Moment #123 when I wish I hadn't left my camera at home aka You Cannot Make this Shit Up #123

As seen on the gold plaque attached to the top of my study booth at the library today:

"Gift to the Library Foundation In Memory of Elvis Aaron Presley from Loretia."

Thanks for the memories, Elvis.

Can you feel the love tonight?

To my son, who woke me up this morning at 2:41 a.m. with a screech, thanks for the Helen Kellering (running your hands all over my face, in my eyes, up my nose, in my mouth, in my ears) that you did to be sure that I WAS the mom you thought I was. Because Lord knows how many nights you have awakened to find a strange mother catering to your ever whim. Try NEVER. I'm your same bitch, waking up to serve YOU, every night for the last 359 nights. Thanks for throwing me off from months 3-7 by sleeping 10-hour stretches in your crib without a wimper. Month 7 helped to wipe that self-satisfied grin right from my face and it hasn't been back since.

And to my husband, who offered me a slightly condescending speech about how if I just fed the boy in the middle of the night and didn't get mad I may be able to go to sleep faster, thanks for leaving your alarm clock on from yesterday so it could go off at 6:00 a.m. today, 34 seconds after I finally fell asleep from the aforementioned debacle with your son. Because I was so pleased with the alarm clock going off at 6, I allowed your son to play with it for 15 minutes this morning. The Boy's fastball has GREAT potential.

Adventures in Showering #4 (at least I think it's #4)

The Boy and I were not on speaking terms this morning when I got into the shower. He had me up since 4:00 a.m. and I, in retaliation with cruelty known only to mothers, put the toilet bowl brush into the sink so he couldn't chew on it while I was in the shower. I know what he is thinking...

E: Dad always lets me chew on it when HE is in the shower. Or maybe he just gets tired of taking it away from me.

So there I am in the shower, trying to wake up because I have the boy for 36 hours on my own and how the hell am I going to get any studying done so I had better make the most of my 5 hours this morning.

I sneaked a peek around the corner of the shower curtain and there he is, standing at the back of the toilet. And his mouth is foaming. Foaming. He seemed to be enjoying the foam so I quickly ruled out Comet and Mr. Bubbles. I mean really. Comet can't possibly taste good. Mr. Bubbles, maybe. Being the conscientious mother that I am, I decided to try to solve the puzzle on my own without getting any hard evidence, say, from the child's mouth.

"Is it toothpaste, Pat?" I felt like I was on the Wheel of Fortune and I was trying to guess the word before all my counterparts so I could take a spin for the trip to the teeney-bopper mecca of spring break, Cancun. 7 days, 6 nights and they'll throw in a box of Immodium for good measure. But where would he get toothpaste? I'm trying to get that last little speck out of the tube myself these days. If he has a toothpaste stash that he is holding onto, I'm gonna be pissed.

Ultimately thwarted, I reached into his mouth and pulled out a Mint Tums. You gotta wonder what makes Tums foam in a baby's mouth.

When his father gets home, I'm gonna kill him.

I've become "that" mother

You know her. The one that lets her child crawl around the top of the table at Outback Steakhouse. The one that has decided that once those really long knives are taken off the table, it's "safe enough."

So there The Boy was crawling on the top of the table. When the waitress showed up, it was clear that a) she was an only child, or b) she was an only child.

W: Oh dear. Hi, welcome to Outback.

I could give you a blow by blow of all of my totally fake apologies ("I'm sooooo sorry. He is just soooooo independent") but you would be able to smell my insincerity from a million miles away. Reality is that I wanted a 22 oz. Sam Adams and I didn't want to be bothered with the likes of my offspring while I nursed the only thing standing between me and a nervous breakdown.

"Step AWAY from the ledge."

The kid crawled all over the table. Then he tried to touch the lightbulb hanging well within his reach. His father checked to see how hot it really was and verified that it was hot enough to learn a lesson about "hot" but a lesson that would not be coupled with a trip to children's hospital for a skin graft.

Then DAD decided that maybe he wasn't sure how hot it was and he touched it again. Right after I told The Boy NOT to touch it.

K: Jesus, Mary and JOSEPH! What in God's NAME are you doing? I just told him not to touch it and now you are touching it. Like he's going to be able to keep his hands off now.
D: I wasn't sure if it was REALLY hot or not.

11 months or 39 years. There is no difference. Still checking the lightbulb again to see how hot it is. Or is it a blond thing?

If I wanted to be covered in hairballs, I would have gotten a cat

Tonight I was lying down in bed, trying to convince The Boy that he too should lie down and perhaps, GO TO SLEEP. It was 9:30, for heaven's sake and how the hell am I going to be able to study if the kid is climbing up, climbing down, climbing up, climbing down. Off of me. Do I look like El Cap? STOP TOUCHING ME.

So he was lying there beside me (finally) when he sat up with a start, leaned over and put his head on my side. My shirt had ridden up a little (since God forbid I buy clothes that actually fit me. I'd rather walk around all day with pants that are now two sizes too big and shirts that are two sizes too small--the Muslim neighbors just LOVE seeing 6 inches of my midriff every day) so he was laying against my skin.

Awwww. How sweet. My boy is snuggling me.

Yeah right. The little monster spit up. And it rolled right down my side and across my belly. Grossed out, as I always am by the biological functions of the fruit of my womb, I reached down to get him the hell away from me. It was pitch black and suddenly I felt this weird feeling on my stomach.

I think the kid spit up a hairball. He really has to stop chewing on the dog. It's disgusting.

Weekend at Bernies a.k.a. Why the Rolling Stones should have called it a day--years ago

Dear Lord in heaven. Wasn't that halftime show a classic case of hiring someone on reputation alone? If Mick can only hit 3 out of 5 notes, we shouldn't have to be subjected to it. I never cease to be amazed that Keith Richards is able to function--what with the fact he has been dead for like 7 years. Even the wardrobe malfunction of 2004/supposed loving between Janet and Justin was less painful to watch than this.

For all you people out there who are still buying tickets to Rolling Stones concerts, STOP it. For the love of God and country. STOP! If you people keep buying, they'll keep doing farewell tours.

You put the tv on mute too, didn't you? Admit it.