Category Archives: Cheerios In My Bra – Life In the Kid Zone

Love ‘Em or Hate ‘Em

Green Day, 21 Guns
When you’re at the end of the road

And you lost all sense of control

And your thoughts have taken their toll

When your mind breaks the spirit of your soul

Your faith walks on broken glass

And the hangover doesn’t pass

Nothing’s ever built to last

You’re in ruins
I’ve been jammin’ this song all afternoon, and I still haven’t exactly come to a resolution.
Except for maybe this.  I’m a grudge-holder, which isn’t exactly a resolution, because I already knew this about myself, so that’s sort of like cheating, right?
So maybe the conclusion is that I can’t come to a resolution.  Which sounds a little bit on the insane side.
Well, crap.  That leaves me with the only resolution that I, as a human being, seem unable to make.  And it’s this.  As mad as I am, and as upset as I am, I think my dad would want me to forgive.
But here’s the thing.  I’m really, really mad.  And it’s not like it’s over something that anyone can undo.  So that sort of leaves the people in the situation at an impasse.
I used to have this semblance of faith.  I think.  And that’s why this song resonates with me now, because whatever is left of that faith is definitely on broken glass right now.  Like giant, gleaming, sharp shards of glass.  It’s fragile.  And there are questions.  And doubts.  And levels of pissed-offed-ness that I can’t begin to articulate.
And someone—I can’t remember who right now—once said that if you didn’t want your story (or pieces thereof) to be written, you probably should have behaved better.  That can definitely apply to me, too, so write away.
But here’s the deal.  I was Dumplin’, and I’ll never get to be that again.  I was a Daddy’s girl, and no he wasn’t a perfect man, but he was a perfect dad and the only one I ever get to have in this life.  So if you take that away—or play a part in that being taken from me—then, yeah, I’ma gonna be a little pissed.
So, I’m guessing this is the part where I get past the sad.  And past the frozen feeling.  And now I’m at the mad.  And when does that get fixed?

Might I Interest Sir In An Appetizer?

“Chips & salsa, perhaps?  Sampler platter?”
“Just the couch then?  Will that be with the cushions or without?”
So the little shits ate my couch.
Not the kids.  The dogs.  The damned dogs.  Ate.  The.  Couch.
And did they even have the decency to look like they had indigestion or heartburn or constipation or ANYTHING?  Nope.  In fact, when I walked in the house after work yesterday, the entire furry crew looked just pleased as punch with themselves.
The kids, however, looked scared shitless as they stood there in the living room surrounded by mounds of shredded couch cushion.  “We didn’t know what to do with it, Mom,” was the only explanation I got.
Hmmm, well we could either put it in a pot with some water and cook it for dinner, or we could pick it up and put it in a trash bag.  Call me crazy…just a thought.  But even my sarcasm failed me at the moment, and I couldn’t get those words to come out.  I’m pretty sure I spluttered something more Tourrettes-y like, “Shit-Damn-Ball-Crap-Shit-Hell-Balls,”while the kids stood there waiting for my eyeballs to pop completely out of my head.
And then, like Wonder Woman, I picked up the couch (damned heavy thing, too), flung it over my head, spun it around three times like a baton, and tossed it in the garage.  Ok, what really happened was that I dragged it, huffing and grunting as I felt sweat drip between my boobs (which, by the way, makes me grumpier than having my couch eaten by dogs) out onto the sidewalk.
It bumped down the two steps to the sidewalk, fell into the flower bed, and clumps of fluff poofed out of the place-where-my-butt-used-to-sit.  All of this was in full view of the neighbors, and all of this was done braless, because once I get home in the afternoon, that’s the dress code—no shoes, no bra, hair in clippy thing on top of my head.  So yeah, I looked insane…what with my boobs flopping all around and my couch in the middle of my flower bed.  But I had it damned handled.
My dogs were not going to get one more scrumptious bite of cushion if it was the last thing I did on this green earth.  Midway through this event, Marissa asked, “Mom, do you need your inhaler?”  So I’m assuming I looked like a crazy woman with the lung capacity of a 90-year-old lifelong smoker.
I did not need my damned inhaler.  What I needed were pets that had less of an affinity for polyester filling.
Oh and also, we already had a call in to Nebraska Furniture Mart because we purchased the replacement policy or some such crap for this couch.  So we called to let them know we had a tiny hole in the seam of the couch.  Guess what?  Now the hole is NOT so tiny.  And they, too, are going to think we are crazy, because what we previously defined as a small hole now looks like the Grand Canyon of fabric destruction.

And now I have a half-eaten couch in my garage and a treadmill in my living room.  And probably a husband who may or may not have donated my dogs to some prison pet program.  Also, welcome home from out of town, Honey.  I know you’ve been gone for a week, and you were really looking forward to coming home and maybe sitting on our comfortable couch, but about that…

Fart Island

Life on Fart Island is good.  It’s a magical place, really—a place where 7-year-old boys can make blanket forts out of poofy blankets squired from their parents’ bedroom, a place where Legos come to life to form magnificent towns filled with dragon-slaying man-beasts that drive square-wheeled wagons, a place where smuggled Dorito crumbs mingle with discarded socks.
Fart Island is OFF LIMITS to:
  • Girls
  • Rules
  • Homework
  • Timeouts
  • General Seriousness

You should know that Fart Island is a real place.  Do not discount the existence of Fart Island, lest you be forced to face the wrath of the Kings of Fart Island, who just so happen to be quite ruthless in doling out whatever punishments they deem fit.  (The punishment is likely, however, to be farting.  Just giving you a fair warning.)
The thing is, Fart Island is the bed in Jadon’s room.  And only the boys are allowed on the island, except at bedtime, when parents are invited onto the island to tuck stinky, unruly little boys snugly into the poofy tent-covers they have pilfered from around the house.
It is a giggly place where stories are told and tickles are abundant.  So if ever you are invited onto Fart Island, it IS indeed an honor.   But be warned, there WILL be giggles and stink bombs aimed your way.Not many are allowed to tread there. 
I should point out that the parents of this particular realm did not come up with the concept of Fart Island.  We probably would have named it the Book Boat (or some other dorky alliterated name), but since we are dealing with 7-year-old boys, and their universe seems to consist of farts, burps, and loose teeth right now, I’m not too surprised that we ended up with an island named after their favorite bodily function.
I hope that you, too, someday have a Fart Island—or something like it.  Because it’s magical.  It’s where we spend a few special (albeit sometimes stinky) minutes before bedtime getting to chat about our day and just giggle for a few minutes.

And maybe sometime, when someone asks what we’re up to, I can just say, “Eh, we’re just going to home and hang out on Fart Island.”  Because that’s just how we roll.

If I Were a Soccer Coach

If I were a soccer coach, there are a few things I would need:
  • Booze.
  • Throat lozenges.
  • Punching bag.
  • Anger management counselor.
  • One of those people who follows you around with a big leaf, fanning you.  (You know, like in Egypt or in the movies.  Do they really DO that in Egypt, because if so, I totally need to go there.)
  • Aspirin.
  • More booze.
  • A nap.

And that’s just the beginning.  After this past weekend, when I watched the very first two soccer games my 7-year-old boys played in—EVER—I have a new respect and admiration for the people who coach pee wee sports.  I mean, for the love of all that is sacred and holy, either those kids are all deaf, or they don’t know their right from their left yet.  (I’m guessing it’s the latter.)
I heard a few things repeated numerous times.  One of them was, “Left wing!  Left wing!  Get to the LEFT WING!”  Now, either little Johnnie needed a hearing aid, or he had no flying fuck of an idea what a left wing even was.  And I don’t blame the kid, because I was thinking it was something I might find at KFC.  (Clearly, I have not previously been a soccer mom.  I’ve spent the majority of my time in the gymnastics realm.  So if you ask me what a rudi-ballout is, I can totally tell you, but don’t ask me to tell you how to get to the left wing, mmmm kay?)
Another thing I kept hearing was something along the lines of, “Nooooo, Joey (names have been changed to protect the innocent—and my kids),kick the ball the OTHER way!”  I personally think my boys would be really awesome at defensive offense or offensive defense…you know, kicking goals for the other team.  Because it was only their first weekend, and already they were coming REALLY close!  It was edge-of-the-lawnchair exciting!
Also, did you know that when little dudes are standing out in the grass, all bored with nothing to do, they will FIND something to do?  And when they have no toys to play with, can you guess what they play with?  Yep…IT!  They play with IT.  The little fishing worm in their pants.  They wiggle it and jiggle it and fondle it, and then, when the ball is finally kicked in their general direction, they are so busy playing with themselves that they have no idea what to do about a damned soccer hurtling toward their little heads.
One of the funniest things I think I heard this weekend was,“There’s no SKIPPING in soccer!”  Well, guess what, Coach-er-oo?  There IS skipping in soccer if you are 7 years old and the coach calls you to the bench and walking sounds boring.  Then, there is most definitely skipping in soccer.
If you are watching little dudes play soccer, you should also be prepared for the sudden and abrupt exit of one or more players from the field without warning.  This could happen for any number of reasons.  In our case, little dude apparently needed to take a shit, and well, everyone knows you can’t do THAT on the soccer field.  Duh!  And when the deed needs to be done, it doesn’t really matter that the coach might be yelling “LEFT WING!” at you.  When you gotta shit, you gotta shit.  And the best way to take care of this is to saunter off the field like you don’t have a care in the world.  Just wave at Mom, Dad, and the coach, and wander off on your merry way.
All the while, the coach kept yelling something about the left wing and coverage and forming a wall and attacking the ball.  And I’m pretty sure the boys were still trying to figure out where the wing was at the end of the game.  Was it his left or their left?  I was even confused.  The coach was sweaty and seemed to be suffering a heat stroke.  He really, really could have used a leaf-fan-wielding person and a large vat of water.  And booze.  I’m guessing he went for the booze when he got home.
Note to self:  google left wing.  And soccer.  Definitely google soccer.

The Unquitting Plan

So here’s the thing.  Sometimes when you fall on your ass, you need the awesome people in your life to stand there and pick you back up.  And here’s the other thing, sometimes you don’t want to be picked up, but those people like you enough to make you get your slug-ass moving anyway.  And that makes those people really awesome friends, so don’t ever screw that up.  I have a lot of those people in my life, and I am grateful.
Moving on.  There are lots of things in this life that may incite you to embrace your inner slug.  For example, if your dad dies butt-assed naked in the middle of his living room floor all alone…and say your son happens to be the one to find him.  That is really bad shit, and let me tell you, the last thing you think about is working out.  In fact, the first thing you think about is WINE.  Because wine can fix a lot.  But the thing is, it can only fix it for a limited time.
Also, if say, Bigfoot breaks into your house and eats all your Cheetos, that’s pretty bad, too.  But that didn’t happen.  Because I’m not crazy.
Here’s another thing.  It might seem like it would be difficult to spiral into a non-productive, non-writing, crap-eating funk, but it’s not.  It can happen to you, too, so listen up, sluggers.
When you find yourself circling the drain, the thing to do is to look to those people who might sort of like you…even though you are a little crazy…and even though you are a pain in the ass…and even though you can’t seem to give much back at the moment.  Those are the people who will save you from the mortal-drain-suckage that is happening.
So, how to fix everything?  How to unquit?  Well, as I’ve stated before, unquitting is hard.  It’s embarrassing.  It’s humiliating, and it makes you feel like you had everything you needed and then just…well, just took a break.
So you either quit or take a break.  I’m going to say I was taking a break.  And hopefully my friends will know that whatever they did for me or said to me ended up helping me get my ass back in gear.  Because it did.  And thank you all.  Really.
August 1.  August 1 is the day.  I have said aloud (as in a voice that others can hear) that I will present myself at CrossFit and begin a Whole 30 program on August 1.  So there is a time limit on letting myself go.  This is a self-imposed time limit, and I firmly believe it’s for self-preservation.  If I were to NOT put this time limit on myself, it would be so easy to NEVER make myself.  As in not make myself do anything, and I don’t think that’s what my butt-assed-naked dad would have envisioned for me.  So, yeah.
Hence, I have discovered that the key to unquitting is setting a time limit for yourself.  You get a chance to grieve.  You get time to spiral into what-the-hell-everness, but you don’t get a free pass to do that in an unlimited fashion.  That would be lazy.  And disgusting.  And, well, just giving-up-ish.  And that’s not me.  Deep down, that’s not who I am.
August 1 is going to kick my ass.  Let me be clear.  I need my ass kicked.  I need a non-plan-plan (as in Along Came Polly).  You may not be a planner, and I totally get that, because neither am I.  So my only plan now is to unquit on August 1.
Thank you to all my friends and family who have been so understanding.  I truly hope that August 1 has about 300 squats, 200 push-ups, and 100 pull-ups in store.  I need to remember what it feels like to have some sort of a plan.  I need to feel like vomiting into a chalk bucket.  So, Coach C., make it a good one, and make it a workout to remember.  Because I have to get ME back.

The Care and Keeping of Your Bridge Troll

Congratulations!  You are the proud new loved one of a bridge troll.  As you will shortly come to realize, bridge trolls (a.k.a. introverts) are interesting and complicated creatures.  While their company can be fulfilling and rewarding, they can also be described as challenging and even frustrating.  Please find below important instructions regarding the proper care of your bridge troll.  If you follow these instructions, you are guaranteed a much happier co-existence with your closet-dwelling, public-averse, antisocial companion.
Good luck.
Instructions:
  1. Always brief your bridge troll on the specifics of ANY and all situations regarding human contact and interaction, especially when dealing with strangers.  Remember, any human contact or socialization can be construed as tactical warfare, and the troll will respond accordingly.  Example:  If you arrive at a party and there are people in attendance that the troll was not expecting to see or meet, you can expect that your troll’s level of anxiety will immediately be heightened.
  2. As soon as you notice a heightened state of anxiety in your troll, immediately provide alcohol.  Lots of alcohol.  This provides medicinal support and will help your troll avoid any emotional trauma that could result from an uncomfortable social situation.
  3. Make your troll aware of any and all upcoming social engagements as soon as you become aware of them.  You will need to remind your troll of these engagements as the date approaches, and it will probably require bribery to actually get your troll to attend the specified engagement.  (Note:  When the actual date of the social engagement arrives, your troll WILLtry to get out of going.  This is normal and to be expected.  Once again, lean on alcohol and bribery.  Never threaten a troll, as they CAN and do become violent when cornered.)
  4. Never, never EVER remind your troll that she is a troll.  Your troll knows that she is a troll and is forever self-conscious about the troll-isms that control her day-to-day activities.  Accusations of troll activity and combative behavior will only cause your troll to go into hiding, most likely in an upstairs bedroom or closet.
  5. Bridge trolls are good at holding grudges.  If you should find yourself in a disagreement with your troll, remember that the storm will eventually pass.  Well, maybe.  However, should you want to bribe your troll or ply her with gifts, it’s helpful to shop for things such as dictionaries, out-of-print books, and other such nerd-attractors.  Trolls love items like these and are more likely to thaw when presented with geektastic treasures such as the aforementioned.
  6. Trolls are not excessive talkers, especially at the end of a long day.  In fact, you may actually hear your troll growl in certain situations.  It’s important to remember that trolls require downtime in which words are not being violently flung in their general direction.

Above all, though, just remember to have fun with your troll.  They are fascinating little creatures, and much like their distant cousin, the garden gnome, they thoroughly enjoy a raucous outing to the library.

Dental Appointments and Xanax

Correlation?  Methinks the answer is yes.  You see, for days before actually presenting myself in the dentist’s office, I find myself longingly wishing for a super-strong prescription for anti-anxiety meds.  And as I understand it, I am not the only one in the world with this particular strain of anxiety.  The dentist is on my list of Least Favorite Places in the Entire Universe I Want to Visit.
Is my dentist mean?  Nope, she’s actually a very nice lady.  I enjoy chatting with her very much.  But then she hauls out all those shiny, pointy-ass tools, and I can’t help but thinking she’s been possessed by Satan and sent to singlehandedly dig each and every tooth out of my mouth—all this with no effective numbing agent.
Do I sound ridiculous? Absolutely.
Do I send my children to the dentist?  Certainly.  And I tell them the dentist is wonderful.  A giant wonderland of flavored toothpaste and treasure chests and rainbow-shitting unicorns where all the little children with perfect, sparkly white teeth go to be happy, happy, HAPPY.  Yay!  But secretly, I know in my heart that the devil lurks in the dentist’s tool drawer, and as soon as I open my mouth, unspeakable pain and suffering await.  (I try to avoid telling my children this part.)
So anyway, today I went to the dentist.  Totally sober, too.  I mean, I wanted to have a pint or two of a good, stout red wine, but I thought that might tarnish my nice, suburban house-mommy-writer image, so yeah, sober.
And as soon as they called me back to the exam room, I started babbling.  “Um yeah, I don’t know if you remember me or this tooth, but this tooth is bad.  And I’m um worse.  I cling onto the chair like a cat, and I swear to God if you pull out a drill, I will probably claw my way up to the ceiling, so pretty much I just want to make sure you remember that I get really nervous and shit up in here, and um, yeah, also my tooth really hurts, which is why I’m here, but if you could just check it from across the room, that would be great.”
So the dentist called the psych ward.  Nah, just kidding.  (Sort of.)
What the dentist really did was mock me with her eyes, because all I could see behind that little mask of hers were her eyes, but they looked pretty mocking, if you ask me.  And she promised that all she was going to do was x-ray the tooth and poke at it to see if she could determine the problem.  I agreed to let her do that, but I did also swear on all that is holy that I would bite her finger off if she tried any monkey business.  So we had a working deal.
So she x-rayed the tooth.  And then she whacked on it with a little metal hammer, because it wasn’t bad enough that I was already thinking the tooth was about ready to break in half and fall out of my face.  So yeah, it was really good that she tested the street-worthiness of the tooth, you know, just to make sure it would hold up to any jackhammers I might encounter on my way home.  And guess what?  Our suspicions were confirmed…the little hammer definitely hurt like hell.
Diagnosis:  I need a root canal.
Problem:  I can’t even manage to sit in a dentist’s chair and get through a filling.
Well, crap.
So she sent me away with a prescription for some awesome pain meds, because apparently eating ibuprofen like M&Ms is not the healthiest solution.  Who knew?
I am also under strict instructions to call the drug-dentist.  That’s the dentist who will do this procedure while fully medicating me, because I’m guessing that my dentist doesn’t want to have to deal with pulling my sorry ass off the ceiling during the middle of a fairly standard procedure.  I told her to send me to someone who will numb me from the shoulders up and pretty much gas me enough to make me feel like I’m levitating off the chair.  I don’t think that’s too much to ask.
In the meantime, I’m telling my kids that the dentist is a happy, happy place…a land of free toothbrushes and floss, of cartoons and toy chests, a place where gleaming pearly whites come to fruition.  Just keep me out of that damned devil cave, because I’m more than positive that Beelzebub himself is out to get my teeth.
Now, where are my pain meds?

Words Are Lost

I want to write, but there are those times when words just won’t come.  No matter how much I want to force them, they just refuse to be there.  And it’s strange because words are my medicine, my cathartic force.  They fix things.  But they can’t fix this.

I’ve been trying to write, but I can’t seem to get anything out.  I can’t work on my book.  I can’t work on my blog.

I wrote a poem for my dad, because I wanted him to have it.  I wanted to send it with him.  And I wanted everyone to know he had it.  Definitely not my best work, but when you consider that I wrote it with about a half a bottle of wine in me and with a full flood of tears flowing, maybe you can forgive me.

Dad, you weren’t perfect, but I still haven’t found anyone on this earth who is.  You were the best daddy I could have had, and I hope the memories keep pouring in.  I miss you already, and I will miss you always.

Every single time you saw me, you told me, “Let Jesus sleep on your pillow.”  This one’s for you, Dad.

Heaven’s Pillow
A place to lay your weary head
where earthly struggles cannot reach,
A place to rest your tired soul
where angels God’s promises beseech.
A place of peaceful quietness
to envelope every woe
and keep you gently wrapped in
Heaven’s promised fold.
A fight long fought, a day long done,
you’ve lived life to its best.
In standing for the Father,
you’ve found your place of rest.
Lay your head softly down
on pillows made of clouds.
We know we’ll see you soon enough,
though we do not see you now.
So rest a while and know you’re loved
by all those waiting here.
Lay your head on Glory’s cloud
and whisper that you’re near.
Close your eyes and let it go,
let pain and struggles end.
Lay your head on Heaven’s pillow—
we’ll see you yet again.
Let Jesus sleep on your pillow, Dad.

Unquitting

I don’t know how to unquit.  I’m having a huge problem with this.
Let me start by saying that I am not a quitter.  I don’t normally say that I am not enough, that I can’t accomplish what I’ve started out to accomplish.  However, lately I’ve found myself in a slump, a slump that I would probably be able to talk any of my friends out of.
What would I tell a friend?  I would tell them to get up!  I would say if you fall down, dammit, you pick yourself up and you try again.  If you can’t do a pull-up, you do an assisted pull-up and you say that’s better than all the people who are sitting on their asses on the couch.  If you aren’t a fast runner, you run YOUR fastest…and that’s better than being stagnant.  If you can’t clean 150 pounds, you clean 125…and you work toward 150.  So what the hell is wrong with me?  Why can’t I take my own advice?
I keep telling myself that I’m too old.  I’m too busy.  I’m too committed to other things.
But you know what?  Pretty soon, I won’t be ABLE to commit to anything because my body will get so tired of being run down that it won’t want to do even the most basic of everyday tasks.  Pretty soon, I will look forward to naps and afternoon tea and (good Gawd) support hose, and then what will I do?
I have been looking for easy.  And guess what?  There is no easy way out.  I recently spent $300 on supplements at Complete Nutrition, which I am sure are wonderful additions to my everyday regimen…if I could come up with a regimen.  I also recently purchased $75 hot pants so that my thighs would sweat profusely as I walked (or did laundry or whatever).  Let’s not forget the small fortune I have spent in fish oil, protein powder, workout tees, and shoes.  And all that is fine and dandy if I could just get my ASS in gear.
All of the aforementioned things are nothing but replacements for what really needs to happen.  I need to get my REAL self in the game.  I need to get my real self prepared to be the best I can be, and there is nothing I can buy at any store that will make that happen.  The only thing that can make that happen is me making the commitment to SHOW UP.  And I don’t know how to unquit.
I don’t know how to believe in myself enough to make that happen.  I don’t know how to invest that much in myself.  I don’t know how to give up on all the exterior things that promise to add to my regimen and count on only MYSELF to make it happen.
Society sells us so many things, from powders and potions to t-shirts and pants, from supplements and vitamins to shaker bottles and memberships.  But when it really boils down to it, all it depends on is yourself.
It’s taken me YEARS to figure this out.  And it’s heartbreaking to realize that there is a hole somewhere.  I still don’t know where it is.  I have fixed so many things, but there are still so many things to be fixed.  There is still so much work to do, and the good thing is that hopefully there is time to do the work.  We aren’t done until we are done.
So now I have to figure out a plan.  How does one unquit?  How does one go about being unembarrassed around friends and mentors, people who have believed, trained, and dragged your butt through rigorous and fulfilling workouts?  How does one pick up a bar again?  Squat again?  Put weights back on their shoulders?
With humility.  And knowing there is still much to be learned.  And much to be gained from moving forward…one painful step at a time.
Unquitting is much harder than beginning.  Don’t quit.

Things to Argue About

I’ve made this handy-dandy list for my two 7-year-old boys, in case the unthinkable happens—we actually run out of things to fight about.  Not to worry though.  Currently, we are going strong and seem to be in absolutely NO danger of facing a shortage of topics.
First, I’ll just give you a quick run-down of the verbal sparring that is incentive enough to give any sane mommy reason enough to start concocting Mocha-Xaxax-Capuccino-Vodka Chillers just to get through the morning drop-off at school.  Take the most recent morning drive for example.  Here’s what my little pumpkins fought about:
  • Where to put our horse.  (We don’t have a horse.  We live in a suburb, and I’m pretty sure there would be a hefty home owners association fine if we attempted to keep a horse in our yard.)  “The horse should live in the front yard,” said one.  “No!  The horse has to live in the back yard because we have a fence back there,” said the other one.  (Mommy was still thinking to herself, “But we don’t have a fucking horse!”)
  • Do horses take baths? Holy crap on a cracker, they actually agreed that indeed, horses probably DO take baths.  However, the disagreement occurred as they discussed the size of the damned horse bathtub we would need to install in our back yard.  One said we would need a large bathtub.  The other said we would definitely need to scale down to a medium bathtub because a large horse bathtub would be WAY too expensive.  (We don’t have a fucking horse!  But kudos to one of them for thinking of the financial ramifications of purchasing a too-large horse bathtub.)
  • So-and-so didn’t do his homework.
  • “Yes I did, and so-and-so is a tattletale!”
  • It’s no fun to play Minecraft with my brother because he always blows up my guys and destroys my houses.
  • So-and-so can’t invite MY friends to his birthday party.  And by the way, I am having a sleep-over, and he can’t have one because that would be COPYING, and that is RUDE.
  • “We should get chickens,” says one.  “No!” says the other one, “I want ducks.”  (Mommy, while quietly sipping vodka-coffee-concoction, is thinking, “We still can’t have any livestock.  We don’t live on a fucking farm!”
  • “But chickens are cuter than ducks.”
  • “No!  Ducks are WAY cuter than chickens.  PLUS they swim.  Swimming is fun, and ducks are better.”

(Aw, hell…what time do the doors to the school open?)
(Also, do you guys know it’s almost summer vacation time, and that means ALL DAY EVERY DAY with these guys?  We are going through an arguing phase, and I’m not sure I’m gonna last the summer.  If you don’t see regular blog posts, please send help.)
In order to help my boys get through the summer, I’ve compiled a short list of topics to which they can refer, should they run out of ideas.  See below:
  • Are space aliens green?  Discuss.
  • Should we go to the pool or the park?  Fight it out.
  • Which are better…kangaroos or jellyfish?  Why?
  • Who has smellier toes?  Prove it.
  • Can bears sing?  Are you sure?
  • Can goats really eat anything?
  • Can you swim in a volcano?  Why or why not?
  • Who left their bicycle in the driveway?
  • Should we let whales live in our swimming pool?

And as a last resort, if I totally run out of topics for our summer arguing pleasure, I can always ask them what we are going to feed our IMAGINARY HORSE.
Happy summer, guys!