It's just hair.

One summer, I let my children get faux-hawks. For the unfamiliar, the faux-hawk is a classic cut involving spiky hair in a strip down the middle and buzzed sides. Because the sides aren't shaved, the style can be converted into a church-ready 'do by removing the gel. The first faux-hawks happened when the Tank was a baby. School had just let out for the summer, we didn't have a routine (like we ever had one) and it was hot as h*ll. Like any other mother in the same situation, I drove to the mall, where air-conditioning runs like mad and Starbucks is always within walking distance. After loading up on a venti-whatever-the-heck, I headed to Williams-Sonoma to see if there were any free samples. I then attempted a trip into some store or another to try on over-priced, ill-fitting clothes that wrinkled*. By that point, high as a kite on coffee and sugar, I really didn't care what we did next. I only knew I wasn't going home. Besides, the caffeine buzz was allowing me to enjoy a soundtrack that existed only in my head, mostly Violent Femmes with a little Pixies and old Liz Phair for good measure.

The children spotted a hair place. Master Cuts? Hair Cuttery? Cutz R Us? I do not recall.

"Moooooom," they salivated. "You said we could get faaauuuuux-hawks! Can we get them now? Pleaaaaaase?"

After they agreed to turn the hawks into buzz cuts if someone died, I said yes. While wacky hair is fine by God, it can be offensive to people whose loved ones have passed. Personally, I might enjoy an odd hairdo or three at a funeral, but that's just me. I turned the stroller towards the store and marched them up to the counter. I made them ask for the cuts themselves, because if you're man enough to get a faux-hawk, you're man enough to talk to the stylist. The stylist didn't quite understand. She looked at me like I was nuts. I only stepped in when it became apparent she might accidentally give them mullets. Funny story about mullets. I met someone who had trained as a stylist in a small mountain town. You may think little mountain towns are fancy, because people have cute little cabins up there where they entertain and get away from the summer heat of the city. Guess what. Real people live in those towns. Some of them are fancy. Others? Not so much.

"You know," she confided, "People really shouldn't trust me to cut their hair, because all I ever cut in school was mullets."

A trainee has to cut whatever the client wants. I had to know,

"Did they actually ask for mullets?"

"Never."

Apparently, people with mullets don't even know what they have on top of their heads. MULLETS. That word makes me laugh, even just typing it. Mercy. But I digress.

After insuring my sons would not walk out with mullets, I relaxed. They were not as brave as they had pretended to be and nervously argued over who would go first. I don't remember who won or whether first or second was considered to be the winner, but by the end, they were cackling like monkeys and couldn't wait to rock the new look in public. The stylist sold them some gel (For Men, of course) and they were ready to go.

We walked through the mall and my boys, in the universal way that boys do when they feel very proud and are trying not to show it, kept their mouths closed, cramming their tongues into their cheeks to keep from grinning. We heard awe-filled whispers.

"Mom...look at those GUYS...They look AWESOME...can we please?...so cool...I want...wow..."

The kids loved the attention and had great fun all summer, faux-hawks at the ready. The next summer, the X-man - who had been told at soccer camp he looked like a young David Beckham - wanted a buzz cut. Twelve bucks, five minutes, no maintenance for months. Loved it. His cool older brother continued to rock long, curly hair...for about three days.

"Ahhhhh..." the X-Man would sigh, tickling his nearly bald head in the one hundred degree heat. "This feels so good!"

O. might have only made it two days. He had to have that cut. Months later my brother, who buzzes his own hair, offered to re-do it and I was thrilled to save twelve dollars. Buzzing a seven-year old is harder than you might think and my brother and I now agree that the twelve dollars is well-spent.

School ended on Friday and, in preparation for the summer, the X-Man wanted to go for another faux-hawk. Fine by me. TF took him to the barber shop in Five Points, which was closed. They went to some other place, where TF asked,

"Could you please give him a faux-hawk?"

The response? "I am not giving that boy a mohawk."

TF tried to explain the difference in the two styles. The faux-hawk is really a mohawk-lite. The shop, of course, was filled with friends. Men are worse than women when it comes to socializing at the barber shop. Unlike women, who will yak for the sake of yakking, men need a purpose. Weekly haircuts give them an excuse. The men laughed. And heckled.

"Like Mr. T...bwahahaaaaaa..."

"I am NOT giving that boy a mohawk."

TF has lived in the south long enough to know when to back down and the X-Man was born knowing. He climbed up into the chair as the experienced barber promised,

"I'll make him look good."

Which he did. He made him smell good, too, like a clean-shaven older man's after-shave, which is probably exactly what he used. I don't know if there was any kind of lecture during the cut, but the X-Man had an explanation when he arrived at home sans crazy cut.

"Since I have a piano recital today, I thought a buzz cut would be more appropriate."

True, that. And he played beautifully. He also led the audience in singing The Star Spangled Banner, all four verses. Did you know it had four verses? Well, I didn't either, until I heard him practicing. He wanted to sing it in his school play, "even though it takes, like, fifteen minutes. Or twenty." Never one to discourage my children, I told him he could ask his teacher.

"Oh, I did. She said no."

Good call, although it was pretty awesome. Especially with the old-school, respectable summer haircut. He also rocked a seersucker suit. I love that kid.

Namasté, y'all!

* Is it any wonder I started an entire blog about shopping local? Our mall is so lame. So. Lame.

So, you want to know how the potty trainingis going?

I'll tell you how it's going. Not that great. But not that bad, either. At the beginning of last week, when we informed the Tank that his diapers were too small (except for at night, when they miraculously fit), he avoided wetting his pants about ten percent of the time. Score: Potty 1, The Tank 9. The next day, Team Potty did a little better, scoring about 2 to the Tank's 8. A week later, they've really grown as a team, with plenty of coaching. Team Potty is winning, usually around 7 to 3. Team Potty still has yet to score the elusive 3-pointer, poop. In a valiant attempt to seal the deal for a three, a fine pair of Bob the Builder briefs was sacrificed. That's okay. We can shake it off (Um. The loss. Not the poop. Never shake a poop.) The team is still young. By next season, they'll be hitting them out of the park and right into the toilet bowl. And the coaches of Team Potty are working hard to recruit the Tank. POTTY! POTTY! GOOOOOOOOO, POTTY! And the crowd goes wild! So does the Tank.

Seriously? I don't care if he wants to be on the team or not, we're making him play. I know some parents disagree. They believe that some things shouldn't be forced. I even believe that, sort of. I mean, if your kid is great at soccer but hates the uniforms, wouldn't you consider making him do it? Am I the only parent that ever signed a kid up for something I knew he would enjoy in the end without telling him? For the reluctant child, anticipation is the worst.

My mother knew my sisters should take piano. They did not agree, so she told them they could quit at the end of the year, which they did. One crisp fall afternoon, she called them downstairs,

"Get in the car, girls!" she chirped. "We're going for ice cream!"

Now, if my gluttonous sisters had any sense, they would have hidden somewhere good. In what alternate universe did my mother ever take us for ice cream just for the heck of it? Well, now that I think about it, I do remember trips to Baskin Robbins, Hooligan's and occasionally Rossini's. And Zesto. And McDonald's for soft serve. So I guess we did eat a lot of ice cream. Why didn't I remember this until now? We also always had some in the freezer. What was it with my family and ice cream? Dammit. Now I want ice cream, like a scoop of Swiss Orange Chip from Swenson's. Do they still have that? Spectacular. But I digress.

They piled into the car, so excited about ice cream they didn't notice the ominous pile of last year's piano books on the front seat. This all happened back in the eighties, when kids could sit wherever they liked in air-bagless cars, so one of them might have been sitting on the books. They didn't notice as mom passed the closest ice cream shop and headed in the opposite direction from several others. They were completely at ease, trusting, as mom pulled onto beautiful, tree-lined Saluda Avenue. They continued to dream of ice cream, carefully considering what single flavor they might choose. We did get ice cream often, but only one scoop. Their short-lived hopes were dashed in a moment when the car stopped. Right in front of Mrs. Tucker's house.

"Get out," my mother said.

"WHAT? Nooooooo! You said we could get IIIIIIICE CREAM!"

"I lied. Get out."

"But...but...but, MOM...you SAID..."

"I don't care what I said. Get out. Mrs. Tucker is waiting."

"But..." Their complaints slowed to soft whimpers. They knew they couldn't win. Back in the eighties, children's victories over their parents were as rare as airbags.

"You are being rude. Mrs. Tucker is expecting you and her feelings will be hurt. She's looking out the window and she can see you."

Whether they like piano or not, everybody likes Mrs. Tucker. Although I seriously doubt she was staring piteously out the window waiting on my unmusical sisters as my mother claimed, it was a good argument, because nobody in their right minds would want to disappoint the divine and charming Mrs. Tucker. Which is why I started taking my own children to her for lessons when they entered first grade. For the most part, they like it.

So, I know some parents disagree with our method, if you can call it that. One such parent has mentioned on at least two occasions that we should let him go back to diapers. I disagree and told him he needed to criticize our parenting behind our backs and only to his wife, like we criticize his and everyone else's. Yup, that's right. We talk about you behind your back. The reason we don't tell you to your face is we know we're probably wrong. It just makes us feel better about our own lame parenting skills to disparage yours. Got a problem with it? Maybe our method sucks, but it's working. Ish. So there.

And the Tank isn't mad at us. He's kind of mad at his underpants, but I can live with that. He's still cute as a button. The other morning at the beach, he was sleeping on a futon a few feet from our bed. he woke up and the first thing he said was,

"I know that smell! That's my mommy!"

I'm going to assume it was a good smell. Maybe not. He also pointed to me the other day and smiled.

"That's my mommy! I loves her!"

Are these the utterances of a child suffering irreparable psychological damage from bad potty training? I think not. He also continues to refer to his brothers as "my boys," even though they, too, have encouraged him to join Team Potty. He loves us all and we believe in him. Gooooooo, Potty! And the crowd goes wild...

Namasté, y'all!

Quinoa Week comes to an anti-climactic close.

Well. I don't love this recipe, but I liked it. And it was all I had the energy to make after a few days in Charleston for their Fashion Week. According to the Weekly Beet, I may be suffering from PFST. I agree with this diagnosis and must acknowledge that I may also be suffering from PCFS*. To aid my recovery, I'm eating nice and clean and avoiding alcohol, for at least a few days. I am one-hundred percent sure I'll be drinking heartily on Friday night, when we're finally going to Orangeburg to try Four Moons. TF almost gave up alcohol for Lent like he has never in the history of the world managed to do, but he tries and fails does every year. Honestly? I don't even think he tries that hard. Because if he is trying, and continues to fail, don't we need to acknowledge he has a problem. And doesn't that mean I, too, have a problem? Why don't you shut-up, fun hater? So, he's our driver, because Four Moons is far, far away, y'all. And if I'm going that far for a meal, I'm going to wash it down with plenty of bubbly so I can pass out for the long drive home. But I digress.

Anyhow, I have dessert fantasies about the quinoa. My ultimate goal is to roast it with some nuts and some sort of caramel sauce so it gets crispy, at which point I will crumble it over ice cream or just eat it. Any suggestions as to an effective way to achieve this would be welcome. I'm thinking a burnt caramel taste, like those almond bowls in fancy restaurants. I figured a quinoa pudding would be easy, similar to rice pudding, so I didn't try that, but I most certainly will some day. The breakfast quinoa recipe is pretty close to a dessert, actually. I decided to attempt the next easiest thing, Apple Quinoa Crumble. Crumble is like impromptu bread pudding or Bisquick cobbler - not fancy, no need for a recipe, not exactly company food, but way better than pudding from a mix. Unless it's the pistachio kind. Do they still make that? Is it as good as I remember or was I as desperate for sweets as my children are, because we both have mothers who are so mean they want us to eat healthy and never give us dessert? Would I still like it? These are questions for another day. Now that I think about it, pistachios would be an excellent addition to the Quinoa Crumble. Here we go...

Apple Quinoa Crumble

Pre-heat your oven to 350° and cut up a few apples. Put them in a buttered casserole dish. Sprinkle the apples with cider vinegar or lemon juice. I feel sure white vinegar wouldn't be the end of the world.



In another bowl, mix 1/2 cup cooked quinoa, 1/2 cup sliced almonds, a few big spoonfuls of sugar, quite a few shakes of cinnamon, a dash of salt and about 1/4 cup melted butter. Stir all that together**.



Spoon the topping over the apples.



Bake it until the apples are soft, 30 to 40 minutes. Spoon it over ice cream and drizzle a little bit of honey to add sweetness if you like.



Honestly, this will not be the most decadent dessert you've ever eaten, but it's a nice way to use up the end of that huge bowl of quinoa you cooked at the beginning of the week and it's pretty satisfying. Besides, it's pretty healthy, especially if you used frozen yogurt, which would probably complement it better than the rich, full-fat vanilla my kids bought with the twenty dollar bill I gave them while I waited in the car with the Tank, who was in no condition to go into a grocery store. I was going to send the X-Man in by himself, leaving O. at home alone for a few minutes (He's almost 11. Don't call CPS. Also, he is pretty smart.) However, the X-Man requested his big brother's help for the adventure because, he explained, "Sometimes I get kind of shy." Aw.

Incidentally, one of the most amusing things I ever did with those two was give them $5 and send them into Palmetto Candy and Tobacco*** with orders to buy whatever they wanted without asking for more money or fighting. They were five and eight years old and I sat in the car just outside the store with a sleeping infant and waited. I had taken them there before and didn't want to deal with the drama. Palmetto sells candy in bulk and they have big barrels of candy from bulk packages that ripped. The barrels are labeled "5 for $1," "10 for $1" and so on. There is at least one barrel with big stuff, each item costing a whole dollar. And there are sodas. And bags of potato chips. Anyhow, I think it's a fun place for kids to go, a Columbia institution, but I couldn't deal with the (literal) nickle and diming once we were inside. So I gave them the money and the orders. And I prayed. In less than eight minutes, they left the store, skipping past the cigar store Indian standing guard by the door, right behind a house painter heading back to his van and laughing his head off. In their little hands, they held more candy than they had ever owned at once. In an effort to save the environment, they decided they didn't need bags. There was candy spilling from their pockets, their shirts, their clenched fists and their socks. They were laughing so hard they could barely breathe. And they had change from the $5.

I had one of those "Oh." parenting moments. I avoided the whining, they felt really proud of themselves and kind of bonded over the whole experience and I didn't even have to wake up the baby. They learned about budgeting and teamwork. It was the feel-good moment of the year! Why didn't I think of that?

Namasté, y'all!

P.S. I have ordered something new and exciting, for me at least. My new thing is a Flip Video MinoHD Camcorder. I'll mostly use it for my other blog, but I'm sure it will prove useful on this one, too. Perhaps I will film myself dying my own eyebrows. Maybe I'll take higher quality videos of my lawn. Perhaps I will film TF snoring. Don't warn him, m'kay? I haven't gotten it yet, so if anyone knows of any reason I should not be wedded to this cute little camera, speak now or forever hold your peace. Opinions welcome.


* Post-Child-free Syndrome. Oh. My. Gosh. It was awesome. The first two and a half days were also husband-free. No offense to TF, but that was pretty awesome, too. Waking up whenever I wanted (9 am-ish,) eating breakfast in peace, showering at leisure, spending the whole day meandering...and I didn't have to rush back to get ready because, with no one around to "help," I can shower, relax, put on makeup and get dressed in fifteen minutes. And I wear a lot of makeup, y'all.

** Sometimes, I like to over-use the sharpen function in photo-editing software because it makes the food look more like dishes in a seventies cookbook, which I like. Discuss. Or not.

*** Which my nephew used to call "The Candy Meadow." How cute is that?

Oh, the Tank.

Just in case you were curious, the Tank still claims the potty is "not for him." I commiserated with another mom over tea* today about that. She has a toddler close to the same age who isn't much interested either. As a mother of three, I wanted to reassure her, so I told her all children potty train when the weather gets warm**. Hope she didn't hear the shaky kernel of doubt in my voice. Oh, well, it was a lovely, toddler-free chat anyway. About once every week or two, the Tank likes to announce a need to use the potty, remove his diaper and use it. Just like that. I suspect this is to show us he could use the potty, but enjoys watching us getting our hopes up before he dashes them. What a charmer.

His new catch-phrase, which is probably from some movie or another is, "This is serious, Mom." Or Dad, or whoever will listen. After this dramatic announcement, he's unable to articulate exactly what is so serious. I'm sure he'll let us know when he's ready.

He also has a new game. I went to get him in the gym nursery the other day and the young lady watching the kids looked at me apologetically,

"I swear he keeps asking me to do this."

And she was telling the truth, because he was laughing and, as I well know, the Tank does not do much he doesn't want to do. She sat behind him, holding on to his hands as he pleaded, with increasing drama,

"Lemme GO! Pleeeeeaaase! Lemme GOOOOOO!"

Then he would let go of her hands, pretending to escape and tumble onto a pillow in front of him. Presumably, he put the pillow there to break his fall. We play this game at home now, too. Fun times. Kids are strange, aren't they? Oh, well. As the Tank likes to tell us on a regular basis, "The Tank is a two-year-old kid." Which explains it all.

Namasté, y'all!

* Yup. Still rocking the herbal tea.

** I tried to say this with great authority. I also told the other mother, a fellow writer, that blogs are good for practice writing. They keep you in the habit of writing, especially if you set a goal. I am long past the age when I believe in lofty goals, so mine is this: I won't skip more than two days of blogging. As I type, I'm standing at the kitchen counter, cooking miso soup for dinner while helping the X-Man with his homework, listening to "Thunderbirds" (old-school version) while the Tank demands various things and yelling at O. to get ready for soccer while I wonder if I'll have the energy to go to the gym after dinner, because I never did make it there today. My point is, this may not be my best work, but it's something. Practice, just practice. Now the Tank is explaining to me, in great deal, how he brushes his teeth. "THE TEETH IN MY MOOOOUUUUUTH!"

The Bad Word.

Over a recent dinner, my friend Tracie of San Francisco (soon to be South Carolina - whooooo!) introduced me to the concept of the Bad Word. According to her, each of her friends is allowed to have one - a word they despise. A word they find so vile it makes them throw up in their mouths a little every time they hear it. Anyone who knows your Bad Word must avoid using it around you at all costs. In return, you remember and avoid using theirs. Bad Words vary widely. Our mutual friend Mariah's is "scarf," as in "She scarfed down those bagels like there was no tomorrow." Tracie's is too vulgar to share, but let it suffice to say I will never use it.

I had trouble choosing my Bad Word, because I am picky and easily irritated. At first, I thought of "panties." I hate that word; I gagged typing it. Just after college, I worked as a bank teller for the health insurance and part-time underwear salesgirl for the store discount. I worked really hard selling underpants, because I wanted to keep that discount (it also applied at the attached clothing store) and I wanted to be a manager. Though I had no desire to be a career underwear store manager, I had a huge desire to avoid the task I hated most.

The store where I worked always had a special, usually something involving underpants. One unlucky employee had to (wo)man the door, greeting each customer with a big smile and the words,

"Hi! Welcome to C--! We have a special today! Five pairs of panties for twenty dollars! Let me know if there's anything I can help you with today!"

My blood pressure rose every time I had to say those words. And those words had to be spoken, because the store was owned by a big corporation, so you never knew which customer might be a secret shopper hired to inform the higher-ups of any deviation from corporate policy. There were only two ways to elude the hated task - become a manager or quit. Thanks to the aforementioned store discount, my bosses and the people I worked with, I liked the job, so quitting was out. Desperate to avoid the p-word, I applied myself and made it known that I was a college graduate and really interested in underwear store managing. When the first management position came open, I campaigned vigorously, more vigorously than any presidential candidate. I got the job, which included an even bigger store discount and the best health plan I've ever known*, and promptly delegated the p-word to whatever hapless employee was available. I stayed as far back in the store as possible, hoping to avoid hearing it. I campaigned for more bra specials.

So, I was tempted to choose the p-word as my Bad Word, but you're only allowed one and in my current capacity as a mother of three boys, the p-word really doesn't come up much. There's another word I hate. I hate the sound of it and, I'm sorry to say, don't really like people who use it or the way they pronounce it. Tout. Blech.

I remember the moment when I realized how much I despised that word. I was in a playgroup during a time when the big thing among hippy moms was cottage-industry cloth diapers. All over the internet, from Etsy to eBay, stay-at-home moms with sewing machines peddled their own special cloth diapers, with annoying names like "Happy Hineys" and "Boo-Boo Bum-Bums." They had names that were embarrassing to utter, which is probably why they were only available on the internet, where no words are spoken aloud. We were sitting around at playgroup and the discussion turned to cloth diapers. Incidentally, this was about the time I became a playgroup drop-out; I preferred talking about sex.

One of the moms, gushing over some diaper cover or another - maybe it was "Apple A**es" - uttered the following:

"They are touted as...blah blah blah..."

I couldn't even hear the rest of the sentence. The way she pronounced the word, with an actual "t" sound in the middle rather than the "d" most of us southerners favor, was vile, as was her pretentious refusal to use a contraction and the fact she was discussing the reputation of something meant to contain crap like it was art. It all made me sick. I'm pretty sure I left and went straight to the Hardee's drive-thru for a Thickburger, never to return**.

Ergo, my word is "tout" and all its derivatives. If you read this and care about me at all, you will never utter that word in my presence. My good friends don't use the word anyway. If they were the sort of people who did, we probably wouldn't be friends. Although I will never, ever use that word on this blog again, unless I really need to mock someone, if I do have to use it, it will appear thusly: t**t. Because it is that bad.

Feel free to share your own Bad Word in the comments section. I'll do my best, out of simple human decency, to avoid it, because I like you!

Namasté, y'all!

* The health plan, which cost a mere $5 per pay period, made everything more or less free. I don't even think I had a co-pay. Major props to the Limited Corporation for their integrity. Major props. That plan, however, spoiled me and I've been disappointed in every one I've had since.

** By the way, I think I could still qualify for my Hippy Parent card. I use cloth diapers and do a few other things that are hippy-ish in nature. I just don't want to talk about it. Because it's boring.

Seth Myers is hot. And funny.

And would make a great parent. Love his suggestion for how to respond to the kids when they ask about Bong-gate.



In other news, thanks to a relatively new reader who so gets my sense of humor it isn't even funny (Mwah!), I plan to order this:

Yes, it is a potty that looks like a slot machine and rewards the potty trainee with a fancy noise each time he adds more "currency." I can feel it. This is going to work for the Tank, who has already been expelled from school. Oh, I didn't mention that? Yup. It's true. TF and I have finally gotten our karmic payback for that one time he criticized some other hapless parents, in the privacy of our own home, and put forth the theory that they should "try our way." I tried to stop him, but the words were out before my hand clapped over his yammering mouth. Ergo, the Tank is our just reward. I was working at home sitting around in my pajamas, sucking down coffee and trying to beat my a-hole sister's damn Scramble score on Facebook on Friday morning when I got the call. I knew it was bad when the drop-in nursery's name appeared on my phone's screen*.

"Hello?" I tried to sound clueless.

They were actually very, very nice. He had been put in time-out three times for sh*t kicking being less than kind to his friends. After a fourth assault, he got to sit in a chair beside the director's desk. You may think this is unpleasant. It is not. She is one of the kindest people I've ever met and he probably likes hanging out there. He's been there before, but this time was different. I didn't ask for details, but let's just assume he was pissing and moaning so much they couldn't take it. Thankfully, they were too kind to say.

I think the Viva Las Vegas potty will appeal to my little thug. I think dry pants will transform him into a kinder, gentler Tank. I think a lot of things that aren't true, but humor me. Just in case, we also took him for his first haircut, a rite of passage we hope will inspire him to use the d*mn potty and stop kicking his friends.

Namasté, y'all!

* See. I'm not all bad. I do have the numbers of the kids' schools saved on my phone. And I could look up their pediatrician's number in the phone book any time I wanted to. Or I could drive there, because I know exactly where it is. Gold star for me!

In which the Tank proves to have an excellent sense of humor.

The Tank spends a lot of time in the car, accompanying me as I shuttle his brothers and their friends to soccer, piano, basketball, choir and whatever else it is they do. He looks forward to meeting their friends and knows them all by name. Most of them try to ignore him, but when some two year old is yelling, at the top of his ever-growing lungs,

"HI MY NAME IS J! HI MY NAME IS J! HI MY NAME IS J!"

it cannot be dismissed. They cave and introduce themselves, which silences the Tank for at least thirty seconds, before he starts making growling noises and yammering about farts, two things which have earned consistent laughs in the past.

The other day, we were on our way to pick up a carload of pre-adolescent stinkweeds young men in need of a ride from choir to soccer. The Tank knows the drill. As we drove, he chanted cheerily,

"How 'bout...Phillip! How 'bout...Caleb*!"

He continued, naming two of O's friends who share names with two members of the Tank's favorite band.

"How 'bout...John! How 'bout...Paul!" He paused dramatically. "How 'bout...YELLOW SUMMARINE!"

The Tank cracks himself up. He's more obsessed with his Beatles shirt than his keerus pants, if you can believe that. I purchased the shirt on a whim at Target for the low, low clearance price of $3.98. You never know what item of clothing will become an obsession, so choose wisely. I like the Beatles shirt. It looks a little ridiculous with the keerus pants, especially now that the Tank's rapid growth has turned it into a half-shirt, but I like it all the same. The Beatles shirt, when it was new, on a day when I managed to wrangle the Tank into an outfit that more or less matches:

Frankly, I think if the Tank can make sophisticated jokes, he can da*n well use the potty. He does not agree. It'll happen, right? Right?

Namasté, y'all!

* The Tank is not that smart. Caleb is a basketball friend, not soccer or choir.

Kids are so weird.

So, the Tank has a favorite pair of pants, which happen to be shorts - stretchy, green and white striped shorts. He calls them "keerus pants." We don't know why. It sounds like the way he pronounces "Curious George," but the pants and the monkey do not appear to be related. As any parent of a toddler would advise, orders from speech therapists to "Speak to them like an adult" to the contrary, we quickly added "keerus pants" to our lexicon. Let's say, for example, a certain toddler is freaking out. And completely nude. And has eaten eight or more apples that day. Just imagine the possibilities. He hates all his clothes and scoffs at any suggestions from his well-meaning parents. Do you wait for the inevitable blow-out, all over your floor? Do you try to prove the point that you are right, that toddlers don't rule the house? As my sister-in-law says, "You can't negotiate with a terrorist."

"OOOOOH!" you screech over the screaming, fearful of the apples being digested in his tiny belly, a ticking time-bomb, "LET'S FIND YOUR KEERUS PANTS! DO YOU LIKE THEM? DO YOU LIKE YOUR KEERUS PANTS? KEERUS PAAAAAANTS! KEERUS PAAAAAAANTS!"

Your other children and your co-parent sense your desperation and chime in,

"YAY! KEERUS PANTS! KEERUS PANTS ARE AWESOME! KEERUS PAAAAAANTS! I WISH I HAD SOME KEERUS PANTS!"

And there is silence.

"I want my keerus pants," says the now calm toddler, who has forgotten his antics of mere moments before.

Unless the keerus pants are dirty (and if you have any sense of self-preservation, they are never so dirty they can't be resuscitated, quickly), you locate them and give him the damn pants, after attempting to put on a diaper without him noticing. Hint: Keep talking about "keerus pants" in a soothing voice. Thankfully, the Tank has not yet requested to wear them outside of the house. Perhaps he understands limits better than we thought.

In a strange twist, he appeared in the doorway of my room last night to tell me he was wearing his keerus pants. But he wasn't. His lower body was covered in a completely reasonable - cute, even - pair of plaid, flannel pants.

"Are those your keerus pants?" I asked, trying to mask my surprise, thrilled at the possibility of more than one pair.

"Yes," he responded, with the utmost sincerity, "Dese my keerus pants."

I avoided eye contact as I responded, "OK." I hid my glee; I couldn't wait to tell TF.

When TF arrived, after his busy, busy day, I grabbed his arm and draggeded him into the bedroom. Poor guy. For a moment, he looked excited at my urgency to get him into the bedroom. He was almost as happy to hear about the new development.

"You're kidding. Seriously? Those are the new keerus pants?"

"Yes. I do not know how this happened. Or why. But those are now his keerus pants."

TF needed confirmation, so he sought out the toddler, happily eating an apple and wearing his new, improved keerus pants.

"Hey! Are these your keerus pants?"

"No." He looked a little befuddled. "Dese not my keerus pants, Dad. I want my keerus pants!"

So. There you have it. The keerus pants aren't as bad as some toddler armor, like the Buzz Lightyear jumpsuit my nephew wore every day for what seemed like three years. His uncle nicknamed him "Scuzz Lightyear."

In other weird kid news, the X-Man returned from Sunday School with this.

According to him, they were to cut out a fish from "orange card stock" and paste pictures on it of people from the Old Testament and the New. The card stock, it would seem, was the most important element. I was asked several times if I knew what "card stock" was. I do, I guess, although it may have magical powers of which I am not aware, much like chicken balls. The glued-on people mattered less. In fact, he didn't even specify who was from the Old Testament and who was from the New. I think the dentist-looking guy must be New, but what do I know? The card stock is of excellent quality. But why is the fish angry? Or does he suffer from indigestion after eating that dentist and the guy in the toga? And what's up with the facial hair? Some things remain a mystery.

Namasté, y'all!

Happy Birthday to me!

The Tank is turning into a pretty nice guy, both charming and considerate. This morning, he marched through my darkened room where I was sleeping peacefully allowed to remain in bed because it's my birthday, even if it wasn't quiet enough to sleep really.

"Come give Mommy a birthday hug!"

I anticipated him wriggling up the side of the bed, jumping on me and showering my face with kisses, his arms wrapped around my neck.

"No, Moooooom, I have poop! Dad, you wanna' change my poop?"

How very thoughtful. Not only did he not wish to interject the offensive poop into my birthday snooze, he also had the decency to ask someone else to change it. On your birthday, you shouldn't have to deal with anyone's poop but your own*. If only he would start using the d*mn potty. Eventually, he climbed onto my bed - poop-free - and sang "Happy Birthday" to himself.

Once he uses the d*mn potty, my life will be pretty close to perfect, because I'll be able to organize the laundry room. No point in doing it before the Age of Waste-Related Reason, because his diapers and diaper-related items take up so much room in there. I can't wait. I've been on an organizing jag recently, all inspired by a makeover I performed on the top of my dresser. Which lead to sorting and tidying the drawers below. Which lead to an overhaul of the small older-than-dirt-Ikea-dresser-that-won't-die** in my closet containing my pajamas and underthings. Which inspired me to sort and organize my pocketbooks and shoes. Which ultimately effected the organizing of my hanging clothes. And the drawers in my bathroom. And my jewelry boxes. I now have a designated place for those extra buttons that come with clothes. I feel happy. So, so happy. I would take a picture, but have the decency to feel embarrassed about the number of pocketbooks and shoes I have.

The Tank has left for the gym with TF, the big kids are sleeping and I'm gearing up to go to the All-Local Farmers' Market at Rosewood. The fourth Saturday market is my favorite, because it's close to my house.

This has nothing to do with anything I just said, but I need to share. Have you seen these signs?



I saw one, at Burger King in Lexington. I thought it was a prank. I thought it was so funny, I pulled a u-ey and took a picture. Several days later, I saw the same exhortation on another Burger King sign. I happened to be on the phone with my friend Angela at the time***. She happened to be on her computer and Googled, only to learn "ANGRY WHOPPER FEEL THE HEAT" is a new marketing campaign. Somebody needs to get fired. Don't know about you, but I picture a greasy hamburger, teeth bared, chasing me down the street and growling, "FEEL THE HEAT! FEEEEEEEL IT!" And the hamburger is bigger than I am. And angry. The Whopper has good cause to be angry at me, too, given how many of them I consumed in my youth without appreciating the amazing curative properties. One reason I gained so much weight in my first pregnancy (eighty pounds, yo) is morning sickness felt like a hangover, which I knew from experience could only be cured by a Whopper Combo with cheese, no onions and a Diet Coke. Of course, I didn't want my baby to have three heads, so I substituted full-calorie Sprite for the Diet Coke. Or maybe the Whopper is just angry because I dumped it as I approached my thirties and was no longer able to maintain a lady-like weight and eat Whoppers five six times a week let's be honest here every day. Whatever the reason, Burger King, I do fear the angry Whopper and I do feel the heat. I fear the angry Whopper will catch up with me and exact revenge by making me gain those eighty pounds back, along with the eighty pounds I gained while pregnant with the X-Man and the mere thirty I piled on for the Tank. No, Whopper, no! Let me be!

Anyhow, today is my birthday. I'm going to the Farmers' Market, coming home and setting my hair, maybe going to the gym to ward off the return of the Angry Whopper and cooking a big dinner. And don't be mad at my husband. I like cooking and have asked him to remove everyone, especially the Tank, from our home and let me cook in peace. What a gift!

Namasté, y'all!

P.S. For the curious: The reason my closet and dresser were such a mess is because I was pregnant with the Tank. When you get pregnant, you wear a bunch of different sizes over a period of two years and your closet organization gets all shot to hell. "Two years?" you novices might be asking. "Really?" Well, yes. There was the brief, three-month pregnancy before the Tank that ended in mis-carriage. Early pregnancy necessitates "fat clothes." During the two months in between that and getting pregnant with the Tank, I needed depressing clothes. There were more clothes to hide my pregnancy with the Tank, because after a miscarriage you might be a bit gun-shy and don't want to announce your new pregnancy right away. Then came the maternity clothes, followed by the post-partum clothes (non-maternity clothing in a larger size so you don't feel like a fat hag.) A couple months after he was born, I started on the back-to-my-normal-weight-except-for-in-the-boob-department clothes, followed by the slightly-smaller-boobs clothes. Now I'm pretty much the size I was before each pregnancy. Now that the Tank is over two, I got my closet mojo back, y'all! I plan to be this size until I die. What a roller coaster.

* Frankly, any time TF is home, diaper changing duties belong to him. I am not a nice wife.

** Did you got to college with me? You might remember the dresser. It will not die. Even the cardboard drawer bottoms remain intact, although they do pop away from the plastic drawer backs and have to be slammed back together. And, yes, I should buy a new dresser, but I have fantasies about a California Closets makeover that would include built-in drawers, so I don't want to spend the money. Maybe I'll have the closet and the laundry room done at the same time. Did you just get chills? I did.

*** Yeah. I talk on my phone while driving. I drive better on the phone. It keeps me awake.

In which the Tank battles his most base instinct and wins.

The Tank is a genius. He loves Beyoncé's Single Ladies video, which proves he has excellent taste.

"Mom! Mom! I want Alla Singa' Ladies! Peeeease, Mom? Mom!"

I hear this at least once a day. And I let him sit on my lap and watch it on the laptop, because that song puts me in a damn fine mood. Thank you, Beyoncé and thank you, Bob Fosse. So, the other night, I was watching this episode of Law and Order: Criminal Intent with him*. When he saw the opening scene, a bunch of "ladies" dancing in a "gentlemen's" club, he asked, "Mom? Dat's da singa' ladies? Dat dem, Mom?" Isn't that smart? They weren't even wearing black leotards. Better start saving for that Ivy League education right now. But I digress.

In the most shocking development of all time, the Tank seems to be learning a modicum of self-control. We've taken him in public several times recently without disastrous results. The other day, the Tank became enraged when I politely requested he stop doing something. I can't remember what it was, because I stop him from doing a lot of stuff, like trashing his brothers' room, making his own yogurt and granola and using our toilet brush as a microphone while he sings "Good Morning to You"** using knives. He kicked me. As they say in kindergarten, "That is not okay. Kicking hurts our friends." I put him on the bottom step, right outside my bedroom door and told him to come see me when he was ready to be nice. He flailed around and hollered for a little and calmed down when I closed the door. In my house, you are welcome to pitch as much of a fit as you like, as long as I don't have to hear it or clean it up. Really. I have tantrums, too. Don't you?

I heard him go into the kitchen, where he puttered around for a bit. After a while, I heard silence. Every parent knows silence must be investigated, even when you're really enjoying it. The consequences of ignoring silence are too gruesome to share. I opened my door and peered into the kitchen with some trepidation. The refrigerator door was open, which wasn't in itself too scary. The Tank consumes about eight apples a day (keeps him regular) and gets them from the bottom drawer of the fridge, all by himself. He closes the door one out of three times, pretty good for a two-year-old. My instinct told me to investigate further.

On the other side of the door, the Tank squatted with a look of grim determination, in front of two open cartons of eggs, carefully placed on the floor. The Tank has a history with eggs. He took a deep breath and looked at me.

"I was ruh-lly mad at you, Mom."

Can you imagine the amount of self-control it took to stop himself from cracking those eggs, one-by-one, all over the floor? How satisfying it would have been, knowing how mad it would make me? The temptation is mind-boggling. After I thanked him for his wise decision, I put the eggs back in the fridge and we both apologized and shared a delicious toddler hug or three, squishy cheek kisses included. We traded declarations of love.

"I wub you so much."

"I wub you too much, Mom."

And I told him how proud I was of him for being a good boy. I didn't specify that I was proud of him for not throwing the eggs. I have a theory: Anything spoken aloud to a toddler reinforces it as a possibility. They have very little short-term memory. "Do not touch your poop!" will be remembered as "Touch your poop!" - "It will be really fun!" implied, of course. I can do without egg-chucking.

Namasté, y'all!

* I know. I know. Inappropriate. But it was TF's tennis night and The Tank wouldn't go to sleep and I was so bored!

** Eh. I let him do this because it is really, really cute.

Put on some lipstick. Or brush your hair. Or something.

I took the kids to the mall Monday for our annual visit - the one where I convince myself that the mall would be a welcome distraction from the tedium of winter break. I also needed to return a pair of pants to Gymboree. I never buy clothes for my kids. I depend on my mom's embarrassment threshold, which is much, much lower than mine. My own bad behavior doesn't even embarrass me so having a child dressed like a street urchin doesn't faze me in the least. My mother tries to dress my children appropriately. I've learned not to waste the money; no matter what I buy, they'll wear the same soccer kits, grimy sweatshirts and well-loved t-shirts over and over. A month or so ago she brought the kids some cute duds from Gymboree. The Tank, after some wrestling, conceded his were pretty cool. O, the big kid, was polite yet firm. The khakis were not for him. Are there any actual fifth graders out there still willing to wear clothing with a Gymboree label? I guess it would be mean of me to call them dorks so, um, I won't*.

I tried to return the pants and found that such a thing wasn't really possible. I had the receipt and asked them to credit the $12.99 plus tax back to my mom's credit card. I, of course, did not have my mom's card. I wish I did. It probably has way more room on it than mine. But I digress. I didn't want to deal with a store credit given the high chance of my losing the credit before my return a year from now. Store policy wouldn't allow them to get the number over the phone from my mom. The full number wasn't on the receipt, just a portion of it. I get the policy, I do, but who would get mad if someone credited their card? But I digress again. I decided to let my mom deal with it and we left.

We had lunch, we rode the carousel and I almost vomited. Fun times. With full stomachs and brighter dispositions, the children and I agreed we might be able to choose some underpants in exchange for the hated baby khakis. Gymboree underpants rock. They are soft and have cool pictures and y'all know how desperate I am to talk the Tank into underpants**. I quickly found three pair, just his size, that more or less covered the credit. I waited in line.

And I waited some more. The woman in front of me had a few questions and she saw no reason the sole employee shouldn't answer all of them. Right that minute. She had a large stack of clothes, a credit card and what I believe was an unhealthy obsession with matching children's clothing.

"Do you have this in 18 to 24 months and size 6?"

"Well can you check in the back?"

"We already have everything from the Cupcake line. Do you have any more of these?"

"How about these?"

"Do you have anything else in the Craptastic line? How about the Silly Twit line?"

"Can you check in the back?"

"Can you check in the back again?"

I was this close to checking her in the back. What kind of mother knows the name of each individual line of clothing at Gymboree? I didn't even know they had names. What kind of person holds the sole employee hostage in a desperate attempt to secure matching outfits for her oblivious children? I'll tell you what kind of person. The kind who spends so much time thinking about how her babies look she's left with no time to put on lipstick, brush her hair or even pick out a decent looking track suit. The kind of person who is either oblivious or doesn't care that the next person in line has a five minute transaction and three antsy children. The kind of person who has "let herself go."

Don't jump down my throat. I'm not asking you to starve yourself, spend a fortune on clothes or spend hours at the gym each day***. I do think we should try to look decent for our spouses, our friends and ourselves. Don't go hating on Heidi Klum either - she speaks the truth. You may not be a super model, but you can come pretty close to your pre-baby body and you should try, as much for your health as your looks. And if you do keep an extra pound or seven, stop hating and buy yourself some decent clothes. And put on some lipstick. And brush your hair. Children are effortlessly cute, so spend as much money as you like on their clothes, but recognize the frivolity. I have no objection to frivolity - it's the cornerstone of my existance - I just want you to stand up straight and smile.

According to my childless-as-of-yet-but-brilliant-nonetheless friend Kristy, you should set a good example for your children by having high expectations. Demand a birthday cake for yourself, with candles. Insist on presents. Buy that cocktail dress before you even consider any cr*p from the Cupcake line at Gymboree (whatever the h*ll that is). Kristy explained that by not taking care of yourself, you teach your children to feel affection for people with low expectations. Next thing you know, they're bringing home dirty hippies with zero ambition and little to no energy to seek out birth control. Soon enough, you'll be housing your adult child, the aforementioned dirty hippy and their child, who will be adorable, really, but a bit of a burden if you're honest. Don't you want the house to yourself eventually? You paid for it. Shouldn't it be yours? The dirty hippy will not contribute to the rent. Or the housecleaning. So put on some lipstick already. How about this one? I found it at Pout recently and I think it rocks.

Namasté and Happy New Year, y'all!


* I lied. DORKS! Those are baby clothes!

** Didn't work. "I said 'Nooooo, thanks!' Dey not for me. I wanna' diaper." That's a direct quote. Hmph.

*** If you do, however, I salute you. And bet you are hot. Nothing wrong with that, sister!

When will I learn?

I was enjoying a few moments of peace this morning, in between changing The Tank's diapers. Happy Diarrhea Day to Me! Just for today, I'm thankful he's not potty-trained. So, he was watching a movie in the kitchen - or so I thought - and I heard him moving around. No big deal, because the movie was Billy Jonas and the Tank likes to sing along and dance. I heard him say something, but I was doing really well playing Scramble on Facebook, so I ignored it. I heard it several times, each time more enthusiastic than the last. In between the outbursts, I heard a small sound, like crktt.

"HE DOES IT!"...crktt..."HE DOES IT!"...crktt..."HE DOES IT!"...crktt...

After failing again to beat my sister's high score at Scramble, I investigated. May I present, The Tank's first art installation:

He was so happy about it. I couldn't do anything but hug him. Score another one for Wellbutrin! Eggs are very hard to clean up with paper towels. Now you know.

Last week, life was perfect. My whole day revolved around beverages and hanging out. These are some beverages I enjoyed. First, imagine the taste of rich, warm espresso, sipped by the pool from one of these fancy Italian-y looking cups.

Also poolside, Coca Light quenched my afternoon thirst. I really, really miss reading under these straw umbrella thingies over the lounge chairs. American Wife, by the way, was a great vacation read. I'm finished, if anyone wants to borrow it*. Why does Coca Light taste so much better than Diet Coke? Anyone? Maybe it's atmosphere.

This last drink was my favorite, Malibu and club soda. Light on the alcohol, so you can have two! This vacation treat is ideal for sipping while playing "European or American?"

Speaking of "European or American?", my theory about Crocs and Speedos as unquestionable confirmations of nationality was incorrect. This guy proved it wrong, as he sports both Crocs and a Speedo.

But, I think we all know he's European, so my new theory is this:

Speedo=European
Crocs=American, if and only if accompanied by Speedo

Speaking of pants vs. no pants, both my husband and his brother managed to get locked out of their rooms without pants. I don't really understand how that happens. I never go outside without something covering my bottom. That is one of the rules I live by. Both of them attempted to re-enter via their respective balconies. Our room was on the first floor. My brother-in-law's was on the second floor. Please try not to picture him scaling a yellow stucco building at Club Med Punta Cana with no pants. Ha, ha! Try to get that image out of your head now! I'm thankful I didn't see it.

Namasté, y'all!


* I will not be including it at my next Anti-Book Club if you were counting on it.

The Tank?

So, my parents read my blog, a reality both flattering and scary. I find myself taking deep breaths and repeating (in my head, I think), "I'm a grown-up. I can do what I want. I'm a grown-up. I can do what I want." I got an e-mail from Dad today:

Dearest Anne,

I suggest you stop using ‘SK’ as a description of my wonderful grandson. Just saying……

Love--Top

I'm so proud of him. Not so long ago, he would proudly proclaim, "I'm sending you an e-mail!" And it would arrive - several days later in an envelope. His secretary printed his e-mail for him and if there was a funny one, he might photo-copy it and send it around. Frankly, I preferred this to e-mail forwards, because it always came with a nice note*. Dad is nice, which is probably why he would prefer I not call The Tank a sh*t kicker.

But here's the thing. He is what he is. In the courtyard outside the lovely chapel where each of our sons was baptized stands a small statue of St. Francis, surrounded by smaller statues of animals. Reverent children ooh and aah as they pass, perfectly behaved. On a recent sunny Sunday, my child, whose baptism obviously did not take, was kicking the animals over, one by one, as if to mock them for their devotion to St. Francis. And he was smiling sweetly as he did it. So I responded to my dear father:

Eh. I know, I know. But did you see him kick over all of St Francis' animals at Trinity? Humiliating.

How can I not call SK what he is? I would be denying his adorable little essence. Dad, as persistent in his private life as he is in real estate, responded:

Had not heard. Wow! Didn’t humiliate me, so I still think he’s wonderful.

*Sigh* Don't you hate it when people are so nice it's hard to say no? But, I am a grown-up. I can do what I want. And it's my blog, gosh darn it**! I'll compromise. In general, I'll refer to our youngest as "The Tank." When the situation demands it, however, he must be called SK. If it sticks, so be it. He can always tell people it stands for "Spider Killer" or "Soda DrinKer." Nicknames are cool.

By the way, I bought SK The Tank some of those little froggie boots today. How cute are those? He's been stomping around in them all night...um...kicking sh*t. What is wrong with me?

Namasté, y'all!

* Speaking of email forwards - and this has to be a footnote, because it's a total digression - my husband asked me what the etiquette was for sending a Snopes link to someone who sends you a ridiculously stupid well-meaning forwarded email. I said to send it but make a little joke to soften the blow. Not a day later, I got an email from someone I haven't heard from in a long time, maybe even years. I was excited. It was a forwarded piece of poop telling me to forward it to a billion people so I could get a free laptop. Or lap dance. Or something. I was so irritated I replied to everyone with the Snopes link and nothing else. Forgive me. The email started with "Free LAPTOP FOR KID'S". If you know anything at all about apostrophes, how could you possibly think that email was real?

** That was for you, Dad!

Huh.

I've just realized it's entirely possible that all the kids at baby school know The Tank's name not because he is charming and popular, but because he is naughty and they hear the teachers say his name all the time. Eh. No press is bad press, right?

Speaking of The Tank, formerly known as Baby J, we've been calling him something new recently. He is now known as S.K., short for The S.K., which is short for The Sh*t Kicker. Which is what he is. I haven't actually seen him kick sh*t, but I feel sure if he saw some, he would kick it. The other day, he walked up to a box on the soccer field. And kicked it, just to do some kicking. I would probably do the same, if I didn't care about my shoes. Also, one of the window panes on our front door is broken. I didn't understand the whole story, but it involved SK and a lampshade. The lampshade and SK are undamaged.

Breaking news: In an effort to find a free download of that song by House of Pain that gave us the idea for S.K.'s new moniker, I found this. Am I the last person to know about Jango? This is freaking awesome. I just made my own radio station by clicking on bands I like. And I set it on "Popular Favorites," because I'm a Greatest Hits kind of girl. The other options were "Happy Medium" and "Wide Variety." I freaking love this! I'm only on the second song (House of Pain segued seamlessly into The Cranberries), so I'm guessing there will be commercials at some point. This is so awesome! Jay-Z, followed by Frou Frou. This is like owning a radio station. No commercials yet. I feel like my life has changed.

Oooh...I can fast forward to the next song...Cardigans...Lily Allen...Cypress Hill...Beastie Boys...The Cure...Tori Amos... It's like this thing lives in my brain. I'm going to name this station "The Daily Digress: The College Years." It's like a prequel. I feel happy.

Pixies...Snoop Dogg...Morrissey...Ani...Tribe Called Quest...The Sundays... Ahhhh...

Namasté, y'all! Rock on!

My Baby is a Big Fat Liar.

And I'm a sucker. You would think, after three liars children, I would know better. Alas, that is not my way. The Tank (or the Toddler Formerly Known as Baby J) is not yet two and a half and I still believe him.

There are times when he can't lie. One day, he hauled a particularly delicate Lego creation down two flights of stairs (impressive, I know), and made this grim announcement:

"O. gave me this."

O., who is awfully protective in general of his Lego creations, was not home and I really didn't believe The Tank, whose sole goal in life is to get at his big brothers' stuff.

"Did O. give you that?" I asked, looking him in his tiny little eyes.

"No."

And he handed it back to me. He was capable of the initial lie, but his skills just weren't enough to survive an actual question. Plus, even a two year old had to have known that I would never fall for that one. Unlike the other blatant lies, which I do fall for, again and again. Maybe I believe him because he's sometimes brutally honest.

"Are you going to be a good boy at the grocery store?"

"No, I can't."

True. Of course, I went anyway. But you can't say I wasn't warned. So, the Tank has a new lie. Maybe you've heard it. It goes like this:

"One last time, Mom! One last time!"

Although it is very cute, it is still a lie. The Tank loves his school, otherwise known as the drop-in nursery. They sing songs, play and have a tea party every day. Sometimes they do art (sticking stickers on some paper) and sometimes they get candy. All the teachers are really, really sweet and seem to genuinely like kids. In other words, it's a toddler paradise. The Tank knows everyone there, even the teachers not in his room. It takes us ten minutes to leave. I follow him down the hall while he peeks in each door, bidding adieu to all his peeps.

"Bye, Miss Nancy! Bye, Miss Deirdre! Bye, Miss Mel! Bye, Miss Kathy!"

And so on. It's very cute when other toddlers point him out to their parents. At least, I think it's cute. I suspect they might just be telling their mothers something like,

"That's the guy who taught me all the cuss words."

Now it takes us even longer to leave, because he likes to make a pit stop on the big kid playground before we go. He has to slide on every slide, shake a few teachers' hands (already trying to charm his next round of teachers, I think), swing on every swing and generally mark his future territory. The first time I heard "One last time, Mom!" I believed him. Why? Not enough coffee I guess. I got suspicious around the fifth time I heard it and I knew I'd been had by the fifteenth.

It's hard to be assertive with a toddler who's just so darn cute. I mean, was it worth it to say "no" this morning when, after I tried to put on his shirt, he insisted on digging through his clothes to find "my Beatles shirt"? The Beatles shirt was clean, so I didn't really mind. I probably will mind when he keeps wearing it long after it has become a ratty half shirt. Knowing this, I still let him wear it. Because how cute is it when he names all the Beatles? Huh? How cute is that?! Answer: So cute! So go ahead and blame me when he becomes a complete jerk. I'll plead temporary (possibly permanent by then) insanity.

Namasté, y'all!

Why I need to shorten my showers from two minutes to forty five seconds.

I was desperate. I had some stupid fantasy, the same one I have every day of my life, about appearing to the world as a fully bathed and dressed adult. Every now and then, I like to do that. It makes me feel competent. I really thought I could distract The Tank* with a movie while I took a shower. As I may have mentioned before, sometimes I ain't all that bright.

I took the most basic of showers. No hair washing, no shaving, no exfoliating. Just water and a hint of soap, not even fancy soap, just the basic. As soon as I shut off the water, and stood still, dripping wet, listening for any small sound that would indicate destruction. I didn't hear a small sound. I heard this:

HAhaha-HAAAAAAAAAAAAA, HAAAAA, HA-HAAAAAAAAAAAA!

It was deep and guttural, unrecognizable. I threw on the closest bathrobe I could find and tore into the kitchen, ready to do battle with the cartoon villain attacking my precious toddler. Much to my relief, I found no villain, at least not in the strictest sense of the word. I found The Tank, standing on a stool, which he is not supposed to do. That was not my biggest concern, however. He was also naked from the waist down and had one hand in a glass jar of granola, which he was shoveling into his mouth. Bits of granola flew from his mouth with each maniacal "HA!"

If you know anything about The Tank, you're probably wondering what he was doing with his other hand. Never one to be idle, he was waving a flower, or what was left of one. He had removed the longest stem from a lovely arrangement on the counter, plucked all the petals and tossed them on the ground. What? Did you think he was going to leave them in a neat pile or something? You are funny.

So, it was a bit of a mess, but pretty entertaining all the same. Kind of like my column in Free Times.

HAhaha-HAAAAAAAAAAAAA, HAAAAA, HA-HAAAAAAAAAAAA!

Do you like how I snuck in the shameless plug? Read the article anyway! I just want you to like me!

Namasté, y'all!

* Baby J will now be referred to as "The Tank," in honor of my father-in-law, who called him that. And it fits. He has plowed through our lives, destroying everything in his path.

Why we don't have boarding schools for toddlers.

"I love you so much!" I said to Baby J, in that ooey-gooey voice.

"I love you too much, Mommy!"

I'm incapable of describing the overwhelming cuteness without making myself and at least three of you, dear readers, throw up on our keyboards. So, you're welcome. In case you didn't know, I'm a big sappy mess when it comes to my children. The first time we took them to the circus, I couldn't talk, I felt so weepy. Looking at my children, all I could think of was (cliché ahead...wait for it...here it is...) the cold, cruel world and how eventually it would destroy my babies' perfect happiness. Also, there was a racist clown, which was totally depressing. And watching people spend piles of money on souvenirs that would break before they made it out to the truck was depressing. And the junk food was depressing - all those chemicals coursing through the insides of children destined to become obese and die of heart attacks in their forties. And the bathrooms were depressing. I don't even want to tell you how messy some people are when they change diapers. And don't they see the garbage cans in there? Might be a nice place for a diaper. Hello? Frankly, the circus sucked and we haven't been back. Luckily, the kids didn't notice any of the squalor and speak of their one trip to the circus fondly. But I digress.

The other day, I woke to the sound of little footsteps on the stairs, followed by the sight of his sweet little face, peering at me from the side of my bed.

"Mommy, cange my biaper*. It stinks."

Somehow, that was adorable. Ah, the joys of parenthood...

Namasté, y'all!

* Not a typo. He says "biaper" instead of "diaper." Cute!

Someone's been indoctrinating my baby...

We're in the car one day and one of the big kids piped up,

"You're voting for Obama, aren't you, Mom?"

No point in being coy here. It's true, I am.

"A-Cain!"

said the tiny tyrant, laughing.

"No," I corrected in my Responsible, Over-Educated Mommy voice, "Mommy likes Obama."

"You like A-Cain! John A-Cain!"

And so it went, until I gave up, secure in the knowledge that I could vote for whoever I damn well pleased, no matter what the two year old who controls every other aspect of my life says. Why I even argued, I'll never know. Why does anyone argue with a two year old? Because they're cracked out on coffee and they haven't talked to another grownup in what seems like days, that's why. Let me give you some advice: Don't bother. They always win, because there is no logic in their argument and they don't care. Because they know they'll win. Do as I say, not as I do. You'll be much more relaxed.

The worst part was that he was laughing at me. I was being mocked by a two year old. What have I become? Cruising along in my (Hybrid!) SUV, checking email on my fancy phone, sucking down my umpteenth ill advised coffee of the day - and arguing politics with a two year old. I used to be more interesting. At least I think I was. I mean, I used to have way better stuff to argue about than politics. I don't even know who my friends are voting for and (go ahead, shoot me) I don't care. With one or two exceptions (and I don't think you know who you are), all of my friends are smart, so I'm not worried about it. I suspect we'll split votes*, so we could probably spend the day shopping or something since we'll just cancel each other out, but it's important to be heard and all that. Two year olds don't need to vote to be heard. They scream out their ridiculous opinions at the top of their lungs anywhere they damn well please.

I am more mature than Baby J, which is why I was the one to end the argument.

"Okay," I said in a conciliatory tone, "Mommy likes A-Cain."

After all, I'm sure I would like him. I like a ton of people I wouldn't vote for. I bet I'd like George Bush**. I heard he likes to party. So, I didn't exactly lie. Not that I don't advocate lying to children, because I do. That's one of the many, many privileges of adulthood.

"John A-Caaaaiiiiiin!"

He always has to have the last word. I think he was getting back at me. Recently, he's started announcing to everyone he meets,

"I'm J!"

The other day, just for sport, I looked him in the eye and said,

"I'm J."

"No. You not J. You Mommy. I'm J."

"No," I couldn't stop, "I'm J. You are Mommy."

"No, you Mommy!"

"I'm J," I said calmly, psychotically even. "You Mommy. Make me breakfast."

You know how it turns out. Once again, I let him win. Mocking a two year old can only go so far, before you feel like a jerk. Had I known that he knew all along that I was joking, I would have kept it up for a day or more.

So, while it's clear that his political taunts were pure retaliation, the real question hasn't been answered. Just who taught him all about John McCain? As you may recall, he was the one that brought up McCain, not me. Who taught him that?Anyone? Anyone? Mom?

Namasté, y'all!

* Did you know? It's possible not only to like, but to respect people who vote for the other dude. Now you know. You're welcome.

** Guess what? Since I'm telling secrets, I didn't vote for him either. In spite of that, he seems to have done alright for himself.

Community Service.

I'm a civic minded sort of person and I do a lot of volunteer work. One job I do, on my own time with no thanks or compensation from those I serve, is to act as public birth control for young people. Yesterday, I donated hours of my time and some of my dignity, just to help the young people avoid becoming parents too soon.

My friends A and A, recent transplants from the low country, are camped out in an apartment with their two daughters while they search for the perfect house. If you know of anything in Shandon, Rose Hill, Wales Garden or the surrounding areas, please Email Me. They're getting pretty desperate, but not desperate enough to overpay, so don't get any ideas. But I digress, big time.

Their apartment complex has a pool. Pools are nice. They make the apartment feel more like a hotel, so A and A's kids think they're on a fabulous vacation. We went to the pool with them the other day and I only brought one extra kid, a very well behaved kid at that. Their apartment complex is right near the Sonic (they really need a house, y'all) so we stopped by on the way to pick up styrofoam cups full of something that is more or less liquid crack artificially flavored with watermelon syrup some delightful treats for our darling children. After sucking down the sugary drinks, half listening to my motherly warnings "nodiving...blahblahblah...no horseplay...blahblah...no peeing in the pool...blahblahblah...," they jumped in.

There are young people living in these apartments - young, fertile people. I know what you're thinking - what a great crowd of babysitters. You would be right, of course, but keep in mind they have now seen my children in action. As if my stretch marks and saggy bottom weren't birth control enough, they were treated to a constant, repetitive stream of instructions. Believe it or not, nobody really listened to my speeches during snack time, or the in the car, or at the house before we even left. And they wonder why I yell. BECAUSE NOBODY LISTENS WHEN I SAY IT NICELY TWELVE FLIPPING TIMES IN A ROW! DAMMIT!

In a valiant effort to prevent these fine young people from wasting their potential on early parenthood, I made sure that Baby J had at least one poop at the pool. Have you ever changed a poopy swim diaper? I don't know how, but they suck all the moisture out of the poop and you practically need a brillo pad to scrub off what's left on your child. None of it gets in the pool, which is a very good thing, but I think they should make special, re-moisturizing wipes to clean that mess. And for some reason the swim diaper makes it smell like cheese popcorn,the kind I used to like. It's probably chock-full of MSG anyway, so who cares. I could see the young people gagging into their Diet Cokes as they lounged and tried to relax. They had pretty much given up on checking each other out. Wonder why. Huh.

In spite of the way it might sound (or look, to a nubile young thing laying out by the pool), we were having a pretty great time. No one was fighting. No one was puking. And no one was bleeding. Of course, it was too good to be true...

After having been warned no less than fifty-two times to do racing dives only in the deepest area of the pool, O came up from the bottom, screaming. Seeing your child rise to the water's surface with blood on his head is a horrible, horrible feeling. His life flashes before your eyes and, if you're a paranoid freak like me, you'll be 75% sure he's paralyzed before you even get to him. A good parent feels nothing but love and deep concern at a moment like that. So why did I feel angry?

I love my son with every ounce of my being/from the bottom of my heart/[insert whatever cliche you like here]. I would love him if he had three heads and each one was uglier than the next*. I would love him if I had to change his diapers for the rest of his life. But you don't want anything to happen to the people you love the most, if it can be prevented. I want to be tolerant and loving, but I get so damn mad when people I love act stupid. Maybe some day I'll grow up.

I did the right thing, of course. I called the pediatrician's office for the list of things to watch out for when your child has a head injury. Why do I always forget that list, by the way? I sat with him and held an ice pack to his head. Well, it wasn't exactly an ice pack. It was a bunch of ice wrapped in a spare bathing suit of Baby J's. I soothed Baby J when he freaked out, "MY BATHING SUIT! MY SUIT! MINE!" I mostly contained my anger. Once I realized it was nothing more than a bump and a missing chunk of skin and hair, I managed to feel that kind of love that's wrapped in fear (at what could have happened), relief (at what didn't) and guilt (for letting them get hurt).

In fact, maybe we made it look too easy. I was there performing community service, after all. Throughout the entire ordeal, my friend A and I kept chatting about our fascinating, glamorous lives. What if I made all those Fertile Myrtles think children are sweet? Or fun? I knew I should have given the gang more sugar. Then the X-Man would have puked for sure.

Namasté, y'all!

* For the record, he is one of the top three best looking kids I've ever seen - the other two being his brothers, of course.

Help.

Baby J has a new tactic. When I catch him doing something he shouldn't, like climbing on a chair by the counter, unwrapping a pack of gum and filling his mouth with it, I'll ask,

"What are you doing?"

It's a stupid question, really. I know what he's doing. I'm not that dumb. Those two year olds can't put nothing over on me. Ha! He plays dumb, even though I suspect he takes after me and is very, very smart.

"I don't know, Mo-om."

It's more or less true. He knows he's not doing something specifically right, but he doesn't know exactly what it is.

I need to quit asking. I used to hate it when my parents would ask me about something, when they knew the truth, trying to catch me in a lie and compound the mountain of trouble I was in. I was a pretty good kid, but what was I supposed to do?

"Did you have fun last night? What did y'all do?"

"We went to a wholesome movie, ate popcorn and spent the night at [insert name of approved female friend here]'s house."

Then they would ask a bunch more questions, forcing me to dig an ever deeper hole, before I broke down in tears and confessed the truth. It was more than a little bit bully-ish, because I was a pretty easy target. My sister, on the other hand, had b*lls of steel. What was I supposed to answer?

"Last night? Oh, yeah, that was fun. A bunch of us spent the night at [insert name of guy whose dad worked in Washington DC but kept an empty house here], watched a pretty good Disney movie and hung out. There was a six pack of beer involved, but there were about ten of us there and I didn't have more than a sip, because frankly, I don't like beer and I'm ok with that. I think a couple of people fooled around but, as you can imagine, I wasn't one of them, on account of being the latest bloomer ever. Boys freak me out, but they're ok when you're just watching a Disney movie and eating pizza. I might have had an even better time, but I was scared I'd get caught. And here we are."

I did get caught, of course, when one of my friend's dads saw us at the country club for lunch with my Grandmother and told my dad all about it, in front of his whole family and everybody else we knew. My mom was out of town. As you can imagine, this was a fine moment for my dad. He was really happy and proud. Not.

I got grounded, of course. In my world, grounding wasn't that big of a deal. It saved me from having to pretend I wanted to go to parties that were way out of my league. It actually gave me some street cred, or so I liked to think.

"Oh," I would roll my eyes,"I would so be at that kegger but I'm,like, way grounded...yeah...spent the night at some guy's house...with beer. My parents are so harsh."

I conveniently left out the part about watching the Disney movie and not drinking the beer. See, Dad? Teenagers lie, to everyone. I don't think my peers fell for it either, but I had to try.

Unlike my own parents, I plan to be the Best Parent Ever. If I know my kid did something, I'm jusy going to tell them. When parents say you'll get in more trouble if you lie...that's a lie. How much more trouble can you be in? If you lie, it's just more of a hassle for them. I like to avoid hassle at all costs. I've built my life around avoiding hassle (well, except for the fact that I more or less deliberately had all these kids). I'm going to skip the lying portion of the conversation and move in for the bust. Unless I really don't know the truth. Then I might just ignore it completely, because kids have to get away with stuff sometimes, right? Just don't tell them I said so.

Namasté, y'all!