Monthly Archives: October 2011

Cuando Llega el Amor

When I lived in Ecuador, I used to watch this Latin soap opera, and I loved it.  I don’t know what it was about this show.  There was drama.  There was intrigue.  There was betrayal.  But most of all, the words and gestures of the characters were so exaggerated that, even as I was learning Spanish, I was able to make out most of the storyline.  I loved it!  It was the greatest thing EVER.
María’s cousin was about to elope with Antonia’s brother when they found out that Juanita’s maid’s daughter was secretly having an affair with the fiancée of the soon-to-be-wed young lover, who was secretly working as a stripper in order to earn money to fly to Madrid to go to art school.  Or something or other.  I don’t know.  But the point is, it was AWESOME.  And I learned some wicked-cool Spanish by watching that show.
Well, last night, in our very own living room, we had a little Latin drama of our own that played out right before our eyes.  (I think it’s in the blood, you guys.)  Here’s how it went.  (And it was awesome, too…in that awesomely hilarious kind of way.)
Jadon (from upstairs):  I am bleeding.  There is BLOOD!!
(Thump, thump! Bang!  And lots of other noise as the boys make their way down the stairs.)
(Because we were busy watching Desperate Housewives, and duh, we’ve seen blood before.  We figured no one was really dying.  Parents of the Year Award 2011 goes to us.)
In a burst of miniature Latino Guatemalan drama, two 4-year-old tornadoes burst through the baby-gate-turned-dog-barrier that blocks the way to the upstairs.
Jadon dramatically marches toward Jason, who is sitting in the large overstuffed chair, still watching Housewives.  He holds his little tan hand high above his head, right in front of Jason’t eyes.
Jadon:  Look!  Dis is BLOOD, Dad!
Jordan:  (Dramatically grabs Jadon’s hand and visibly inspects it, then shouts in a very loud voice.)  OH MY GAWD!  (with a very straight face)
At which point Mommy falls off the couch laughing, and Daddy nearly pees himself as he hysterically slaps his knee in a similar fit of laughter.
Both boys looked at us with drama-filled little faces, holding the bloody hand high above Jadon’s head in a life-saving measure as they made their way to the sink to wash it.
As soon as the grown adults in the room regained their composure, they were able to explain to the ever-so-dramatic 4-year-olds that if they would refrain from jamming their fingers up their noses, they would not produce so much blood.  And OH MY GAWD, don’t they know that Desperate Housewives is on?
All we needed was some nice Latin music in the background, and we would have had a fine novela, fit for la televisión.

Teenage Angst

Wanna know what’s really fun?  Tormenting your kids.  That’s what’s fun.  As parents, we have waited years for this, and by golly, we have put in our dues.  We get to torment our kids whenever we want.  So there.
We keep trying to calmly explain to them that’s why we have them around—you know, to torment them, but they have this irrational idea in their little heads that we should, I don’t know…be nice or something.  Bwa-ha-ha-ha!  (Evil parent laugh inserted here.)
Anyway, this weekend, we were all working in the basement, and might I add that we were working tirelessly to clean the basement so that we can dump a buttload of money so that we can finish the basement so that Micaela can have a honkin’ huge new bedroom all to herself?!  But nevermind that.  We made her mad.  (And it was sort of funny.)
It all started with this political conversation about rights and privileges and a bunch of hooey like that.  And she started talking about all of her RIGHTS.  And that’s when Jason and I snorted coffee out our noses and laughed uncontrollably, which she apparently took all the wrong way.  What we were trying to say was, “Pft, of course you don’t have any rights!  You are a kid.  You occasionally have privileges, but only when we deem it so.”
That was the wrong thing to insinuate.  There was a flashing of eyes, a squaring of shoulders, then a stompity-stomp-stomp up the stairs, followed by a door-slamming of epic proportions.  Then more stompity-stomp-stomping across the upstairs floor.
I punched Jason to make him stop laughing.  He called her back down to explain that what he meant was that she couldn’t do things like own a gun, because she’s only 14 years old.  Let me just say that watching this was sort of like watching a zookeeper attempt to talk down a rabid lion.  (Just sayin’.)
Again, eye roll, stomp, huffity-huff.  “Well, I don’t know WHY I can’t have a gun!  I have rights just like everyone else!”
Um.  Let’s see.  Why do 14-year-olds not get to have guns?  Where should I even begin? 
  • They would shoot someone if they stole their boyfriend.
  • They would shoot someone who looked at them the wrong way.
  • They would shoot someone who wore the same shirt on the same day as them.
  • They would shoot someone if they woke up in a bad mood.
  • They would shoot someone if they woke up with a zit.
  • They would shoot someone if their favorite jeans were in the dirty laundry.

Um, yeah, this could be a long list.  Golly, Sweetie, you are right.  Totally unfair that you don’t have rights.  Sympathetic eye roll from mom.  Now get back to work before I have to take away more of your rights.
Love, Mom  

Top 5 Signs Your Kid Might Be An Asshole

I’m sure there are many more than five, so let’s use this as a general guideline, and I’ll let you make the determination from here:
  1. Your kid finds it necessary to repeatedly remind my kid that she can do more leg lifts than my kid.  Oh yeah?  Well my kid could kick your kid’s butt at the Alliteration Game, which we play all the time in the car.  And I’m pretty sure your kid is too busy being a bully to know how to alliterate.
  2. Your kid finds it necessary to roll her eyes every time my kid ends up on her team.  Um, yeah, your kid might be able to outrun my kid, but trust me on this one, your kid is going to want my kid around should there ever arise any need for 1) intelligence  2) kindness or 3) personality. 
  3. Your kid thinks it’s cool to get other kids to gang up on my kid.  Ok, so your kid can round up a posse.  That’s awesome if she wants to start the Lee’s Summit chapter of Hell’s Angels.  That should make you proud.
  4. Your kid thinks making my kid cry is a fun pastime.  Also awesome…if you are a total cretin.  And one day, when my super-smart kid that actually has a personality grows into the majorly awesome older person that I know she’s going to be, she’ll be the better person and smile at your kid who will probably be asking “Do you want fries with that?”
  5. Your kid makes snarky comments about how my kid makes her team lose all the time and can’t climb a rope or do pull-ups.  Ok, well, I’m not sure climbing a rope or doing pull-ups is necessary in order to become a doctor or lawyer or chef or whatever other amazingly AWESOME thing my kid will be.  So while your kid is climbing the rope, my kid will be growing her brain.  (Oh yeah, but tell your kid not to slow down too much, because my kid is right on her heels in that regard, too.)

And on a related note, what should you do if you suspect your kid is an asshole?  Here’s some simple advice:
Make them stop, and if you don’t that makes you an asshole, too. 
This has been a public service announcement.  Thank you and have a nice day!

Hybrid

Step right up, folks!  That’s right…you can only see it here.  Right next to the bearded lady and the two-headed goat.  We present you with…(drum roll)…
the first ever…
the one…
the only…
Miniature American Eski-Goat!
Yes, it looks like an innocent puppy at first.  But lemme just tell you, the things this dog can eat would scare most mythical, beastly, horrible-thing-eating creatures.
Here’s a small list of the things Rudi has eaten.  (We’ve dished out a small fortune for this dog already, so I’m thinking that how these items pass through his system is his problem.  I’m not forking out any emergency vet money for Dumb Butt the Dog.)  Ok, back to the list:
Shoes (too many to count), rugs (living room, office, throw), books, paper, trash, toilet paper tubes, carpet (as in the carpet that is supposed to be ATTACHED to our floor), throw pillows, blankets, socks, underwear, jackets, toys, cookies, the stylus that used to be attached to Jadon’s Leapster (not sure why the little glutton stopped before eating the ENTIRE game), tree branches, tennis balls, kong toys (yeah, the “indestructible” ones), buttons, and a freaking PARTRIDGE IN A PEAR TREE for all I know.
Anyway, what the shiz is wrong with this dog?  Are puppies not supposed to stop chewing at some point?  We have been good puppy owners.  We have purchased rawhide in bulk.  We have carted disgusting dead animal bones into our house for him to chew on.  We have purchased toys and goodies and blankets and all manner of canine gadgetry for him.
We have finally come to the conclusion that the problem is the fact that he is not a dog at all.  He is some sort of freakish hybrid goat-puppy-termite-tyrannosaurus thing that will eventually eat the walls down around us and leave us wearing nothing but tattered clothing and chewed-up shoes.  Yay, pets.

OMG, Girl, What’s On That Sandwich?

This is a new, short installment that I’m doing in honor of the crazy food concoctions Micaela comes up with at times (ok, most of the time).  It may not always be a sandwich, and I’ll try to get pictures in the future, but let’s just quickly reference last night’s dinner.

Me:  OMG, girl, what’s on that sandwich?

Micaela:  Lunch meat, cheese, sauerkraut, mayonnaise, and salsa.

Me:  (various unladylike barfing noises)

Poking Mommy With a Stick

“I dunno.”  Poke, poke, poke.  “Do you sink she’s ok?”
“Yeah, she’s pro’b’y jus’ sweepin’.”
Pitter patter, pitter patter of little feet through my room—and I bury my NyQuil-fuzzy head further beneath the covers.  Surely Jason will realize there are stray children running loose in the house and come to retrieve them soon.  If Mommy plays dead, which is not altogether far from the truth when one is in a NyQuil-induced coma, then they will go away and not need things like Band-Aids and stories and non-itchy pajamas and such.
That was last night, or as I lovingly refer to it:  Night of the Living Dead.  Dear Friends, My sinuses have taken over my body, and I fear it will not be long before my head simply explodes from the pressure.  I tried to garner sympathy from my closest family members, only to have them begin fighting over who gets the waffle iron and who has to run the dishwasher when I’m gone.  Jason did inform me, quite solemnly I might add, that they will all miss me when I die of SINUS CANCER or whatever equally horrible disease I must certainly have.  Thank you all for the generous amounts of sympathy, and for not believing me about the depths of my misery, I hope you all slip and fall on a giant lung-goober when I do finally cough up the entire lung I’ve been threatening to cough up for days.
Every five minutes or so, the kids escaped in pairs and ventured into the cold, dark cave I created for myself in the bedroom.  I had two fans blowing directly on me, and my entire body was buried under at least 7 blankets.  I could vaguely hear them when they approached, even though they tried to tip-toe quietly through the room.  Their curious whispers about my condition gave them away every time, and if that didn’t do it, someone always followed them in and bellowed, “YOU GUYS!!  MOM IS SICK!  LEAVE HER ALONE SO SHE CAN SLEEEEEEP!”
Oh yeah, totally sleeping through that.  But I made a valiant effort at playing dead under all my blankets, and I’m pretty sure if it hadn’t been bedtime for the little guys, they would have come in and started poking me with a stick to make sure I was still alive.  After all, it was a normal day, and their pajamas were itchy, and they needed to watch cartoons, and they also needed new socks, and could I fix their blankets, and also the other one needed help with Spanish, and also oh yeah don’t forget to quiz the other one on the Social Studies test.  Sheesh, can’t a woman die in peace around here?

When?

I can’t even remember how long it’s been going on now…but quite awhile anyway.  It started off with a fairly simple question.  Over time, the question has morphed into a sort of shorthand that exists just between Marissa and me.  Now, I don’t mean to brag or anything, but amazingly enough, she always knows the answer to the question—sometimes even before I finish asking it.  (It probably helps that the question and answer are always the same.  Every day.  A year ago, today, tomorrow, a year from now.  Same question.  Same answer.)
It started off like this a couple years ago:
Me:  When is Mommy proud of you?
Marissa:  Always
Now, I can’t even get the first word out.  I have asked the question so many times, for so many different reasons that she just knows exactly what’s going to come out of my mouth.  Sometimes I ask it after she’s finished a really awesome trampoline routine, and sometimes I ask it when she’s had a rough day and there are tears brimming in her eyes.  So many things make me want to remind her how proud I am of her every day.
Now, the question is usually more like this:
Me:  When?
Marissa:  Always
Two words between us, but I hope that hearing it every single day will remind her how amazing I think she is.
Hey, Marissa Grace…ALWAYS!