What Happens on a Monday

I stay up too late the night before baking a cake for Kacy's birthday. It's a tight day, but since I baked the cakes on Sunday night, they'll be cool enough to fill and frost on Monday morning.

Oh, my. When I awake I find that not one, but both of the cake layers have become some child's breakfast. Kalli and Lisa urge me to pull a Cliff Huxtable and use paper towels to make up the difference, frosting the cake to disguise the ruse. 

I bake two new cakes. I'm hours behind.

The child is sentenced to be our chore slave for the week, and is absolutely, positively, grounded. This is the week he'll learn to do the dishes and properly clean a kitchen.

Since Kacy doesn't know that I am baking cakes for her surprise party that evening, she invites me to meet her for lunch at Smashburger. I always order the mushroom and swiss when I go to Smashburger. Every time for the past three years it's a mushroom and swiss. I never change. Except this Monday I decide, in a rush of exhaustion and emotional recklessness, to order the jalapeno burger with chipotle something or other. Not content with driving the Thunderbird close to the edge, I floor the gas over the cliff, and order an Oreo shake. 

The last time I ate a burger AND a shake together was my first visit to In-and-Out. I decided, in an ill-advised show of bravado, to order a double-double, animal style, with animal style fries, and a chocolate shake. I laid in the floor of my cubicle in that summer of 2009 in pain with my co-workers laughing. It took me three years to come even close, with that Oreo shake and jalapeno burger. It was good (not as good as the mushroom and swiss,) but I still had to practice my dance moves for Kacy's flashmob later that night, and to finish her cake. And take my kids to the dentist. And work, and everything else we all do everyday that fills up the hours until they are bursting as if from fries, shakes, and ground red meat.

Keep a Better Eye on My Kids

"Hey blog."
"Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in."
"I know, it's been a while, but I've been busy."
"So busy you couldn't write on me?"
"Yes."
"Busy writing every place else except here?"
"Sadly, yes."
"I see. I'm your oldest piece of work and now that there are shiny, new places to write, you don't like to write here."
"I'm sorry. If it makes you feel better, you are a piece of work."
"I see what you did there, and I don't appreciate it. Your mother makes bad puns for jokes, don't go skipping down that path."
"It's inevitable that I become her, I might as well embrace puns."
"You'll embrace no such thing. Anyway, what do you want?"
"Can't a girl sling a few phrases together to say 'Hi!'"
"I suppose that's possible, but that's never enough for you."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"You know perfectly well that you use seven words when three will do, and ten penny words at that. Do you really expect that people reading your blog will read it with dictionary.com open in the next tab?"
"I don't consciously pick big words, this really is my vocabulary."
"It's annoying. And pretentious."
"You're pretentious."
"I'm a personification of a weblog, hardly grounds for pretension. But let's get down to business."
"Remember how I'm bad at supervising my children?"
"Why, yes! As that anonymous commenter very helpfully informed you! Thanks for turning back on the anonymous comments, by the way, because it always ends so well for me."
"Well, while I was feeding the baby and also maybe working, this happened:"

"Are those books?"
"Yes. It's the lower half of my library laid out end-to-end in a large circle through my living room, dining room, kitchen, family room, and the foyer."
"It's almost like an installation piece!"
"And he did it while completely naked, so I really do think I was experiencing a visceral, deep social commentary on the modern condition."
"He's clearly a genius."
"Clearly. Less genius was what happened a couple months ago..."

"Wait, is that..."

"Yes, a bucket of flour with a half-naked 4YO stuck inside it."
"But...how...is he...a shirt...what did you do with the flour?"
"I threw it away. After I made them some pancakes. No need to be wasteful."
"That's disgusting. Anonymous commeters back me up on this one: you really should keep a better eye on your children."
"But if I keep a better eye on them, what will I blog about?"
"Bait. Nice."

The Loss of Two Loved Ones

Thursday night EG casually mentioned over the dinner table that his new, week-old soccer ball was stuck in a hedgerow. The little bully had tried to kick it over our neighbor's 14 foot tall hedges and the ball had disappeared. J immediately left the table and took EG with him to retrieve the ball. They arrived back home 15 minutes later, J in a mood and EG crying. No ball. "How could you let him take the ball out?" J asked me. "I didn't know that he wasn't supposed to take it," I responded.

So in my guilt, I took EG, my belly, our long rake, and walked over to the hedges. I spent an hour and a half poking every square inch of that row. All along the top on both sides, in the middle, on the bottom, parting and looking, with no success. By the end, I was covered in dirt, old evergreen pieces, dust, and scratches. I found three balls, two drink containers, an old bird's egg, a shoe, and a frisbee, but no soccer ball.

I walked over to the bully's house to ask his parents to come search, but no one answered. Because of course not. My scratches began to well up into hives. EG looked 4 shades tanner from the dirt that coated him. I drew a bath and went to go find him a towel. When I went back into the bathroom, the tub was almost full and he was sitting between the tub and the toilet...
with my phone
on the edge of the tub
trying to unlock it.

I screamed.
He looked up, tried to grab the phone, and accidentally pushed it into the tub.
I screamed again.
I screamed some more.
I panicked.

J took over EG's bath. 

Phone insurance comes with a deductible, did you know that? And did you know that if your deductible is more than the phone is actually worth the insurance company doesn't care? It could be that the insurance company is even in the middle of a class action lawsuit for trying to make people pay more in a deductible than the phones are worth. But none of this will help you. So you call T-Mobile back and when the nice customer service girl answers, you might start crying. Which means they send you to Customer Care and give you a brand new, much nicer phone for almost the same price as the deductible.

The next day when EG asked me to text his friend's mom to ask if he could play, I got to say, "I can't."
"Why?"
"Remember when you drowned my phone?"
"Oh."
Proximo helpfully reminded me that I could just go get a new phone at the phone store.
"I hope they take pies," I thought to myself.

A couple months ago I had a funny feeling that did not turn out to be heartburn or my usual cocktail of guilt: time to start backing up my computer. My laptop stores all my work, my music, and years worth of my kids' pictures. I signed up for one of those automatic online backup deals.

So when my hard drive died on Friday and Saturday, I was frustrated, but not devastated, and there is a difference, I tell you what. Nick came over to my house Saturday night and gave me the diagnosis. He also offered to help me get it all up and running again, which is why he is going to win at life. Go buy his wife's album.


My phone and my laptop in 24 hours.

Oh man. It's like I'm a pioneer. A pioneer who has to use my husband's tower and barter for computer time. A pioneer who has to use her land line! (Only it's not really a land line, it's VOIP.) I'm trying to treat this constant downtime with some appreciation. Don't people preach all the time about unplugging and living in the moment? Well, I don't approve. Not being able to Google/tweet/calendar/text/call everything, all the time, and immediately, stinks. If I wanted to be in an old-timey re-enactment, I would have signed up for one.

Listerine

I bought a brand new bottle of fluoride mouthwash for children a couple days ago. Why? Because cavities are way more expensive than mouthwash (but are certainly more amusing.) I supervise the kid's intake and expell of the stuff, because no one wants to be the mom whose kids developed a drinking problem from the Listerine (no offense, Dimetapp moms.)

Saturday night I put the kids into the tub and went to get a towel. I heard Other Half supervising. Someone screamed/hit/smacked/spilled on the other and so tub time ended prematurely (no hair washing.) A few minutes later I looked over at the counter and noticed that the full bottle of mouthwash now had one centimeter of liquid left. I looked at it again. I counted the hours since I'd purchased the mouthwash. I looked again. Still one centimeter, not even a decent American half inch.

"El Guille," I said, "Want to tell me what happened to the mouthwash?"

That's when he did his guilt-ridden posture: Mouth widening into a cheshire-grimace, shoulders raising, head-ducking, eyes like teacups.

"I..."

"I...what?" I demanded.

"I wanted to see what would happen if I poured it all into the bathtub."

"WHAT?" I managed to get out, and then turned my head and pursed my lips to keep from laughing.

"I poured the whole thing into the bathtub. And then I got back in it."

"With your brother?"

Buzzed head nod.

"And..." *stifle* "What happened?"

"The color didn't change and the water didn't taste any different."

"Right," I said, and then sternly discussed a few notes about things costing money, and this mouthwash was supposed to last, and cavities, and responsibilities, and maybe Nero fiddling while Rome burned.

I repeated the story later to Other Half.

"Oh," he started laughing, "Well, that wasn't the only thing."

"What?"

"Uh, when Proximo had to sit on the toilet, I maybe didn't clean him all the way off and just stuck him back into the tub."

Wow. What a hot pair we will be.

In totally unrelated news that bears repeating even if you've heard it before on Twitter:

Proximo ate the peanut butter out of the mousetrap this morning.

We're so proud.

Project Project

As you're reading this paragraph, this very one, I will be attempting to stuff a quilt into the small right-hand section of the sewing machine, pushing the batting and fabric more compactly to squeeze in the stitches--I may even break a sweat.

I will also be experiencing full on desire for chips and salsa. I haven't been able to find a good salsa lately, do you have a recommendation? The first person to say Pace will receive a crusty-eyed squint and significant derision in mixed company.

Is there a worse snack than chips and salsa when quilting? Maybe triple fudge cake that you have to eat with your fingers because you don't have any utensils. (Rest easy, homeless children, I don't have triple fudge cake, either.)

Tamsin asked me to guest post for her, on the occasion of finding out that her baby will be a boy. I thought long and hard about what I would say to a woman who just found out she is carrying a boy. (Lock up your Sharpies! You can't leave those utility knives laying around anymore! Do you have enough trains/cars/planes?) I came up with something called Beautiful Things.

When my new coffee table arrived I was so excited. I don't get new furniture, except, I got new furniture! I couldn't wait to assemble the table, so while Morgan chatted with me, and the children ran around hitting eat other with the styrofoam packing, I grabbed an allen wrench and got to work. Each stretcher screwed in and foot tightened until the table rose and gleamed.

I lifted the heavy marble top with Morgan's help--not even being pregnant gets you out of heavy lifting around these parts**--and all was in place.

We smiled at each other, and that's when Proximo took the allen wrench next to me and drew it across the top of the table marring the finish.

I gasped and looked at Morgan, "Thirty seconds! I had a new, beautiful table for thirty whole seconds before it was ruined."

How did you vote? +



+When this post was published there was an accompanying poll to vote on how long it took Proximo to scratch my table. 37% of you said 3 minutes. 28% of you said less than 30 seconds, 19% thought 27 minutes, and the rest several hours.

**NO I AM NOT PREGNANT. Morgan is the preggo.
So in case you're keeping score, not only did I make the guest in my house do heavy lifting, but she was also with child. I am awesome.

Story of a Proximo

This is the story of a boy, who used to be a baby.

He longed to be outside to stretch his growing arms and long legs, but he spent all day inside a very small apartment on the top floor. One day he packed his bunny and moved to a house that had a paradise disguised as a backyard. He could run, jump, and shriek as fast, long, and as loud as he wanted. 

So he did.

And when he'd run, jumped, and shrieked (until his heart nearly burst from joy,) he asked for a sparkle-sicle. 

So he took that sparkle-sicle, sat down on the steps, and leaned against a post. This was his favorite spot. He could talk to the birds poking for worms, hear the dog next door, and just hum a harmony with the busy world around him.

He was so happy, his smile nearly split his head open.

For all the beauty, space, and wonder of his new world, the lure of the old one sometimes called to him.

And sometimes he listened.

(Especially when the call said to arrange his own sunscreen application.)

 

(And to smear the extra all over his mother's brand new wool rug.) 

 

The End.

Installation Piece

I got a phone call just as I was merging onto the freeway yesterday.

"Hey, what did you do with that pencil after you finished sketching designs for the new kitchen we can't afford yet?"

"I don't remember."

"I'll give you a hint."

"Oh, no."

"Yeah, Proximo found it. Let's just say I think you're going to have to repaint."

"WHAT? No, that can't be. Repaint?"

"It's everywhere on the kitchen walls, and I mean everywhere. Every swath of space between his toes and his head is covered."

"I don't have to repaint, that's what magic erasers are for."

"That won't work."

"It's just pencil isn't it?"

"Yes, but it's EVERYWHERE."

Sure enough, the pencil marks were both abundant and vicious. Huge black marks all over my Pale Ivory walls. Let's just say that I'm totally turning it into What My Kids' Art Says as an installation piece.

(click to enlarge)

While I was diligently scrubbing with the magic eraser, Proximo toddled in next to me and put his head close to mine.

"Sowwy, Mama," he said quietly.

"It's OK, baby," I answered quietly.


I do declare, all of these adventures have really refined my sense of patience and added miles to my fuse.

I THINK I'VE LEARNED MY LESSON I DON'T NEED ANY MORE, THANKS.


Mid-week T-Ball Report


El Guille played first base this game and has come up with a strategy to beat all other strategies. First, he crouches next to the base. Second, he covers the base with sand in a surprisingly effective move that prevents the runner from even SEEING the base where they need to go. I am struck with the tremendous totality of his strategery.


Don’t worry, he totally blows it when he sees the runner coming and confesses, “Hey, I hid the base under the sand, it’s right here.”


We’re working on it.

(Portrait of the artist at the unveiling)



Update: I did submit to What My Kids' Art Says, and this is what it says.

You Know, Broken Safety Glass Looks Kind of Cool

Alright, so it’s been seven days since I last blogged. You have to realize, I’m a Very Busy and Very Important Person, with a life full of Obligations and Commitments. I can’t just drop it all to come and lay out my life for the internets.

OK, the real reason is that I have something up my sleeve that involves each and every one of you and might also create a supernova in the galaxy of awesomeness. I've been trying to figure out how to carry off the logistics of the plan, but it’s not ready yet, so you’ll just have to wait. If things go very well you may not hear about it ever. The plan may also be less exciting than I’ve led you to believe…like a white dwarf in the galaxy of awesomeness.

(Oh, astronomy jokes!)

A number of months ago I predicted that my current toddler, the former Sweetest Baby on Earth ™, would be worse than his brother at destroying my modern east side loft. Is it going to shock any of you that I was right? Proximo broke an IKEA porcelain bowl in my kitchen so I banished him to watch Kipper in the living room. While I was vacuuming the shards, Proximo came in crying. He'd shattered the glass door on the entertainment center, giving himself two tiny little cuts on his palms and a huge lateral goosebump where his forehead hit the edge. There were chunks of safety glass everywhere. I sent the boys outside with my cousin and cleaned up the lethal mess with only two small cuts dealt to me.

It should be obvious by this point that Proximo has turned two. How did my baby become such a little boy who is charming, mercurial, petulant, possessive, affectionate, demanding, expressive, and apparently just like his mother? No really, how did that happen? Is it like osmosis? That would make sense considering how velcroed he still is to me. We're still Frog and Toad. Asterix and Obelix. Dante and Virgil. Matt and Ben.

And how is El Guille? He's started t-ball, which, believe me, I don't know if I've seen a sporting event so hilarious in a dozen years. The kids don't quite understand why they should throw a ball back when they just got the ball. A number of kids (including E.G.) figured that as long as one was running bases, it just seemed more efficient and logical to go in a diagonal, straight from home to second. Other kids decided that one base wasn't quite enough and ran a home run every single time, no matter where the ball was presently located. I think there were five shortstops at one point. You really must attend a game.

Our games come complete with one Proximo who thinks that he's actually ten instead of two and therefore climbs all over the bleachers until he falls down, repeatedly, and with much anguish.

I think he's just trying to impress Hailey's girls.

The Missing Ten Minutes

I got the kids all decked out in their Sunday best a good half hour before church services. I'm trying to get there a little early to assure a pew seat and this Sunday I was going to accomplish that everlasting goal. I went to throw on my dress and find my shoes. Only ten minutes later and properly attired, I walked into the boy's room to find

Lotion
Every
Stinking
Where.

The screw cap was off and large globs of pink, Parent's Choice lotion (that may or may not be four or five years old,) was all over the carpet, the area rug, the fire engines, and Proximo. His corduroy jacket, drenched. His thin hair, smeared.

And I lost it.

What is it about Sunday mornings that makes you want to kill your children? The one morning when you should be feeling the most love and patience is the morning to test us all. At least this week, when we got to church during the opening hymn, nobody told us that our child had walked to Tulsa and been returned by the National Guard.

Tender mercies.

Take it Like a Baby

I'm the oldest in my family, explains a lot, doesn't it?

These days I get to see the world from down under. I watch Proximo take the kind of violent love and abuse that only happens among siblings (and stupid teenagers.) From the moment that El Guille jumps into his crib in the morning to wake him up, to the moment El Guille jumps in his crib at night to ‘play,’ Proximo takes it, well, like a baby. In just one day I witnessed that baby get kicked, rolled on, smacked in the car, nearly suffocated with blankets, pinched, hit with a toy, and peed on.

I’M SORRY MOM because I know I did things just as bad to my siblings—except for the P stuff, I’m pretty sure that’s a snips and snails thing.

So thanks, Mom, for having me today all those years ago (even if you don’t read my blog because you can’t be bothered and therefore don’t get to read the apologetic gratitude.)

Oh, and thanks for howling with laughter tonight when I told you that Proximo was his brother’s target practice for the third time in seven days.

(Boys.)

What do I want for my birthday? For my kids not to P on each other.

Too much to ask?

Retraction

I believe in my last post I celebrated the magic of boys. This post is not a retraction, exactly; it’s more of a warning shot across your bow (you’re welcome.)

I started pondering when Mombabe et all, mentioned that their homes bear the physical manifestations of boy-dom. My house does bear the markings of territory, but so do my car, my things, my wardrobe, even my very own corpus.

I left the house this morning in a very cute cashmere and wool green sweater. I very much love this sweater with its side buttons and perfect fit. The morning had not yet elapsed when I ended up with two new holes: one on my right forearm from El Guille’s impatient pant zipper, and the other on my left elbow from El Guille’s car seat.

I am alternately horrified, as Stacy and Clinton would expect me to be walking around with holes in my clothes, and resigned that my fine things, my beautiful raiment, will meet the dust sooner rather than later. I have stitched up my clothes before and it appears I will be doing it again. Of course, I’m going to forget, fold up the sweater, put it away, and pull it out one morning when I am late, late, late and realize, yet again, that the sweater still has its holes and I need to make the choice whether or not to spend 10 minutes stitching or 10 minutes trying to find something else to wear.

Dear Self, Just do it tonight, OK?

My house, and all the things in it, suffers endlessly. For instance, the old cable box hole in our wall (which you might remember from this) has been covered with a plate for two years now. Well, covered until recently when 10 month old Proximo managed to get his chubby fingers under the plate, and broke off a piece (I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure it has to do with earth’s yellow sun.) El Guille took this as his chance to start shoving objects into the hole. Alright, not just objects, spoons. My spoons. He has significantly reduced the spoon count to the point where we have to wash spoons multiple times a day. "WHY would you do that?" I asked.

“Because I wanted to see what would happen.”

There’s my coffee table. Yes, the surface used to be smooth. Our chairs which were destroyed because there are crocodiles on our carpet. Leaping from chair to chair summarily ruined the cool retro pedestals,permanently knocking the seats out of alignment. We had to actually put legs on our chairs (how pedestrian, I know.)

This is my lamp. I have a matching set. Wait, I had a matching set. I had to replace the shade on one, and on this one? Well, I think the picture speaks for itself.

All my nice things, all my lovely, sentimental items, everything is in the wrecking path. My jewelry--I've lost more necklaces in the past six months than in all my previous decades (pirates.) My makeup, lotions, imported chocolates, lipstick on 400 thread count sheets; I think there is no end. The zen part of me realizes that these are just things, just objects, they don't really mean anything. However, sometimes, you just look at your spilled bottle of Chanel and a few tears have to fall. The most final damage is the one that I am most happy about: the pleasing ruin of your body. That's the sacrifice that I am most willing to donate to the cause.

But the sheets?

Come on, leave me the sheets.

I Was Right the First Time

We’ve had a huge project at work and instead of having downtime during the holidays we were working every spare moment. I might one day get to take a day off, but not this week.

On Friday morning, I decided to have a run before getting ready for (more) work. I went back into the living room and discovered El Guille…

I’m going to interrupt my narrative to say that my pediatrician and I had a discussion the other day about vitamins. I didn’t want to give Proximo the prescription vitamin drops, fluoride yes, vitamins and fluoride, no.

“You have something against vitamins?” smiled the pediatrician in that ‘Surely Mrs. Jet Set you must be joking’ kind of way. I assure you I am not.

“Don’t you think, though, that if breastmilk is low in Vitamin D, it must be that way by natural design?”

“No,” says my otherwise kind pediatrician, “Because Ricketts is natural too.”

Point and counterpoint, but your argument fails to win over my skepticism.

Thursday night, I was in Costco picking up dinner when a huge bottle of vitamins came into my line of vision. Maybe I am being too strange on the vitamins thing, I thought to myself. At the very least, it’s probably no big deal if I pick up a bottle and start El Guille on the dole. In fact, it’s probably an extremely responsible Mother of the Year type of thing to give your child a daily vitamin. And that’s how I walked out of Costco with a bottle of Kirkland’s Signature Children’s Chewable Vitamins in Dino Shapes, Iron Free, 300 count.

The next morning, Friday, I walked to the living room to get my running shoes and there, on the coffee table, was one large bottle of Kirkland’s Signature Children’s Chewable Vitamins in Dino Shapes, Iron Free, 300 count, open, with the dino shapes in various piles on toys.

But how? I asked myself, How? The bottle was closed! Never even opened! How could El Guille have gotten through the plastic safety seal on the outside, the child-proof cap? He got through the foil--although that one is on me because I taught him to open his own yogurt foil lids. The cotton was scattered about the room. Child-proof cap! Child-proof cap!

“Did you eat these?” I said calmly to El Guille

“Yes! They’re good!” El Guille said, happily.

“How many? How many?”

“A lot!”

I grabbed all the vitamins and put them in one location. 300, that was what the bottle said, so I started counting.
“..10, 11, 12, 13,” I said out loud, knowing that I needed to be accurate in the number of consumed pills.

“13! 18! 11! 20!” El Guille shouted, happy to be playing a counting game. I wanted to wring his neck, but decided to keep calm before the Chewable Dino Shapes finished him off from the inside.

52 missing. 52 missing vitamin pills.

This is probably just a call for help, right, not an actual OD attempt? He's El Guille, not Nikki Sixx.

I called Poison Control.

“Can you give me the exact name of the vitamins as it appears on the label?”

“Kirkland’s Signature Children’s Chewable Vitamins in Dino Shapes, Iron Free, 300 count.”

Poison Control said that if the pills had iron, we would need to be in the emergency room for a stomach pumping. As it stood, El Guille would have to eat 50 pills a day for several days for it to do any lasting damage but that, “He might have a bit of a tummy ache.” A bit, OK. I can deal with that.

Except it wasn’t a bit, it was writhing, the kid was miserable. I rubbed it in at every point of time.

“My tummy hurts! It hurts!”

“Did you take the bottle?”

“Yes”

“Does your tummy hurt?”

“Yes, make it stop.”

“You ate the pills from the bottle, that’s why it hurts. I can’t make it stop.” And so on.

The tummy ache was only the beginning, as the vitamins began to come out from both ends of the boy. I ran out of sheets to put on his bed. I had to call in to my boss to tell him I would be late. “Just take the day off, or do what you can from home,” he said. The ordeal was so bad that the carpet cleaners are coming Monday--we had to move the furniture to cover the stains until then.

So, I finally got a day off of work, but it was more work than being at work. My kid made it through a child-proof cap and ate 52 vitamins.

Maybe I legitimately do have something against vitamins.

Guess Who Got a Tanning of the Hide?

Click the picture for more detail.


The Filthy Padawan must know, intuitively, how I love abstract expressionism, especially Pollock.

p.s. Does anyone have a carpet steamer I can borrow?

Wherein we cover two historical time periods

Yesterday I walked into the living room to find El Guille reclining on the sofa as if he were a Roman emperor. Scattered about the area was the detritus of his lavish lifestyle: half eaten piece of toast, a slice of apple, the remnants of cereal ground into the carpet.

I studied the fine arts while in school and through my color training I was able to identify the highest contrast items in the room, a bottle of ketchup on the beige rug with accompanying punctuations of scarlet. I appreciated his nod to the color of senatorial robes, but I was not impressed. I was even less impressed when he opened his mouth and said,

"That's OK Mama, YOU can clean it up."

Thanks for the suggestion, may I invite you to write it on the card provided and leave it for the management?

He did a good job cleaning. I might have to hire him out to pay for new floor coverings. Anyone out there who wouldn't mind turning a blind eye to child labor laws?



This morning I awoke to the sound of the freezer door slamming shut. As I charged towards the living room I wondered if I would have to start setting my alarm for 5 am and moving my center of operations to the couch. I heard little feet running in the face of my advance and the SWOOSH of the egg-chair covering as the Filthy Padawan hid from his master.


Yes, that's a carton of Mayan Chocolate and Fergus the Eff-ing train.

I figured I'd wipe up the chocolate ice cream and he could pick up the corn. He didn't think that was a good idea. We fought about it for the next three hours. I cried in the middle and sent an upset email to Other Half. The email said something about me being tired, sick, miserable and not liking the Filthy Padawan much at all. It was a lot like Gettysburg.

However, you don't change horses in mid stream. I kept inventing consequences as a result of disobedience: toys, privileges, time outs, nothing worked. I sent him to his room and he said, "I want to stay in here." Fine, I thought. He removed the child-proof handle once and got out, I thought it was a fluke. After the second removal, I found my BFF duct tape to fix that handle.

The Filthy Padawan conceded the battle a mere three hours into the siege.

The union is preserved, for now.

Chollas

Let’s get this weekend out of the way:

Parmesan, water, and daddy’s shoes, sounds like a plan!

And now the Filthy Padawan has a cold. Coincidence? No, it's Karma, baby, Karma.

My friend Anne tried to give me some parenting advice. She Who is Without Children asked me, "But have you sat down the Filthy Padawan and explained to him how this is unacceptable? He needs to know that! Just sit him down and explain to him that he needs to stop." I, who was also a better parent before I had children, said graciously and with a knowing twinkle, "Yes, we have tried that."

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

Monday I was sitting at my desk trying hard to concentrate on my work. I was a little in the dumps, missing the babies and thinking through some projects which are giving me a mental block. I had a case of the Mondays.

And then, out of the deep reaches of cyber space, I got an email with the subject

Open Immediately!

Contents included this:

Those are my hawt sisters, Jeffiner and LaQuina.

Who doesn’t like sisters? Nobody doesn’t like sisters, or is that Sara Lee?

Obviously, the next question I needed to ask was,

“Is Jeffiner flashing a sign? Do we even have a family gang sign?”

I guess we do.

I love those chollas. Apparently, they love La Virgin.

Jeffiner works for Hotel Conglomerate. She will answer the phone when you call Hotel Conglomerate. I called her tonight…

“Thank you for calling Hotel Conglomerate, this is Jeffiner, how may I direct your call?”

“You can direct it up your butt,” I said.

She started laughing so hard that she put me on hold.

I can call her and say things like that, but you can’t.

That’s what sisters are for.

I know that at least some of you came here today to see what my kid did this weekend. Well, your wish has been granted. Yes, that was a box of Nesquik.


The best part about the destruction this time is that when I came in to the room he started waving his arms at me and saying in a frantic voice, "Don't see this, don't see this!"

I said, shocked, "Dude, are you trying to Jedi mind trick me?"

Indeed he was, the flithy Padawan.

Later that afternoon as I napped and my husband showered, Filthy Padawan emptied a brand new bottle of parmesan cheese in a similar pattern to the Nesquik. I think he's trying to communicate through fractals.

Today it was yet another bottle of contact solution.

Timeouts, swats, throwing away his toys, making him clean it up, lectures on military juntas in Latin America, water-boarding, nothing is working. Any ideas? Should I give him a container of Tic-Tacs to carry around?

The worst part about this whole thing is my mom and dad laughing. They don't read this blog (because they are too cool for blogging) but they think these episodes highly entertaining. Apparently, I did as much as him and sometimes worse. Yeah, yeah, a parent's curse. Stupid parents and their stupid curses.

El Guille's Mess-O-The-Day

Oatmeal canister: one ofUnsalted butter for baking: one of


Butter for breakfast? Why not.

Dear El Guille,
If you don't knock it off, I'm going to invest in one of these:


Love,
Mama

Brazil!!

We had the most amazing labor day weekend!

What can we say?

Deplaning in Rio always reminds one that one ought to have packed less luggage; what need for clothes is there really in this hot, humid, delightful metropolis? However, the allure of just one more monogrammed designer overnight bag is more than this girl can resist. Is it too much to wear my new Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress with my DVF luggage? I didn't think so.

We planned on spending most of the weekend at the beach. Plan accomplished! The soft breezes were just the respite from the sand and surf. I finished three books!

The only time we left the beach was to savor limonada suiça and lingering suppers over feijoada--I take mine with extra couve. I admit, there were a few hours spent enjoying the sounds of samba. We joined in after the sun had set, dancing into the sparkling night.

Some people think that you should go to Rio during Carnival. I don’t subscribe. Bypass the crowds and go now. Nights in Rio are loud, smelly, but enchanting. I can't think of a better way to spend a long weekend with the one you love.

OK, I can think of one better way.

How about scrubbing four colors of acrylic craft paint out of the berber carpet in four rooms, a hallway, and one little boy?
1 hour, 12 buckets of water with liquid Tide with bleach alternative, three rags, an entire outfit size 3T, a few tears shed on the periwinkle wool rug, and one trashed Calvin Klein bath mat later, the mess was almost gone.

I celebrated by using two magic erasers to wash my walls with the baby on one hip and This American Life in my ears. If I was feeling sentimental I would have compared my ordeal with the Unconditional Love episode; how the parents featured loved their children through Attachment Disorder and low-functioning Autism. However, I'm not feeling sentimental.

My life is so G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S.

I am racking my brain. Something happened one month ago and I’m trying to put my finger on it. Was it a change in temperature? Did I start serving a side of rocket fuel along with dinner? Were we on some type of bus that exceeded 50 MPH and now we’re crazy? All I know is that I used to have a sweet, smart, bilingual boy who loved to play and imagine. I now have in my possession a hellion of epic proportions (who is still bilingual.)

Here he is by the numbers:

Bottles:

1 of mineral oil poured on wool rug

2 of Alcon Contact Lens Solution (expensive) on bathroom counter and sink

1 of shampoo, location of contents unknown, empty vessel left as only evidence

1 of honey on coffee table, computer cords, carpet

Boxes:

2 of salt, kitchen counter, floor, over trains, and phone

1 shipping to be returned with shoes, appropriated to become Guille Turtle's shell and destroyed

Other:

2 lbs of flour, carried by train (Gordon) details here

6 lbs of flour, carried by empty cereal bowl into living room, kitchen, hallway, and several bowls of in bathroom (sink, floor, tub)

1 countertop flooded with water, radio in the center

1 bag of chips for baking scattered strategically in kitchen, living, and bathroom. Most chips are mixed with flour. Mom not amused at half-hearted baking.

1 very large flower pot on back balcony, broken into bits (more to come on that)

1 hole in drywall that he made by slamming door knob into wall and then picking at to make larger

1 orange crayon, used on all doors, entertainment center, glass surfaces, and CARPET

2 necklaces (favorites) busted into parts

Thanking:

My lucky stars that my stash of Sharpies hasn’t been found

He doesn’t know about ball point pens or tubes of acrylic paint

The past 24 hours have been the worst.

Yesterday morning was the 6 lbs of flour that migrated like a fast paced glacier over the landscape of my home, taking chip rubble with it. In the afternoon I was feeding the baby when I heard a gong sound--like the sound that my awnings make when they hit the exterior railing. I knew it wasn’t the front railing, which meant it could only be my neighbors, or our rear railing. I put the baby down and went to my room. Why check Guille’s room? He’s asleep for his nap.

I drew the drape a little to look onto the balcony and there El Guille was, standing over the remains of a very large terracotta pot and a pile of dirt. He was picking up the pottery shards, the dirt, and hurling them into my neighbor’s backyard below us. Nekkid, covered head to toe with black dirt. I ran into his room and tried to talk him into coming inside (I can’t go out and get him because I’m in my skivvies.) I cajole and then threaten him to get his dirty cola back into my house. I want to throttle him. I don’t. Other Half comes home that minute and tells me he will take care of it. I drive back to work fuming.

This morning Other Half came to wake me up at 7 and said, “El Guille isn’t in his bed.” WHAT? OH immediately runs out the door as I am blearily trying to locate some jeans. I run out the door just to be faced with OH pushing El Guille in his jammies, bed head, and barefeet, into the condo. “I went to see if Joey could play.” At 6:45 AM.

Yeah, I’m that mom, the mom whose child is found barefoot and in a diaper by the side of the freeway.
“The officers interviewed the mother and found that she had been sleeping when the child slipped out of the unlocked apartment. The mother is being held for questioning. The child was put into rehab because he must be out of his mind.”