Happy Birthday to my Princess

Little Princess,

Today you are 2 years old and I can't believe the time has gone that fast. I still remember you being so tiny and quiet, with your dainty little self. Now, of course, you are big and loud, and so very, very funny. You, more than any other little kid I have ever met, make me laugh. The way you get your point across with your limited vocabulary and your limitless facial expressions is nothing short of marvelous. I love your smile. I love your soft baby skin. I love the feel of you curling into my lap for a snuggle; the smell of your hair, the sound of your sweet pixie voice, all of you. I am awed by all of you. Your brothers and your daddy are madly in love with you, too, and boy don't you know it! I see how you work those sweet baby blues on daddy; too bad for you I have those same blue eyes and therefore, am immune to yours.

At this exciting age of 2, you have definitely found your voice. Physically, you are at the top end of tall and somewhere in the middle range for weight. Certainly, you are big enough to push Little Dude over when you walk by. (Every time.) Your receptive understanding is astonishing! Is there anything you don't understand?! Your expressive vocabulary is a bit smaller than other kids your age, but getting bigger every day. Some of your more well-used words: MINE! (top volume), NO! (also top volume), puppy, kitty, daddy, mama, pee-pee, poopy, Dora. You are also getting really good at saying both of your brothers' names. My favorite of your nonsense words is balub-balub-balub. Just tonight, you learned how to say Hallowe'en. How do we go from puppy to Hallowe'en? I'm not really sure. That's just how you roll.

You are turning into quite a little athlete. Only 6 months ago you could not make it across the living room without tripping on three or four imaginary things, and once or twice your feet. Now, you can run quite fast for a little kid, dribble a soccer ball while running, jump on two feet, dance (I love your dance, I have named it "The Lurch" because you like to lean from foot to foot while keeping your legs straight), overhand and underhand throw, kick and punch like the Hurricane at Taekwondo, and many other assorted sport-like things.

You are extremely attached to your little white and pink stuffed cat, named Mr. Meow-gi The Karate Kitty, by your daddy and me. Hey, what can I say? Children of the 80's. Don't worry, this is only the beginning of many embarrassing and lame things we will do to you.

You have been potty training for the last few weeks, and while we still have accidents every few days, I am so proud of the progress you've made. Yesterday was not so much a good day, what with the take off your pull-up at nap time and finger paint your body with poo and grind it into the carpet all over your bedroom incident, but I don't think you'll be doing that again. You seemed kind of distraught by being covered in poop. Just in case you forget you ever did that, I will be sure to remind you when you are 16 and you make the mistake of bringing home a boy.

You are my little helper girl, too. You like to help me unload the dishwasher, fold laundry, clear the table, dust the furniture. You love to act like mommy and clean up around the house. Other things you love: singing to your dolls, pushing Mr. Meow-gi in the swingset, reading books, telling Little Dude stories, jumping on the couch, eating, playing with your big brother, running around nakee bum, splashing in the bathtub, eating baby wipes, and playing in the sandbox, just to name a few.

You are so loved, my little girl. These past two years have been incredible, watching you grow and change and stretch your wings. In a little corner of my heart, you will always be two years old, no matter how big you get.

Love you,
Mama

The Stomach Flu: Not Just for Yakking on Yourself Anymore

This week saw me laid out on the couch even more than usual for a couple of days, too exhausted to even abuse amuse myself while wandering the internet. I had the stomach flu *sad face*. And a wicked fever *super sad face!!*. Even the throes of delirium are not enough to rid me of my inner horny-18-year-old-manboy-trying-to-get-laid mentality (that's just a metaphor, it's not like I have an actual "horny 18 year old manboy" chained up in the basement locked in the barn nevermind.)

So anyways.

Where was I? Oh yes. Throes of delirium: didn't stop my dirty mind from thinking of how I could use the flu to hit on people. Feel free to get your humpty-hump on with my awesome not-guaranteed-to-work unproven pick-up lines:

1. I'm probably not contagious anymore.*

2. I think I'm in love with you, and that's not the pyrexia talking.

3. Yeah, I do oral and rectal! Temperatures, that is.

4. These chills? I'm like a giant vibrator. *wink*

5. Is this a fever dream? Because you're too amazing to be real.

6. Oh yeah, I'm hot enough to vulcanize your giggle stick, baby.

7. Trust me, babe, I really know how to sweat up the sheets.

8. My sex is on fire, and so is the rest of me. How about we play Fireman and you cool me off with your hose?

9. Wanna help me break my fever?

10. I'm feeling a little warm; would you take my temperature with your meat thermometer?

*This is my absolute favorite pick up line of all time; it can be used in any situation on anybody.

Boy I sure used a lot of strike-out in this post. Yeah, I noticed that too.

A Post That is Not About Puppies, Beavers, or Drunks.

WARNING: This post mentions bodily functions. For once, it is not my bodily functions. Don't say I never do anything for you.

I have come to the conclusion that my kids are like eccentric homeless people. The way they mistreat our things and mess up the house, it's like they literally wandered in off the street one day and decided to declare Squatter's Rights.

We're potty training the Princess these days, and she is doing really well (it's true what they say about girls). We're not having too many accidents anymore, but for a couple of days there I was finding puddles of pee all over the floor. You know what I realized? That's what bums do. They pee wherever they want, and they don't clean it up. (Puppies also leave pee everywhere, but we're not talking about puppies today.)

Every single time I leave my Hurricane alone in the living room for even five minutes, I walk back in to see all of the couch pillows and cushions in a pile on the floor, and my kid laying on or underneath. God forbid he finds a big enough cardboard box to play in! He'll stay in for hours, coming out only to steal food. Who piles a bunch of shit in a bad spot and calls it a house? Shifty-looking ne'er-do-wells, that's who. (And beavers, but we're not talking about beavers today.)

My Little Dude had a bottle right before bedtime the other night and when I sat him up to burp, he simultaneously burped and hiccuped at the same time. Which caused him to throw up all over the couch, my face, my neck, my shirt, and some even soaked through my shirt and dripped down to the waistband of my jeans and underwear. Because the velocity of the projectile matter was so fast, some of it bounced back on to him. He cried his big fat raindrop tears while I tried to wipe him up a bit. Can you possibly think of anything more hobo-like? Barf so hard you nail everyone and everything in a 4 foot radius and then complain about the mess. (Drunks also do this, but we're not talking about drunks today.)

Nobody seems to have a job, and there's not a lick of money between the three of them, except what the oldest can nick from my truck's console. They all like to travel, especially if the trip is less than 30 minutes. The two biggest kids take turns dumpster diving at the kitchen garbage, and the little one is content to eat whatever he finds on the floor. I can't read the newspaper without the three of them hanging off of me to either read the paper/shred the paper/shred and eat the paper. Why should I be surprised? Vagrants love newspapers.

And the way they eat. They are all eating us out of house and home. All three of them just shovel the food in, because you never know when one of the other tramps might try to take it away. Also, rubbies need to keep their strength up, just in case all the La-Z Boys at the oil-drum fire are taken and they are forced to stand.

They all need to get jobs, in order to offset the cost of keeping them around. I am just about ready to drop them off downtown, each with a coffee cup and a little sign that says, "I'm a Baby and I'm Hungry," or, "Will Look Cute For Food." I'm willing to spend a little more for quality squeegees and name-brand dish soap, but I draw the line at dreadlocks and pricey crocheted marijuana pouches.

Let's See Your OCD

When I was still in nursing school, one of the subjects I loved and was fascinated by was Mental Health. On the very first page of my Mental Health module was a small introductory paragraph. The introduction itself is not memorable; what I remember, and always will remember, is the opening sentence:

Each one of us has small, varying degrees of different mental illnesses.

Oh sure! Now you tell me. Here I thought I was just a superstitious old fool. Now I can call it by it's proper name: Superstitious/magical thinking, a tiny corner of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. (A corner where we throw chicken bones to decide who gets first dibs on the bathroom faucet.)

The "crazy" thing is, the more superstitions you invent, the more things you start noticing. The more things you start noticing, the more things you start noticing going wrong, if you haven't completed your ritual. Also, you will notice more things going right, if you have done your ritual.

My superstitions began at the tender dewdrop age of ten. My best friend at the time, Christina, got me started. (Let's blame her; what the heck, she's not here.) The first superstition I ever had was the one she gave me: never, ever step on the first or last step of a staircase, whether you were going up or down. If you did, it meant you were going to grow up and marry Joe McK. and nobody wanted to marry him because he picked his nose and stuck pushpins through his sneakers. With the sharp ends pointed out.

Christina lived in a house that had stairs leading from the kitchen to the front door. When I would go down the stairs, I would touch the ceiling of the foyer where it ended to allow for the staircase. But only once per visit, because if I touched it a second time, my good luck would disappear and be replaced with bad luck. Bad luck like Christina's ghetto blaster would fall out of the window where it was perched. Or we would not be allowed to have a bonfire and a sleepover. If I touched that spot on the ceiling a third time, my good luck would return.

Now, I can look back and see that the ghetto blaster probably fell because we had New Kids on the Block cranked and it committed suicide we were jumping around and someone probably knocked it. Perhaps we were not allowed to have a sleepover and a bonfire because we were constantly at each others' houses and our parents wanted a break from our togetherness.

I no longer feel the need to avoid the first and last steps of a staircase, because I am already married and thus, the chances of marrying Joe McK. are slim. (Sometimes, just sometimes, I wonder if nose picking and thumb-tacked shoes might just be marginally better than nose picking, denial-farting*, and improper use of the flat sheet in bed.**) (I don't think Hot Stuff is open to the concept of a Brother-Husband, either. He's kind of stick in the mud like that.)

I do, however, still feel the urge to touch the top of doorways once, and only once, when I pass through. If I'm not by myself, I can usually resist the urge and tell myself that thinking of touching the top of the door-frame is an acceptable alternative. If I really need a shot of good luck, I will pretend that I'm stretching, or rubbing at a nick or scuff at the top of the door-frame. If by some chance I touch the top of the door-frame a second time, I must immediately touch it again a third time. It has to be either once, or three times. Never just twice.

Another of my superstitions is about salt. If you spill salt, you must throw some of the spilled salt over your shoulder. If you don't take this precaution, Bad Things Will Happen To You.

Here's the thing: when you eat breakfast at a restaurant and you knock over the salt twice (once right after the other), you must throw salt over your shoulder twice. One shoulder-throw is not sufficient; it must be once per spill. If you fail to do this, Bad Things Will Happen To You.

Bad Things like: You Will Make A Giant Mess Out Of Your Daughter's Birthday Cake And Spend Over An Hour Fixing And Cleaning Because You Caused Three Separate Small Oven Fires, In Addition To Giving Your Ego A Painful Blow Because You Like To Think Of Yourself As A Pretty Talented Amateur Baker.

Important Life Lesson: It's not OCD, people, this superstitious shit is REAL. Make sure you follow your rituals or Bad Stuff Will Also Happen To You.

So, let's see your OCD.

*Denial-farting: two people are in a room. The first person, oh.. let's call him "Warm Stuff," farts. The second person, we'll call her "Stoney" says, "Gross. Farty McFarterson from Fartertown Falls." Warm Stuff denies ownership of the fart, and continues to deny ownership of the fart, even though they are the only two people in the room and it is clearly Warm Stuff who cut the cheese.

**This is when one person, again, we'll call him "Warm Stuff" refuses to sleep under the flat sheet (the one that is NOT fitted, for all of you bachelors out there), so "Stoney" has no flat-sheet movement and is constantly trying to yank more flat sheet loose from the hulking, snoring beast known as Warm Stuff.

Socially awkward

When I was younger, in my late teen years (so, like.. 5 years ago? ahah-ahah) I got my first computer and my first internet connection. I was hooked. Not in the I'm Stone and I'm an Internet-aholic sense, more like wow, there really is more to the world than this small town.

Does anyone else remember the first Internet Relay Chat programs, where you could log onto a server and go in a chat room and talk to other people? I was fascinated with the idea of talking to strangers from anywhere and everywhere. And yes, I even met a couple of boys online. (My parents, oddly enough, were not over the moon about that.) My real life friends thought that made me some sort of weirdo. "This guy that you don't even know, who lives a thousand miles away, gave you his phone number? And you called it? Really?" The unspoken part was that there was something wrong with me that I could not meet a person in real life to be in teen-love with. I must be a real special kind of loser to have no other option but to hide my hideousness behind the computer and trick people into liking my personality. What no one ever seemed to notice is that I never did have anyone in real life to be in teen-love with. I did not have a single date all through high school. My prom date was my friend Lindsay. I don't know why I never got asked out; I'm pretty sure my hideousness was fairly low on the scale of All Things Grotesque - I never shattered any mirrors. Also, I was voted Class Clown. That definitely counted against my How Ghastly Are You? rating.

Meeting people on the internet is so common now. Talking to friends, whether or not you have actually met them in real life, is incredibly easy. Blogging is one of those things that has taken all of the hard work out of meeting fun and interesting people. You read a few posts and you don't like them? You click away. You like them? Well, heck, leave a comment! Tell them you think they are awesome. There are several tools to aid a person in being witty and smooth, such as: Delete, Backspace, and Cut from the drop-down menu. I love commenting and getting comments, and I try to visit a new blog at least once or twice a week. That is how I "meet" people on the internet.

Socially successful in real life? Not so much. I am shy, almost to the point of painful; exactly the way I was as a teenager. It is hard for me to strike up a conversation with someone I don't know. I am always so worried about saying the wrong thing or wondering if there is something on my face that it's hard to keep track of what the other person is talking about. And, of course, while I am busy worrying about what the other person is thinking, I actually do lose track of what he or she is saying. The next boxcar on this freight train of awkwardness is usually me saying something totally out of context or toes-definitely-over-the-line rude.

Despite this crippling disease, I am still trying to put myself out there. Truthfully, I have two best friends who live in the same area as me (albeit a 15 - 20 minute drive away), and a third bestie who lives 4 hours away. Add in my sister who lives about 5 hours away, and that is the extent of my real life social network. I want to meet a few more people who live in my small town, because sitting at home every night kind of sucks. It would be nice to have a girl friend to visit with or even just go for a walk.

I bet you're thinking that I should stop worrying so much about accidentally saying something obnoxious or inappropriate; the chance of that actually happening is slim. Ahh, if only that were the case..

Last week, I was walking up towards the pre-school door and met one of the other moms on her way into the school. In an attempt to start a conversation, I said, "Wow, jeez, sure glad I'm not the only one who comes flying out the door at five to nine." Ok, I know what it sounds like. It sounds like I'm saying, "You look like shit. Do you own a mirror?" What I meant was, "You're late, too? Yes, I have discovered that toting around three children makes me chronically late as well."

(What is it about pre-school drop off that makes me socially retarded?) Yet another mom said to me, "You look really familiar.. have we met before?" Really, I get this a lot. I have one of "those" faces. I am vaguely familiar to everyone I meet, so when this mom asked if we had met before, I should have said, "No, I don't think so, but my name is Stone." Instead, I froze and said, "Yes, you look really familiar, too," which led into a whole pointless conversation about where we could possibly have known each other from, when I knew all along that we have never known each other from anywhere. The conversation petered out with us both making the Yes, well, anyways noises and busying ourselves with our kids.

Another day, another pre-school drop off. I am walking by one of the other moms as she is getting into her truck. I had met this gal previously, and we had even had a pretty solid hour-long conversation once at the library. I said to her, "Are you Captain Crankypants today? Because you look pissy." My God, I am cringing as I write this. It's a wonder the Pre-School Society hasn't officially shunned me.

You see what I mean? Crippling. Oh, but rest assured, my friends, I will not give up. I will keep trying until I win these moms over and they stop seeing my socially inept Beast side and start seeing my witty, winsome inner Beauty side.

50 (or 12) Ways To Leave Your Lover... Wondering WTF?

(I can never get divorced, because nobody will put up with my shit the way Hot Stuff does.)

1. Honey, I'm leaving you... $10 on the counter can you pick up some milk while you're out?

2. I don't love you anymore... I don't love you any less, either.

3. There's no spark left... in the furnace pilot light can you do something about that?

4. I love you, but I'm just not *in love* with you... r disgusting stinky feet.

5. I just need to find myself... a new winter coat.

6. I think we need a break... dance-off in our living room.

7. I love you like my brother... loves your sister*

8. We can still be friends... even when we're old together and your penis doesn't work anymore.

9. I'm just not that into you... Tube.

10. Listen, we really need to talk... about how awesome you are.

11. Right now, I have so much going on and I just don't have room in my life for anyone... but you.

12. I need space... for my new Bow Flex.

*Hot Stuff's sister is married to my brother. It's hardly creepy and/or Maury Povich-like.

Are you seriously serious?

Are you seriously

cashing in all 15 of your lotto and scratch tickets at 5:30 on Friday afternoon? Do you see the 9 people in line behind you in this tiny grocery store that has only one till? You couldn't do this at the gas station which at least has two tills?

going to drive in the passing lane on the highway at exactly the same speed as the person in front of me the entire distance from the city to my house, thus preventing me from getting in front of you and breaking into the 90km/hr range?

not going to be able to fix my truck until Wednesday? I have obligations, not the least of which is that three small children are dependent on me. Sure hope that pesky loose connection doesn't cause my truck to stall on the highway. That would suck.

serious, you want me to hang out with 20 preschoolers for 2 and a half hours?

trying to make me insane, bathroom scale? Why can't you lie? Why do you keep going up and not down? I don't want your excuses, bathroom scale. I want results. (I'll settle for lies.)

going to charge $1,999, IronMan Fitness Equipment, for this new-fangled Vibration Trainer:


which is exactly the same as this, currently on eBay for $19.99? Weren't we all just laughing at the hilarity and silly notion of this?