G's Roar.

It has been entirely too long since I posted, but I've got pretty much nuthin.

So, I present to you, Genevieve's "Roar".  All animals roar, you know.

Ok, so I hate uploading videos and I can only baaaaarely hear this with the sound on the video and on my computer cranked to the max. Blarg. So sorry if I just wasted 15 seconds of your time.

In other news, we now have an enormous cardboard space shuttle in our living area that is the result of my trip to CVS at 10:00 p.m. on Christmas Eve. Dan and I had a an 11th hour creative disagreement regarding Santa protocol. I was one of those idiots driving around town cruising past all of the closed Targets and Wal Marts.

But, they love it!



Unassociated thoughts and photos.

G has definitely reached the age of the lovie:

Shamelessly mackin' on Creepy Dalmatian Baby.

 

There's a posse now. Creepy Tiger Baby, Creepy Dalmatian Baby, and Creepy Bunnydogwecan'tfigureitout Baby.

 

I fully expect to wake in the middle of the night to the three of them poised over me, just watching me with their flat little eyes.

 

Man, I loved this toy as a kid: 

That whole "play upon the emotions of those entering their 30's and charge twice as much" thing? Totally effective.

 

Her hair is long enough for low pig tails! 

Yes. I dressed her like a human Christmas cookie. 

 

What the hell is this?

I'm in for a good decade of fearing my children's toys, apparently.

 

Payne now uses my spare shades when he wants me to "Frow deh sun away."

 

He has also started classifying cheese. There is "moving cheese" and "not moving cheese". Chips and "moving cheese" are his frequent request. Ha.

 

Yep. He made himself a nice bed in Genevieve's new toy box. 

He also asked me to lock him into his dress up box today. I refused.

 

And he tried to talk me into locking him in the dog kennel.

 

To quote the illustrious Hank Hill "Seven a.m. and already that boy ain't right."

 

 

Dear Fellow Preschool Parents,

Please stop breaking the mother effing curve.

Maybe you're a naturally crafty person, or a good baker, or have a way with small children.  Maybe you naturally wake up at 4 a.m. and need as many projects as possible to fill the time before your offspring awakes.

The fact is, I am none of those things.  I am the person sitting in her car waiting for curbside drop off who mutters "Oh f*ck" when she sees you traipse into the building with an armful of cheerily decorated gifts, one for ALL of the school staff. 

I am the person who sent ice cream cups for her son's birthday, while you hand delivered homemade cookies iced with a perfect likeness of Abby Kadabby or something...

I am the one who turned in her son's first homework assignment (in other words, her first homework assignment) late.

You turn in "getting to know you" photo posters decorated with all scrapbook paraphanalia available, and dot your caligraphered "i"s with little hearts.  I present crookedly cut out snap shots with little cylinders of tape holding them onto the poster board.

Please stop.

Please stop sending your daughter with a perfect Cinderella bouffant (complete with little jewel broach) on Story Time Day, because I forgot about it until 8 p.m. the night before and stapled a paper "mouse tail" to the ass of my son's brown sweatpants.

I'm sure you enjoy doing all of this and it's not difficult or a strain for you, however, I'm not particularly cut out for doing stuff like this and my threshold for youth outside of my own bloodlines stops with the 13th grade.  Teaching community college was dealing with the youngest people I could stomach. I am not a natural young child instructor.

If you stop, then the teachers won't notice I never started, mmk?

Also, if you cease and desist with the birthday party invitations for the whole class involving individually applied hand glued sequins and party details hidden in cleverly worded little poems, then I promise to stop contemplating slashing your tires.

Signed,

The short one that owns the tire swing barfer.

Season's Greetings!

We have passed another mile marker on the highway of parental experiences.

I decided to take Payne to see Santa, since he expressed interest this year, and hell, I had some cute outfits that had yet to be assigned a purpose.

We get to the mall and Payne is all "Oh yeah. Totally see Santa every day. No biggie."

Then it gets to be our turn. I introduce Genevieve to Santa and she starts wailing. Meanwhile, Payne tries to hide behind the velvet rope while wildly announcing "I dohn wike Santa. He not nice!".

I allow the group behind us in line (who I'm sure were THRILLED at my kids example of Santa behavior protocol) to go while I deliver a quick boot camp style motivational speech.  We can go play after Santa, yes! And Santa won't know what to bring you if you don't tell him.  And Santa is nice, see? Look, that little girl likes Santa!  You just have to stand next to Santa. It'll be fiiiiine.

So Payne hops over there all business. Genevieve revs up wail intensity as she nears Santa like a geiger counter approaching Chernobyl, so I decide to see if the boy can fly solo for the first shot:

 

 

Oh My God. The Elf had better luck in 30 seconds than our family photographer had in two hours.

 

It's a Christmas Miracle!

 

He told Santa he wants "cwaws" (claws), so now after such an excellent performance I have to go procure something sharp looking for his hands. Hmmm...

 

Feeling more confident (and Genevieve had a cute dress on, damnit) I tossed her onto Santa and ran away as if I'd just thrown a grenade...a very, very angry grenade.

 

I knew this would result in one of those "Ha ha! Look at the screaming baby on Santa!" photos but I had no idea it would come out this perfect:

 

 

 

I LOVE IT. 

 

The Elf kept asking me if I realized Payne's eyes were closed as I was buying it.  I was all "Oh I know! I figured I should buy either a home run or a complete disaster."

 

She was honesly looking at me as if she expected my handlers to come around the corner and escort me back to the nut house at any moment.

Best $20 I ever spent.

I'm wracking my brain for more vampire humour.

My dad made Genevieve a toy box for Christmas:

 

 

(insert some joke about blood banks or bats or Trannsylvania here)

 

His weirdness has outlasted my otherworldly vocabulary.

 

Payne wins the day.

Attack of the redistributors.

 

 

My children. They are little beasts of disorganization.

 

I cannot tell you how many things they have lost.

 

The items that are currently at the top of my list:

 

- The remote control. For two years. (I think I already whined about this one though)

 

- The baby monitor speaker. I slept with Genevieve's door open for a week, which was a miserable experiment with a light sleeper.  Then she pulled it out of the "washing machine" in her play kitchen, along with a dirty diaper (fortunately, it was bagged).

 

- I search for and occasionally locate sippy cups at least five times daily. They are always found top down, in a puddle of their own liquidy contents.

 

-I find things like this:

(They messed with the coffee maker. They are dead to me.)

 

- I lost a pair of Paynes flip flops for four months. They were found at the bottom of the wrapping paper organizer thingie.  Now that he has pretty much grown out of them, of course.

 

- I thought one of the dogs had peed in Payne's room in a spot I couldn't find...for months.  Then I opened up a rarely used drawer in his dresser and found a used Pull Up. Yeah, I know....

 

It's gotten to the point where we know most of their hiding places.  If something goes missing we immediately check just outside of the doggy door on the patio, the cutting board cabinet, the ottoman with built in storage, the battery drawer, the play washing machine,  behind the glass doors in the entertainment center, etc.

 

I still missed the entire cup of blueberries that lived (and I mean lived) inside of a plastic barn shaped lunch box in Payne's closet....for 6 months.

 

And with that lovely mental image, I shall leave you for the day.

I am thisclose to locking my bedroom door at night.

I walk into the office to talk to Dan about something.

Empty Christmas tree box is in my peripheral vision.

"Empty" box twitches:

Excuse me. I have a crucifix collection that I believe could use a good polishing.

That's my boy!

When I picked Payne up from preschool this morning, he emerged from the building wearing a different shirt than the one he'd worn in. 

When questioned about this mystery, he responded only with "I got frow up orn it."

Oh my.

I was confused that I hadn't gotten a call that he was ill, so I dug through his back pack and found this informative note:

 

 

I must say, I'm almost proud. My little daredevil...

I am, however, drawing an emphatic line through "Go to Six Flags" on my mental Future Family Fun list.

The Mother of an infant says....

She says:

"My baby will not wear cheap, loud clothing."

"No T.V. characters or goofy animals will adorn his/her lovely person."

"He/she will play with classic wodden toys only, bearing no resemblance to any commercially distributed figure from children's programing."

"Licensed clothing is trashy and consumerist."

"Nothing but 100% cotton is good enough for MY precious."

"He/she will look like a Nordstrom children's department model at all times."

 

The Mother of a Child says:


"F*ck it."

 

"I'll just concentrate on keeping 'em from running into traffic."