Conversations With a 4 Year Old

"Mom, what are those?"

"Bison."

"What are bison?"

"They are like cows with big fur coats."

"What do bison do?"

"They taste good on hamburger buns."

"They taste good on hamburger buns with their fur coats?"

"No, honey, they don't wear fur coats on hamburger buns. Just the meat is on the hamburger buns."

"What do they have in them? Bones?"

"Bones, meat, guts."

"Do we eat the bones?"

"No."

"Where do they go? Do we throw them on the ground?"

"No, sweetie, when the butcher cuts up the bison, he takes the meat off the bones, but I don't know what he does with the bones after."

"What about the fur coats?"

"The butcher takes those off, too."

silence.. then..

"Mom, what do bison do?"

"They eat grass."

"They keep off your ass?"

Thrift Store Junkie

Neither Hot Stuff nor I are big "clothes" people. I mean, we wear clothes (your eyes are thanking me) most of the time, but neither of us are big garment-hounds. I spend my days binge drinking and online gambling doting on my precious children and Hot Stuff also has a job that requires him to get dirty just about every day, so we don't spend a lot of money on finery around here.

This weekend, I took a mosey on over to Valeux Veelahje (aka Value Village) to get a few shirts for Hot Stuff and some jammies for my Princess. I barely made it out alive two and a half hours later and $200 poorer. Yeah, you read that right. I spent $200 in the thrift store. Imagine, for a moment, how much stuff you get for $200 at the thrift store. It is like two big green garbage bagfuls, except the garbage bags are white and they say "Value Village" all over them.

I bought enough shirts for Hot Stuff to wear a different one every day for at least a week and a half. I bought enough jammers for my kid to more than double her current supply of four. (Yes, my daughter only had four pairs of pjs; if she would stop growing, we would not have this problem.) I am not talking about crap clothes, either. Name brands, people. A pair of adidas pants for my man at $12.99. Never been worn!! (I could tell because: light colored men's pants, with NO food and/or beer stains? NO weird, mysterious stains right at the crotch? Yeah, right.) BANG! American Eagle cap-sleeve shirt for $7.49 for me. BANG! Baby Gap jimmy-jams for $3.00 for my girl. BANG! I feel like the Slap Chop guy of Sham-Wow fame (perhaps lesser-known for getting tossed in the clink for punching a hooker who bit him when he tried to kiss her. Yeah, no shit, true story).

Thrift stores are pretty cool. It was way busier on Saturday than I expected; seems like everyone decided to shop there at the exact same time as me. Hello, do you not know who I am? I cannot be crowded while I rifle through the racks. I need space. I can't rub elbows with the unwashed masses as I rummage through the cast-off clothes of the privileged. I found a Happy Bunny shirt that read, "It's all about Me. You should know that by now," which I was tempted to wear around the store to let the people know. What stopped me was the vision I had of myself forgetting I was wearing the shirt, and getting arrested seconds after I walked out of the store.

I wonder if the thrift store people would press charges. I mean, really, I just spent $200 there. How often does that happen? It's like I'm a Thrift Store High Roller now. The next time I go, they will probably roll out the red carpet. Or, they will roll out several previously loved carpets in many different colors, artfully arranged to hide the bare spots and dog pee stains.

Some things and some stuff

Saw a mouse in the kitchen a few nights ago while I was standing at the sink shoveling in some chocolate chip cookies. I saw him and he saw me. We both froze, then I crammed in the last cookie (whole) and leapt toward him. He ran back behind the fridge, so I put out a mousetrap by the fridge. No mouse in mousetrap the following morning. Saw the same mouse later that evening running amok in the living room. I moved the mousetrap to side of couch. The mouse came out from under the couch and sat right next to the mousetrap. (Mice are known for being stupid, and this little guy did nothing to dispel that stereotype.) I talked on the phone and ate my granola bar as he gave me the stink eye. I knew what was coming, so I held a couch pillow over one ear and turned up the volume on the phone. It was a short time later I heard the trap snap and then some Mouse-In-Throes-Of-Death sounds. I felt kind of bad that he was dead because he was very cute. Then I remembered that mice are disgusting, filthy, plague-ridden, germ-carrying, cupboard-raiding vermin. I didn't feel bad anymore. Just in case there were any more death throes, I waited an hour before I put rubber gloves on, covered them with plastic grocery bags, and disposed of him.

~~~~~~

I might be the best form of birth control ever. I went grocery shopping today with my three children of the corn darling babies. In the produce section, which is fertile to begin with (hell, it's called produce *snicker*), I noticed a young couple in love. It was kind of sweet the way they were giving each other flirty, coy looks and casually touching each other - but not hanging off of each other, which I find extremely annoying. I'm not sure if it was the man or the woman who noticed me first, but they both saw me. Perhaps they noticed me because my two babies were quickly heading into Nap-time Nuclear Meltdown mode. Or perhaps it was because while these two sweethearts were picking out some apples, the Hurricane was busy touching all of the rest of the fruit. I felt it appropriate to say to him, in my usual robust manner, "UGH! Gross! Stop touching! Why? Because I just watched you pick your nose, and I don't think other people want your boogers on their fruit, that's why!" So, I'm sure lots of other people noticed us, but it was this young couple that I noticed noticing us. Here's what went down: the woman looked at me. The man looked at me. They looked at each other. They looked at my kids. They looked at each other. I could read their thoughts. They were both thinking:

OH HEEEELLLLLL NO.

Nothing screams, "Condom! IUD! Diaphragm! Put condoms on your IUD and your Diaphragm! This could be you!!" like three kids under five at the grocery store on Sunday.

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This is just a test of the JS-Kit comments widget.

Letters of Intent: Friday Sep 18, 2009

Thank you to Foursons for Letters of Intent; head on over there when you're done here (obviously) and see who else has dug out the old Smith-Corona and put in a new ribbon.

Dear Dentist's Office,

Although I do appreciate the kindness and warmth with which you have consistently overcharged me, it is time for us to part ways; don't fear, there are more suckers out there who will pay your exhorbitant fees! You will forget about me soon enough.

Please know that I will cherish the memories of each and every one of my appointments. There was always plenty of time, usually about half an hour (sometimes even 40 minutes.. yay!), for me to read the ancient magazines in the waiting room. And the bathroom! Oh! The bathroom. It was very opulent - spa-like, even - with low lighting, top quality fixtures and cabinetry, and of course, marble countertops. I'm glad you found a good use for my hard earned money, Dentist's Office. But just one request? Maybe, for your future patients, you could actually turn the heat on in the bathroom.

I am so glad that I got the opportunity to spend about 2 hours with you at my last appointment, even though I was only scheduled for a couple of x-rays and an exam. I would have been sad to only have been with you for the 30 minutes it should have taken. It's a very good thing that my time is not valuable, and I really had nothing better to do but sit around at your office.

I remember the first time I took my Hurricane to see you, and we sat in your waiting room for over two hours. Do you know, it is really, really hard to keep a 3 year old boy occupied for two hours in a waiting room? Thankfully, it only took me going up to the desk once to say, "Hey, I think we've been waiting for well over an hour, are we going to see the dentist anytime soon?" for my little boy to be brought to the back within a half an hour.

I hope you can be mature and see that what I am about to tell you is constructive, and not destructive, criticism.

One of the reasons for the breakdown of our relationship is this, Dentist's Office; you cost too much money. You are the most expensive dentist in town, and I think you have more nerve than a bad tooth (pun intended) charging so much money for what amounts to an x-ray machine that can send images to a desktop PC. I have also begun to question why you gave me so many white fillings instead of fissure sealant. I have never had a cavity on my adult teeth and all my previous dentists have been fine with doing fissure sealants.

Here's the biggest thing, though, Dentist's Office: the last time I brought the Hurricane in, I was very unhappy. Your dental assistant was nice and all, but I made a "Dentist" appointment, not a "Dental Assistant" appointment. If I make a "Dentist" appointment for my kid, I expect my kid to see a "Dentist." I do not expect to hear, "Actually, there aren't any dentists here right now, but your son's teeth look fine to me," from your dental assistant. And I certainly do not expect to be charged $25 over and above what the Alberta government pays you for children's dental. Why are you the only one whose rates for children are higher than the government's? None of the other dentists here do that.

So, Dental Office, it is with this letter that I say goodbye. I will miss your fancy bathroom, but not your expensive, overpriced services. I expect that you really will take my $114 credit (which was a result of your stupid computer not knowing what 80% is so I had to pay up front and then AB Blue Cross reimbursed you when they should have reimbursed me, but you didn't bother to let me know, no, you deposited the money and gave me a credit on my account without so much as a phone call to ask if that would be okay, as I am the client and it is my money, so thanks, assholes) and write me a cheque and put it in the mail.

Sincerely,

Stone Fox

Today

So first of all, thank you guys so much for making me feel better.

Secondly, today was better. Not fantastic, but my brain did not turn into mush and my face did not melt off, a la yesterday's nuclear meltdown.

You know what? I changed my mind: today was pretty good. Except for the part where the Hurricane took his folding Diego chair and smashed out a pane of his door because he didn't like being in time-out in his room.

In case you are wondering, yes there is a tiny elf in my brain who does a funky dance kind of like he has to go pee when stuff like this happens. Only instead of peeing, he's giggling and saying, "Ooooh, the shit is gonna hit the fan."

He looks sort of like this, only with a green hat and shoes, and red knickers. And also, if possible, more menacing:

(It's the lightbulb that does it for me.)

I was solid, people. I am going to the ParentLink centre tomorrow to pick up some home study stuff; knowing that, a small issue like vacuuming up broken glass was water off a ducks ass. Especially because the Hurricane felt genuinely bad about it.

Later this evening we talked and he informed me that he is pretty mad at me because he wants us to spend more time together. With some further questioning, I learned that he is pulling this crap to get my attention. Well. Ok. For such a smart person, I am pretty stupid sometimes, because that makes perfect sense.

I am going to re-name this blog, "I Don't Know The Answer, Let Me Go Ask The 4 Year Old"

Catchy as all hell, isn't it?

OH AND I CAN'T BELIEVE I FORGOT THE MOST IMPORTANT THING:

Mr. Taekwondo's rating on the Mesmerizing-O-Meter was up and down this week. Up, because his hair looked good today, and up even more because he has really nice teeth. Down, way down, because he drives a minivan. Sorry, but it's hard to be hypnotized by someone who rolls up in a Windstar. I am well aware of how superficial this is; sadly, Mr. T. may not be able to recover from this. I will try to smell him next week, maybe that will give his rating a badly needed boost.

Although I didn't get a picture of Mr. T. I did manage to not be a moron while talking to him; I toned it down to weird and spastic this week. There were a bunch of flies in the gym (I swear his rating will plummet off the charts if his hobbies include "long walks on the beach, taekwondo, and cutting up dead hookers and hiding their bodies in the civic centre") and they all seemed to be buzzing around my face, so I was swatting at the air the whole time we talked. I felt like Pigpen. It was sexy.

Stone Fox's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

This post is a complete downer, so if you are looking for my usual witty repartee, skip this.

This is not a 'look at me blog about how un-perfect I am, but with a happy ending' post, either. I almost don't want to Publish, but if I'm going to call this a "journal" it should have the ugly parts, too.

This is me as a parent today: EPIC FAIL.

Why? How could this happen? Where did it go so, so wrong?

I got up this morning after a solid 8 hours of sleep, which hasn't happened for a while, usually one of the kids, or my bladder, is waking me up at least once a night.

About an hour after my 8 hours of sleep, I was dozing on the couch. Big kids were playing on the deck; Little Dude was rolling around on the floor. Since I was only resting my eyes, I was able to get up every few minutes and check on the big kids to make sure they weren't trying to kill each other or burn down the house.

Then I fell asleep.

Then I woke up to a faceful of Spray 'N Wash.

My son had somehow reached the top shelf of our bathroom towel rack (I am mystified as to how he did this. The shelf is almost 6 feet tall and there was no chair or stool in the bathroom. The shelving unit would never support his weight and isn't bolted to the wall) and handed his sister a bottle of Comet bathroom spray and got himself a bottle of Spray 'N Wash. Princess, I think, just carried her bottle around. The Hurricane proceeded to spray numerous different things, including the front of the dryer, and some walls, the baby's high chair tray, and my laptop. Once he started spraying the dog, she came and sat next to where I was asleep.

Asleep. No, I didn't wake up while my son went willy-nilly through three different rooms in the house randomly spraying stuff.

I knew instantly, instantly, what that smell was. I did what any parent would do when being woken up by a faceful of laundry cleaner: I freaked out. I had a complete and total meltdown. I ran from child to child to check their breath and their eyes and see who was crying and then I was crying. And I was yelling. As ashamed as I am to admit this, I scared my Hurricane. I made him fear me. I sent him to his room while I checked and double checked little kids and (thank God!!!) everyone was okay. I gave the dog a bath, and checked her eyes, and she was okay, too. I went to my oldest son's room and sat on his bed and cried while I explained how dangerous chemicals are, how they could make little kids blind, or sick, or dead. I went over, again and again, how important it is to stay out of stuff that he knows is only for grown-ups .

I want to throw up when I think about what could have happened. I'm still scared when I think about how close I came to rushing my daughter to emerg because she swallowed some Comet, or my baby losing his sight because he got stain remover in his eyes. I am swallowed up in the guilt, because I never, ever, should have allowed myself to fall asleep.

After our chat, the Hurricane and I came downstairs, and I began to clean up the random sprays of stain remover and check kids again and again for signs of poisoning. As I come around the corner into the kitchen, I see:

my Hurricane standing

on the counter

digging in the medicine cupboard.

Words cannot explain. Words. Cannot. Explain. There is no word to describe the sensation of my patience and sanity snapping. I did not yell. I screamed. I screamed at the top of my lungs. Again, I am ashamed to admit, I scared a little kid. My little boy.

But I did not hit. I almost did. I almost went to a dark place, but I didn't. I sat down on the floor and cried really, really hard. My boy ran off to his room.

What does everyone with a vagina do when lying on the floor of her kitchen sobbing? I called my best friend, Doreen. I babbled incoherently about being at the end of my rope, not knowing what to do, how did a 4 year old break me, I can't do this, what am I doing wrong, I did things the way you're supposed to and put chemicals and medicines up really high and how did he get into them, I am a terrible mother and a lousy human being, etc.. She let me run out of steam, and then said, "Call Social Services. They are not going to take your kids away. They will tell you where to get help."

So I did. I told the social worker that my child seems to have some kind of internal message that tells him he is allowed to give himself permission to do whatever he wants; that he does not have to follow rules at home. The social worker gave me some resources. I will do whatever they want, I will try whatever they have. I thought the Hurricane and I were figuring things out, but we are not.

Right now, I look back at today and I'm still beating myself up. I am so eternally grateful that today did not have a tragic result. I will go to bed and when I wake up tomorrow, today will be all over. I will not forget, but I will move on.

Fates, I know that was my one free one.