…. Long as I got my plaaastic Jesus….

Jesus kept getting stuck between the couch cushions.

Every time I vacuumed, it was inevitable: He’d get stuck in the hose, causing the vacuum to make a weird noise. I’m pretty sure that’s the sole purpose of plastic figurines – well, that and being stepped on.  Thankfully,He had his hands outstretched in prayer, so they’d catch on the outside of the hose and keep him from getting trapped deep in the hose and really breaking things, but still – it was annoying.

So, after the third time of rescuing him from a sucky death, I sighed, and with no small amount of guilt I threw Jesus in the trash.

Unfortunately, I didn’t toss the trash in the outside trash can fast enough, and my little hoarders have learned to check it regularly to see if I’m tossing out some of their toys. (What can I say?  If it were up to them, they’d keep every single broken toy they ever come across.)  I can’t ‘say that I blame them, but it does make me feel a little weird, to have them digging through the trash looking for treasures.

Anyways, The Squid just came up to me, lower lip poking out, eyebrows lowered as he glared at me in accusation. “Why you do that? Why you throw Jesus in the trash?”  He extended his palm, and there lay plastic Jesus, His little arms lifted up at me, silently beseeching.  “Don’t do that. I love Jesus. Don’t do that, Ma.”

And then Squid ran off to the play room to put Jesus in the front seat of his little truck, so he could crash him into the wall and cause Him to die in dramatic ways, again and again.
And this, folks, is why it’s a really, really bad idea to make tiny plastic Jesus figurines. Just sayin’.
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Use Your Imagination….. Just Not Like That

I cracked my eyes open to find a pair of green eyes staring intently at me from only a few inches away.

It wasn’t the first time the DragonMonkey had decided to wake me up by staring at me silently, without blinking, but it didn’t make it any less creepy.

“Hey, DragonMonkey.”

“Look, Mama.”  He stared at me hard, willing me to notice.  And how could I not?

Sometime after waking up he’d sneaked down to the basement and found the two balloons I’d tossed down there the day before. Yes, blowing up two balloons had helped him and The Squid burn off some energy on a cold, rainy afternoon, but after an hour of them playing “Let’s Hit Everything in Sight, Including Each Pets and Breakable Items, All While Laughing Hysterically“, I’d had enough. When toys are used for evil they get banished to the basement.

Apparently the fate of those poor, banished balloons had been on his mind all night, because the second DragonMonkey woke up he crept down to rescue them.

And rescue them he did.  He stood in front of me, clutching them proudly to his chest, back arched as he showed them off.

I blinked a couple of times as I stared at the way they pressed together, forming an impressive red and green cleavage, and cleared my throat before answering.  “I… I see. You have the balloons.”

“No, LOOK, Mama.”  His back arched even more, and I found myself flashing back to Orange County and all its plastic glory.

“Yes.  Two balloons.  DragonMonkey, can you give me a moment to finish waking up?”

“No, LOOK.  I’m like you.”

Like me?

“Like you, Mama.  See?  They’re like what you have!”  He jerked his chin in the direction of my own chest.

Oh, oh, please let it just be my dirty mind.  Please, please don’t let him be saying what I think he’s saying.  “I… I don’t want to jump to any conclusions when it’s still six in the morning..  DragonMonkey, what do you mean?  What are those supposed to be?”

“They’re like you’re, uh…. Uh… My words not good, I don’t know…. They’re like yours.  Like what have, on you.  Your private area – that you gave milk to the Squid with, in Huntington Beach.  Like those!”  He squeezed his hands, causing the giant plastic globes to wiggle obscenely.

I mean, I’m all for kids using their imagination, but why?  Why couldn’t I have given birth to someone who woke up early and decided to just go watch some cartoons like a normal kid?  Did he really have to come in and wake me up so I could admire his brand new, imaginary, red and green giant boobies?

“DragonMonkey… just… just go watch cartoons and let me make some coffee.  Then we’ll deal with this.”

Motherhood.

It ain’t for the faint of heart.

Kids or Self-Esteem: You Can Only Choose One

“What’s this?”

“That’s my eyebrow, Squid.”

“What’s this?”

“What?  You’re three now.  You know what those are.”

“No, you tell me.  Please?”

“Fine.  Those are lips.”

“What’s this?”

“Cheekbones.”

“What’s this?”

“That’s my neck.”

“What’s this?”

“Clavicle.”

“What’s this, Ma?”

“Squid, you know that one.  Chin.”

“What’s this?”

“…. Uh, that’s my chin.”

“No, this your chin.  What’s this?”

“Uh… my neck?”

“No, Ma.  This your neck.  What’s THIS?”

“Uh….”

“Ma, tell me.  What’s this?  WHAT’S THIS?”

“….. that’s my double chin.  Go away.  I’m done playing.”

Can I eat my kids yet?

“DON’T GO PEE OUT THERE NAKED.  Squid, you don’t go pee naked.  Everyone see you.  what you were thinking ’bout, peeing in the front yard?”

“Nuthin’. I just pee. DragonMonkey, Let me in.”

**************
 “Boys, your mom is out running errands.  I’ll be watching you while she’s gone.  You can play with any of my sons’ toys that you want, but all I ask is that you pick them up when you’re done.  Understand, Dragonmonkey?

“Yes, Mrs. D.”

“Squid?”

“Yes, Mrs. D.”

“Okay have fun.”

“Boys – I need you to clean this up.  You’ve scattered toys all over the hall, and in the living room.  Come put them away.”

“Yes, Mrs. D.”

“Yes, Mrs. D.”

“DragonMonkey, Squid, both of you come here, right now.  Look what you did – when I said you needed to put the toys away, I meant you needed to actually put them away, not just throw them in my son’s room and shut the door.  Do you understand?”

“Yes.  I sowwy, Mrs. D.”

“That’s fine, Squid.  Thank you for apologizing.  Just clean them up and you’ll be fine…. DragonMonkey?”

“…….”

“DragonMonkey?”

“…….”

“DragonMonkey, you can either answer me and go clean up those toys, or you can go on the timeout chair.”

“Awww, shit.  SHIT.  Fine, Mrs. D.”

*****

At five and three years old, they’re probably too big to eat, right?

His name is Bond, Bollocks Bond

I spend a lot of time on the internet.

I know you can’t tell that based upon the infrequence of my posting lately, but it’s the truth. 

Right now, in fact, I feel like I’m living on the internet – I’m deep in the research of the book I’m starting for NaNoWriMo (yeaaaah, baby – who is doing it with me?)  I’m trying to make the scientific portion of it sound like I gave it at least a little bit of thought, so that entails me browsing here and there, looking up various items and cherry-picking scientific sounding facts to make shapeshifters sound scientific.

Anyways, all this to say, I stumbled upon this:

Look, if you’re offended by bad language, PLEASE do not go there.  It’s exactly what it says it is: a Periodic Table of Swearing. I don’t know what I was expecting, clicking on it.  It was exactly what it advertised.

I admit that glancing through everything made me feel like a naughty child – I tittered like an ill-behaved junior higher..  It’s British cussing, and half the words on there just don’t sound bad to me at all.

Is it just me, or is British cussing just cooler and less gross sounding?

“Bollock!”

“Sod this.”

See?  Technically I know I’m cussing, but it just doesn’t feel like cussing.

Anyways, the website has some really dignified classical music playing as background sound, which just made the whole thing inherently funnier. 

I took a moment  to scowl at the dirty words before returning to my knitting (everyone who isn’t my mom: I  totally read all the dirty words.)

As I read through it scowled, The DragonMonkey played quietly at my feet – slowly assembling a tractor from spare lego parts.  Lately he’s just been impressing the heck out of me – I didn’t even realize he was old enough to play with legos, much less make actual vehicles.  Time flies, you know?

Anyways, I digress.  Right before I clicked off to go back to my research, I randomly clicked on the page, just because. 

And you know what?  My click was rewarded – it turns out the page is interactive.  In retrospect, I realize it says it right on the entry page… but I’ve never been one to notice details like that, at least not consciously.

As I clicked, over the strains of violins and cellos rose the electronic sound of man’s voice: 

“CUNT,” the man said, in a smooth British accent.

At the sound of his voice the DragonMonkey stopped his play, and looked up at me with an angelic smile. 

“CUNT,” the DragonMonkey repeated, in a perfectly serviceable British accent.  He nodded, smiled wider, and repeated it again proudly.  “CUNT.” 

And then he went back to his legos.

I’m sure this isn’t going to bite me in the arse later… right? 

That’s Some Loud Underwear You’ve Got There

Yay! I got another article published at The Shake.

I should post it on my blog.

But wait.  I just posted yesterday.  I should wait a day or two before posting this one.  I’m bad enough about updating regularly – I should spread the love out.  If I start posting twice in one day, they’ll think I’m on some kind of writing spree, and get all spoiled.

I’ll wait a day.  Yeah, that’s a good idea.

And then I’ll write a really interesting intro, so it doesn’t feel like I’m just sending them a link and shooing them away.

Except…. Oh, geez.  SQUID!  THE YOGURT IS NOT FOR FINGERPAINTING THE DOG.  GROSS.  You either eat it or you put it on the counter….NO.  I MEANT EAT THE YOGURT IN THE CONTAINER, NOT LICK IT OFF THE DOG.  STOP.  I’m not joking, little man.  STOP, RIGHT NOW, OR YOU’RE GONNA PUT YOUR NOSE IN THE CORNER UNTIL YOU’RE 20.

Has he stopped?

Nope.

If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to put a kid in the corner.

Edit:

I did a little more research and discovered that the undies I wrote on was a marketing prank done by a feminist group to raise awareness of how sexist Victoria’s Secret underwear is…. which, the more I think about it, just makes it seem even sillier.

I actu
ally researched it before I wrote about it, but I didn’t do a good enough job. BAD, Becky. Bad. Go get the Cone of Shame.

Also, I’m bummed, because I missed the chance to make fun of the angry feminists instead of Victoria’s Secret. Boo.

Ah, well.  It was a good lesson to learn.

Thanks, DragonMonkey.

I don’t have a lot of pictures of the boys and me.

Oh, I have a lot of pictures of the boys.

And I have a couple pictures of me.

But I don’t have a lot of pictures of the three of us.   As the person who is usually behind the camera, it’s just one of those things.  So when my friend offered to take a picture of us with her cell phone, I was actually pretty happy. 

Sure, her cell phone didn’t have the highest quality resolution, but who cared?  Slightly blurred has always been my best look.

When she showed me the picture on her cell phone, I was delighted. Awesome!  Finally, a decent picture with my two boys.  We were all wearing clean clothes, all three of us were looking at the camera – perfect.   Visions of a new Facebook profile picture danced in my head.

I asked her to send it to me, and she did.

And then I saw the picture.

I mean, I’d seen it on her tiny cell phone screen, but this time I really saw it.

I have no idea what is going on with the DragonMonkey in this pic.  I really don’t.  All I know is that it appears picture-taking ability seems to be hereditary, and poor DragonMonkey seems to have ended up with the short end of genetic stick.