Funny things Payne says:

- This is his last week of school. I was explaining to him that he is going to a different preschool in the fall. He asked "What is my new school's name?".

I said "Holy Cross."

His response: "Holey Cwocs? My Cwocs have holes. Is it a Cwoc school?"

Yes. Yes it is, son.

- Today he ran to the bathroom, started peeing, and then said to himself "Whew! Dat was a cwose one."

- He still calls Genevieve "widdle wady". I die of cute each and every time.

- When Dan is gone, Payne explains that he is in "Okahoma" and after a thoughtful pause always adds "Okahoma is full of homes".

He's the best. Really.

Beah peah.

I was wrong the other day when I told you how Genevieve says "back pack".

I've had a lot more practice hearing it since, as she's become singularly obsessed with them. 

She has commandeered Payne's old Toy Story back pack and insists on wearing it around the house, marching around proudly with her most prized possessions on her person:

Sometimes, late at night, I could swear I hear the tiniest of screams.

"Heeeeelp meeeeee..."

 

The Resistance.

They're ganging up on me; a little too organized for my taste.

When one child is put in time out, the other plops down next to him/her in a show of solidarity.  Toys are often snuck over to the prisoner on the sly.

And now they BOTH count at me when they're mad.

Payne is all "Mommy, you have 'till free to let me roll down my window."

G just furrows her brow, does this with her hand:

And yells "Uuuuuhn. Doooooo. Uuuuuuhn! DOOOOO!".

Geez.

 

 

Photos that warm my Grinchy heart.

Sibling love gets me every time.

Who doesn't need a golf club when checking the mail?

Manly men surrounded by girly things are adorable.

 

Daddy daughter love also gets me every time.

 

As does inter-species nanny dog lovin'.

 

And why not nap in earthquake preparedness mode? 

I love them.

 
 

 

A love letter to the public restroom.

A warning to all. As the title suggests, this post may get a little gross.

So today was predicted to be a gorgeous and sunny 85 degrees, and I decided the kids and I were going to take advantage of it and visit a splash pad in the neighborhood. 

I had previously scouted it out and had noted that it had one major failing, a lack of open public restrooms and garbage cans.  This allllmost stopped me from bothering, but I decided that was very "privileged American" of me, no? So I packed some extra plastic bags in case we had a dirty diaper or something while we were there.

We arrived, stroller completely filled with picnic food, swim gear, diaper bag, purse, etc. We looked prepared for a two week long asphalt camp out.

Of course, within the first 50 feet along our trek from the car Payne was struck with the need to pee.  As I mentally composed my nasty letter to the neighborhood planners, I told him to discreetly pee in the bushes.  Of course, at this precise moment in time, a little girl who had been happily playing at the splash pad around the corner was struck with irresistible wanderlust. Sorry Little Girl Wanderer's Mom.

We lunched, the kids were beside themselves with excitement.

I stripped them down next to a bush (not the pee bush) and quickly put them in their swim gear.  I was excited about several new solutions to the previous swim season's problems that I had come up with. 

G was shimmied into a Speedo brand swim diaper. I just put it over her regular diaper since I knew she wouldn't be submerged.  I tried the reusable swim diaper out because disposable swim diapers are the biggest crock of crap I have ever been swindled into purchasing (you see what I did there?).  If a kid poops in those things they do nearly nothing to hold it in.  I am saying this as a person who has scrubbed my kid's poop off of a friend's pool deck while strangers at a birthday party looked on, ok? I hate those things. So, as a new experiment G had on a normal diaper, speedo diaper, and swimsuit. 

Payne was also shimmied into a Speedo.  I bought him some Speedo jammers to wear under his trunks because the poor boy is knock kneed and gets his thighs chafed when he's in a wet swim suit for very long.  He is finally big enough to fit into the smallest speedos known to man, and I absolutely felt like I was being silently assessed as a potential sex offender when I purchased them.

After all of this prep, we're off!

They love it!

(Contrary to appearances in this photo, Payne has not recently lost any limbs)

I'm on cloud nine! Success!

And it only took this much stuff to get us here:

(snort)

The kids are happily playing and running back to me for bites of their lunch. I am so happy. I love getting them exercise and I love it when they're thrilled about something new.

Then Payne runs up and says he has to poop.

Dun dun dunnnnnnn.

There is nowhere to go. Nowhere. I JUST got them into everything and I packed so.much.stuff. We just can't go home yet!

Payne is hopping from foot to foot nervously.

My friends, please do not judge me.

I helped my kid poop in a zip lock bag.  I had him back up to a bush and held a bag....into which he pooped.

(passes hand dramatically over eyes)

You have no idea how hard I was praying that some unsuspecting soul merely in pursuit of a little light cardio didn't happen upon us in that moment.

Praise Baby Jesus they didn't.  They showed up about 60 seconds later, my poo bag of shame safely concealed under the stroller by that point.

With my blood pressure decidedly higher, I then tried to resume enjoying my children's enjoyment. They splashed. They ran. They played games together. Ahhh....

As we approached nap time, I decided to wrap things up.  I stripped G down, curious to see how the swim diaper had worked.  I was pleased to see she had dirtied her diaper and I had kept everything in. Fabulous! I plopped her down onto our only towel to change her and quickly realized she had pooped awhiiiiile ago.  Obviously I had no way of knowing through three layers of material on her butt.  Um yeah, her butt was so raw it was bleeding.  Why didn't she indicate that she was dirty? Why does she hate me? She will dramatically inform myself and our immediate neighbors that she could go for another bag of fruit snacks, but she can't spare a moment for "Hey Ma. I think all of the skin on my anus is gone.". Whyyyyyy?!

I'm still cleaning up Genevieve and fretting when Payne runs over and whines that he has to pee. Again! I snap at him to pee in the bush (I'm the enemy of all bushes today, man) and he happily strips off all of his shorts and starts on the task.  I glance over towards him to make sure he's alone and I see him PEEING DIRECTLY UPWARDS. JUST FOR FUN, YOU KNOW. ALL OVER HIS OWN PERSON. I scream, he redirects, completely naked now.  I yell at him to go rinse off. He runs completely naked through the splash pad. I desperately scan for the authorities who were surely called when someone in a nearby two story house glanced outside from their game room and saw a woman assisting a child in public defecation.  No authorities.

I scream for him to come back, finish dressing Genevieve, frantically throw his clothes onto him as a woman pushing twin babies strolls by.

I march my charges back to the car, dispose of the poo bag of shame in the only garbage can I can find, outside of a neighborhood pool that isn't open yet.  The can said recycling. The stuff inside didn't look like recycling. If it was I'M SO SORRY RECYCLING PROCESSING EMPLOYESS BUT I COULDN'T CARRY THE POO BAG OF SHAME ANYMORE.

I buckle Payne into his car seat and notice his nifty Speedo jammers have left him with some kind of allergic rash from navel to knee. We go home, I run in and smother Genevieve with Vaseline, wash my hands, examine Payne's rash (already fading, thank goodness), throw them both in their rooms and proclaim loudly that Mommy is "Done Done Done for the afternoon." They are like church mice. I can smell their fear.

Then I unload the car, throw all of the appropriate items into the wash and all of the picnic supplies into the sink.

Then I came here to tell all of you, while the horror was still fresh.

Next time I visit that effing splash pad everyone is getting a preparatory Imodium and I'm packing some OPAQUE garbage bags.

Finis.

 

Further evidence of the truth of entropy.

Sunday morning:

Aaaaand Sunday evening:

Yup.

 

 

I love Crocs.

I am not paid to love Crocs.

I used to hate them.

BUT:

-kids can put on their own damn crocs.

-you can wash dog poo off of crocs with a garden hose.

-when crocs start to smell like sweaty boy feet you can toss them in the washer.

-kids don't trip and fall much in crocs. I have NO IDEA how this is achieved.

-crocs float. This comes in handy more

often than one would think.

-crocs are so prolific one never has to pay full price for them.

-crocs don't degrade or wear down. I'm fairly certain the patent form for the rubber/foam croc material bears the devil's signature.

-And finally, crocs are so completely ridiculous looking, they're actually kind of cute. They're troll dolls for feet, but far less creepy than the mental picture that elicits.

I wish I could quit you, plastic shoes.

 

Lessons on morality from Payne.

Last night, the kids were eating a dinner of leftovers, which included the remains of a pot of macaroni and cheese. 

As I finished doing the dishes, I glanced over to see Payne leaning intently over his plate (now bereft of his favorite food in the whole wide world) and speaking earnestly to Genevieve:

"Gee-vive, you got to give me your macawoni and cheese. You got to do the wight ding. Put it on my pwate."

Genevieve, swayed by his moving oratory, thoughtfully handed over a gooey fistful.

Payne hoovered it up before it even had a chance to decompress.




In other amusing news, I caught G in dead dog position this morning, for the first time in over a year.

Ethel came in to award points for accuracy of form. G got an eight out of ten, because dachshunds don't hug taggie blankets, even post mortem.

Of course.

The other day, Payne and I were settling in post bath for our evening stint of lethargy in front of the T.V.

As he was getting into his pajamas, he said "Mommy. I need some socks for my wegs".

Fair enough.

I left him to gather his socks. He joined me on the couch. We watched a cartoon, and then I happened to glance down at his feet:

Oh. I see what you did there.

 

Socks for his wegs, indeed.