love,
mama

*****

Dear Arlo,

Would it be too much to ask for you to sit still for one freaking second?  Or for you to not improvise a drum kit out of every random group of objects?  Mama’s getting a headache and would just like to sit for a moment.

Kisses,
mama

*****

Dear House,

I appreciate that you are so tidy now that the children are not around all day to sully your good name.  I adore your lack of clutter, but am still upset that someone so old is incapable of cleaning up after herself.  Please do me a favor and clean your bathroom fixtures while I’m at work.  And would it kill you to throw in a load of laundry?

Love,
The one who scrubs your grimy ass

*****

Dear Laundry,

There is no way that:  A - I bought all of these clothes ever, or that B - four people could possibly create so many dirty clothes, especially when two of these people are just slightly larger than a peanut.  I can only conclude that you are using my daily absences to breed in private in the laundry baskets.  I demand all unfettered coitus cease so that I may spend part of my evening outside of the basement, free of your needy, fibrous offspring.

Love,
The totally undomestic goddess who commits unholy sins against you like never, ever separating darks from whites and who has occasionally decided she’ll try actually soaking stains in the laundry sink, only to succumb to her early onset dementia and turn a load of wash on, which results in flooding the entire basement when you enter the spin cycle.

*****

Dear Remaining Mice (I know you’re still here!),

Please do us all a favor and commit suicide.  For your convenience, traps have been stuffed into every available orifice of the house.  You will die - why postpone the inevitable?

Giant Buckets of Hate, and NOT love,
The one who detests you with every bone in her body

*****

Dear Husband,

You are both an evil genius and a sanity-saver for coming up with the idea to mix Mike’s Hard Lemonade with Long Island Iced Tea mix.  I need no further proof that you are a GOD.

Love,
Your slightly inebriated wife

More mouses in my houses

One of the not-so-charming things about living in an older neighborhood is the tendency for furry roommates to muscle their way in.  They pay no rent.  They eat your food and they make me shudder just thinking about them.  I naively thought we’d obliterated all of our mice in October, but now we have more.

I started noticing little black flecks in the kitchen. I thought Jason was spilling loose tea all over the place, so I never paid much attention. Then he noticed it and thought it might be mouse poop. A quick consult with Dr. Google confirmed that my husband was not being a slob.  Our nasty little house guests were using our kitchen as an anything-goes outhouse.

And so began the ritualistic killing.  Jason and his murderous accomplice, Elliot, bought more traps.  We assembled our arsenal.  There were so many traps a mouse couldn’t sneeze and live.  Jason joked that if we couldn’t catch them, maybe we could at least potty train them as that would minimize our nasty shat- cleaning duties.

The first night I heard the tell-tale SNAP.  Because the thought of looking at or touching a dead mouse triggers my gag reflex, Jason disposed of the corpse.  He said it was a big one.  I began to wonder if we’d caught the lone rat in Alberta.

We all know that there is never just one mouse, right?  So now we’re waiting for the others, or as Jason so nicely put it, we just have to wait around until the babies are old enough to come out of the nest to scavenge for food.  Grim.

Elliot is under the impression that we let the mouse go to play with his family.  What?  You wanted me to tell her that mommy and daddy snapped her little friend’s neck and threw it in the trash?  She was upset that she couldn’t pet and hold it (thanks, Disney!)  Then she started to cry because she thought we were really going to potty train it and we’d robbed her of that wholesome fun.  Note to self - make time to explain the concept of “joking” to a three-year-old.

As is her pattern, Elliot continued to obsess about the mouse, especially after Jay said it was a big one. She insisted that when she got bigger she was going to find the mouse and ride it.  Another note to self - find way of explaining to a preschooler that the word “big” is a relative term.  I told her if it was big enough to put a saddle on, Mommy would have moved out of the house.

Maybe by the time Elliot is an adult there will be freaky, radioactive mice large enough for her to realize her dream of becoming a Mouse-Cowgirl.  I can imagine her now, riding through the streets shouting, “YEE-HAW” while trying to lasso a piece of cheddar to feed her trusty steed.  I just hope one of the giant mice eats me before I have to witness such an awful scene.

How you doin’?

Random bits from the past two days:

• Thanks for all of your well-wishes about my return to work.  Monday was way, way easier than I thought it would be.  Jay and I tag-teamed the kids and made it out the door within an hour.  When I left the kids at daycare, there were no tears (shockingly, not even from me!  Although I was mildly irritated by the fact that some of my colleagues said inane things like: “You’d probably rather be at home right now, huh?”  or “I bet you really miss your kids.”)  Anyhoo, when I arrived to pick up the kids, there were no colossal meltdowns, just smiling faces.  I was so proud of how well Elliot and Arlo adjusted, I thought I might burst.  And the daycare owner actually told me my kids were “amazing.”  Sure, I’m paying her, but I like to think she meant it, because I think so too.  I’m ridiculously thankful that they are in a place where they are so well cared for.
• I’d forgotten how completely insane the after-work routine is - making dinner, squeezing in some quality playtime and then before you know it they’re off to bed and you’re packing up stuff for the next day.  Drink, anyone?
• Yesterday went well, too.  Well, except the part where Elliot had a total meltdown because the daycare staff dared to feed her something that is not included on her list of 8 foods she’ll consider sampling with her discerning palate.  The daycare owner was almost in tears because she couldn’t get her to eat.  Poor thing - I told her it’s all about power with Elliot.  Don’t engage - if she wants to eat, she’ll eat.  If not, she can be stubborn and feel hungry for a few hours.  Lord knows she has more than enough reserves to draw on without being in danger of wilting away.
• Oh, and then there was that minor part after we returned home and Arlo dipped his entire hand into a bowl of hummus and walked around the house leaving hummus hand prints all over the couch and walls.  Yum!
• After dinner last night, the kids and I walked to a nearby park.  Elliot wanted to try out the tire swings for the first time.  She was delighted that they spun around.  She looked up at me and said, “I think I’m gonna stay here forever.”
• Another thing that made my day on Monday, was receiving a Perfect Post Award from my bloggy friend, Mrs. Chicken for my Illusion of Choice post.  Who knew it was possible for me to love her more?  Thank you all for your amazing comments and support on that post - I was overwhelmed by the response.  I tried to respond to all of your comments as I think it sparked an interesting and important discussion.
• Speaking of blog-business, it probably goes without saying that I may be scarce around these parts for the next few weeks while I get adjusted to my new schedule.  I’ll try to at least lurk around your blogs - and who knows, maybe I’ll even write a decent post next time!  If I’m not around, please know that I’ll be thinking of you and missing you.

Happy birthday, Arlo!

Arlo Henry,

Today you are one! How on earth did this happen?

You have changed from an eating/crying/snuggly baby-blob into a little man. I’ll be honest with you – I was unsure about this whole having a son business. No one told me what a charmer boys could be. No one told me you would look at me with eyes that say you worship me. I’m grateful you think I’m a goddess and will try my best to lengthen your state of delusion.

I’m thankful for so much about you that it’s difficult to put into words. I love that you:
-eat (well, usually inhale) whatever food I put in front of you.
-are adventurous and busy and independent.
-still like to cuddle and turn to me for a source of comfort. When you put your head on my shoulder, or give me one of your famous bear hugs, I melt.

I love that you are outgoing and enjoy meeting new people. Most strangers say one of two things about you: “He looks like such a little man!” or “He’s such a happy little guy.” And you are. Smiley. Laid-back. A charmer all-around.

In the future you won’t be able to: look up the exact date you got your first tooth; see the times down to the minute of your night wakings; hold a plaster rendering of your tiny hand; or thumb through as many baby pictures as your sister will.  These things don’t prove that I have slightly more love for Elliot than you. They prove that you have already taught me more than I’ve taught you. You’ve taught me to relax and enjoy every moment, instead of record-keeping and obsessively collecting mementos. The fact that I give you countless kisses and laugh with you every day is proof that I love you more than you’ll probably ever know.

This year, you will start saying things beyond “mama”, “dada”, and “uh-oh!” You will gain more confidence in your walking. You will continue changing before my disbelieving eyes. There are things I will miss about baby Arlo.  Every time I put you and your sister to bed, I feel like I’m saying goodbye to a person who will disappear overnight - that person is replaced by a slightly older version of you who smiles at me from your morning crib. But, I’m also excited to see the person you’ll become.  I don’t mind that you keep growing up, I just hope the things that I see in your core don’t change – a gentle, loving spirit, an insatiable curiosity, and an old soul hiding behind your young, shining eyes.

Well, now I’m all weepy.  But they’re happy tears - happy because I get the chance to be a mother to a son. Especially since that son is you. I’m so proud and lucky to be your mama.

Happy birthday, sweet boy.