The Vagina Dialogues

Here is how it should have gone down:

Monkey: "Mom, when I was cut out of your tummy, did you die?"

Mom: "Do I look dead to you?"

Monkey: "No."

Mom: "There's your answer."

I have this propensity for saying FAR MORE THAN I NEED TO, so this is how it REALLY went down:

Monkey: "Mom, when I was cut out of your tummy, did you die?"

Mom: "No, buddy. You weren't cut out of Mommy's tummy."

Monkey: "Really? Then how did I come out?"

Mom: "You came out of my bottom."

loooooooong pause

Monkey: "You POOPED me out?!?!"

I've always SWORN that I'd be honest with my kids about sex in an effort to establish an open dialogue when they're older. At this moment, though, I understood why people bring up the Stork.

So, we go through the discussion about how boys have penises and girls have vaginas. I gave him FAR more information than he needed/wanted (note to self: Just answer the question and SHUT THE FARK UP!!) and we went back to talking about which Ultimate Alien Ben Tennyson had been that week.

Later, I'd just gotten out of the shower and was doing the Towel-and-Turban thing while applying lotion when Monkey walks in to my bathroom, looks up the towel and says "I want to see your vagina."

You know those moments where it feels like a millennia has passed, but it's only been a few seconds? This was one of those moments. One of those long. painful. moments.

I ask Monkey to go downstairs and to send Daddy up.

Me: "Honey, can you show our child a picture of a vagina?"

Insert the sound of crickets chirping here.

Man: "A vagina?"

Me: "Yes."

More crickets.

Man: "Why?"

Me: "Because he wants to know what a vagina looks like and I figured a picture was more appropriate than showing him mine--as he just requested, I might add--or having him lift up someone's skirt on the playground. I'm not suggesting you Google "Backdoor Sluts 9", just find a diagram somewhere!"

A few minutes later, I came downstairs and asked Monkey if his question had been answered, to which he looked at me--in all his 5-year old seriousness--and said, "Mom, I hope I never have a baby."

Dude, I think you're safe.

The Lysol Chronicles

I knew it was coming.

You know how you know these things are coming? I knew this one was coming.

It's the flu. It's here and it's pissed.

I sent Monkey and Mini off to school on Thursday with Monkey Bread for Teacher Appreciation Week (Mini's were smaller than Monkey's...I can't get over how clever I am sometimes...). At pick-up, there was a letter waiting for me from Monkey's teacher:

"Dear Parents,

There has been a confirmed case of flu in your classroom. Please watch your child for flu-like symptoms. We will continue to disinfect the surfaces and toys in the classroom. Thank you for your assistance in keeping our school healthy and happy.

Sincerely..."

FARK!!!

Apparently, three students and a teacher were absent from Monkey's classroom yesterday. Four were sent home over the course of the day and Monkey wasn't looking so hot--along with a few of his friends. By dinner, he was running a 102 fever.

I honestly don't mind my kids getting sick. Don't get me wrong, I hate it for them because they look so tiny and miserable, but they pick the WORST TIMES EVER!!!!

Monkey's crappy timing, in this case, had to do with his brother.

Mini was having his fourth surgical procedure this morning....a minor one (PE Tubes), but surgery nonetheless. Yesterday, I followed Monkey all over the house with anti-bacterial gel (which I never use on general principle...I'm convinced the stuff will kill us all.) and would not let him NEAR Mini (it takes me long enough to wrap my head around Mini's surgeries that, once I'm ready, I want them done IMMEDIATELY). If Mini got sick and we had to postpone, I was going to be one pissed-off Mom. I don't know who I would have been pissed AT, but I would be pissed.

This morning, thankfully, Mini had his tubes put in and, though he's coughing, he's showing no signs of fever. Man stayed home with Monkey (whose fever is currently topping 103...we're headed to the doc at 3:20) and while I accompanied Mini down to the surgery center.

You would think carrying my son into the OR would get easier the more I do it. It doesn't. It breaks my heart every time.

Five minutes post-surgery, Mini was awake and flirting with another little 2-year old in the recovery room across from us, barfing apple juice all over me (that's how you turn on the ladies, dude. Way to go.) and asking for a Happy Meal, a request with which I happily complied. He's now home, running around the house and "playing" MarioKart.

Oh, yeah. And he's drinking Monkey's diseased Sprite. Great.

Oh well. Surgery #4 is over. Mini, do Mommy a favor: hurry up and get sick so you can hurry up and get over it. And I can start attacking anything that doesn't move with Lysol.

Goodbye, Ann. It was a good run

I cleaned out my closet today. It was kind of like a trip to the jungle: untamed, things landing on your head, views of things you've only read about.

Like dust bunnies the size of your head. Or silk boxers.

It has been a while, so my business suits were a little dated. The suit that the Man and I referred to as "The Matrix Suit" due to its floor-length coat tails HAD to go. Not optional. It was borderline-dated when I bought it, but I have a thing for anything floor-length. Or black. I think it's the Muu-muu effect: I think I look thinner when I pile more clothing upon to myself. The shimmery gray suit had to go, too. It was ugly in the first place, but, wowowow, it made me look skinny.

Skinny beats Ugly any day in my world.

The hardest part of The Purge was my Ann Taylor suits. I weigh a mere 5 pounds more than I did before having Mini and Monkey, but, even after the Mom Job, the bod just ain't the same. The flab is flabbier. The fat is...well, fattier. Those beautiful Ann Taylor suits cost me a minor fortune (and looked FABULOUS with my 4-inch heels that are now a size too small post-kids...but that's another post altogether) and I know that I'll never be able to wear them again....unless I pull a Heidi Montag (which, post MJ, I get how it happens...after all, you don't notice the carpet looks like crap until you paint the walls). No matter what I do, I can't make my ass fit into those suits.

Throw in the fact that business suits have no place in my current lifestyle and the fact that I still have them is all-the-more absurd. I wear workout gear, jeans and yoga pants all the time. I even sleep in sports bras...and every last one of these things is covered in some form of kid-goo.

As much as I have fought to accept my new life that involves Dinosaur Train and wiping three-fourths off the butts that live in this house, I have not been able to give up those suits. After all, I was going back to work, right? (RIGHT?!) Today I reached a sort of understanding with myself: I AM (!!!!!!) going back to work, but I don't want any job that will require me to wear those suits--or any other--again.

So, with a heavy heart, I say "Ann, it's not you. It's me. We can still see each other from time to time...perhaps on Clearance, or Shoes and Accessories. But our paths are not One. I will remember our time together fondly. Goodbye."

The Goody Bag Bandwagon

I just got back from picking Monkey and Mini up from preschool, where they had their Valentine's Day parties. Each child was asked to bring a Valentine's card to exchange with his/her classmates while someone's mother brought in cupcakes. Simple, right?

Wrong.

I want to know which of you 'hos took preschool class parties and turned them into a "Let's See Who Is the Laziest Parent" contest, because--for the record--I just won. While you were all coming up with your homemade candies and goody bags and cards with a picture of your child in an adorable crown with a stenciled message to my child with a custom-made lollipop, I ran out at 6:45 this morning and picked the ONLY Valentine's cards I could find (and they were 50% off!). They had SpongeBob on them. I DON'T EVEN LET MY KIDS WATCH SPONGEBOB!!!

Fast forward to this afternoon.

While Monkey played MarioKart and Mini napped, I ate Mini's Valentine's Princess Fun Dip and patted myself on the back thinking that little Missy's personalized Valentine's Day card is going to end up in the same place as Mini's SpongeBob card (assuming we all recycle here) and, as my blood sugar crashed, I realized this problem is far larger than I imagined...

Case In Point: The Birthday Party Goody Bag

Who came up with this (this is a rhetorical question; if you admit to it, I may hurt you)? Let's examine this situation closely: I (and when I say "I" I mean "we" because Man is reading over my shoulder demanding equal credit for party planning) just rented out a room/park/bowling lane/hockey rink, jacked your child up on enough sugar and caffeine to fuel a mid-sized town, introduced your kid to his favorite mouse/superhero/hip-hop star AND I'M GIVING HIM A PRESENT FOR IT?!

Really?

What happened to the days of going to someone's house, giving them a $5 gift that will break or have half the pieces missing in 27.5 minutes, running through the sprinkler a few times, eating a cake that the lower half of a Barbie got jammed into and leaving empty handed?

Here's a tip--and I'm speaking to myself as well because I have jumped on the Goody Bag Bandwagon (I should not be allowed to plan a party when I'm on Post-Surgery Percocet): THOSE GOODY BAGS CONTAIN NOTHING THIS MOTHER WANTS! There is no amount of money you would be willing to spend that will make me happy to see that plastic CARS bag in my son's hand...unless, of course, you invested in airplane-sized bottles of vodka and contributed to the delinquency of a minor for the sake of helping me deal with the aftermath of his sugar-high. Which I doubt.

So, stop wasting your time and my sanity, because I'm hanging on by a thread here.

And, while we're at it, can we PLEASE go back to the crappy V-day cards that say "To: Missy, From: Monkey. I choo-choo-choose you" and be done with it?

Potty Training: Take 3

The Man and I are making our THIRD (yes, third!!) pass at potty-training the Mini Maniac. Thus far, Mini has truly found the whole concept overrated--after all, why stop what you're doing when you can just use a diaper and someone will clean your ass at your convenience (or the smell becomes unbearable)? However, he will be 3 in exactly one month and it's high-friggin'-time. Besides, diapers are running us $40-50 per month and I'm getting annoyed by that fact.

I realize that potty-training requires patience (a virtue not bestowed upon me), but I'm at a TOTAL LOSS as to why we're having a hard time getting this kid to pee in a toilet. After all, we potty trained the Monkey with no major scars...and we did it before he was 2 and a half!

Attempt #1: Let Mini run around naked

This attempt lasted approximately .5 days...maybe less. 3 different times, he peed all over himself without even breaking stride. Dude didn't even notice that he had pee running down his leg.

Attempt #2: Thanksgiving Day weekend

Dumbass Me thought that we could manage to PT Mini while en route to Raleigh to hang with the Grands. My plan? Start him on a 30-minute schedule as soon as we got there, he'll get the hang of it by Day 3 and move him to a 60-minute schedule on Days 4 and 5, which we'll simply stop every hour, let him go potty and--voila!--he shows up at school in Big Boy Pants.

Silly, silly child-rearing woman.

Most parents would agree that PT means SITTING YOUR ASS AT HOME for a few days. The Grands do not do that well. They wanted to go shopping, to dinner, to Team Trivia, the park and we needed to stay HOME. So, for the sake of family peace and sanity (and just because it was more fun), we ditched effort #2.

Attempt #3: The Potty Watch

Thursday afternoon, after spending (yet another) $30 on diapers and wipes (and that was WITH COUPONS!!), I decided I was done. So, I went out and bought a Potty Watch (http://www.pottytimeinc.com/products.php), kid-sized boxer briefs (I really couldn't resist--they had soccer balls all over them!), and Pull-Ups.

(Sidebar: for anyone who isn't following the aforementioned link (not that I blame you. I probably wouldn't either), the Potty Watch is a kid-sized toilet-shaped watch that plays children's songs at 30-,60- or 90-minute intervals to remind the kiddo to use the bathroom)

When I picked Mini and Monkey up from preschool, I announced to Mini that I had a present for him! I got them home and showed Mini the "presents" and, Monkey (who had been extremely jealous of Mini getting presents until this moment) announced to me "Mom, that's not a present. That's underwear."

Thank you, Captain Obvious. Please go remind your father of that, since Valentine's Day is around the corner.

Friday morning, I put the Potty Watch and a Pull-Up on Mini. Every 30 minutes, he was placed on the potty and every 30 minutes, he didn't use the potty. He DID, however, have a wet Pull-Up each time I put him on the toilet (*insert head-thunk here*).

So, nap time came along and a diaper was mercifully in place. Upon awaking, Mini was stripped nekkid and, thus far, has had no accidents. The Potty Watch seems to be doing it's trick...it even seems to be working on Mommy. I'm like Pavlov's dog needing to pee every time I hear "Oh my Darlin', Clementine".

Fark. I spoke too soon. No sooner did I have that typed in and Mini comes running into the kitchen--looking so proud of himself--yelling "Mama!! POOP!!" I walk into the living room and find a turd that had its own gravitational pull.

*sigh* I'm going to take the fact that it wasn't in a diaper as progress.

He is currently running through the house naked--save his sneakers and a baseball hat. I'm on my second glass of wine (firmly planning on going for 3) and watching some horrid cartoon that's a cross between Jurassic Park and Survivor, waiting for Clementine to tell me to go pee again. Pray for me.