The Divisible Dog

Some kids are whiny. And too easily upset. Case in point: a 4-going-on-14 year old girl. I routinely say normal things that cause sudden, unexpected crying fits in my "toddler pre-premenstrual" mini me. Seriously, what normal kid cries uncontrollably when their mom tells them to change clothes? She and I will start off with a normal conversation, then BAM! She sprials into a whiny, teary, crybaby, seemingly out of the blue! She might as well turn into a diaper - leaky and full of shit.

Even Hell-Spawn Have To Sleep Sometime

Well, my fantastic, peaceful "golden days" of bringing order out of the living room chaos are officially gone, flushed down the toilet like the shit and toothbrushes flushed by my youngest mini-me, or "Spawn" as I (lovingly) think of her. I know the "terrible twos" are supposed to be bad, but never, and I do mean NEVER has any of my offspring been this downright ... ornery. It all started a few weeks ago...

Escape!

Yesterday is a day that will forever live in my memory as the day my youngest daughter slipped her leash, caused mass chaos and hysteria, yelling and screaming (it wasn't just me either) and pretty much freaked Mommy the fuck out – she made it over the gate several times. (And under twice.) Let me back up and explain:

The Know-It-All

I should write a book: Stupid-Ass Conversations With A Four Year Old "Know-It-All." I could make millions, maybe get a TV show. Or a sanity check. SACWAZAFYOKIA. It even has a (somewhat) snazzy acronym, I can picture SACWAZAFYOKIA plastered across billboards everywhere, with people saying, "Sack was a eff why o'kia?" Catchy, huh? Now just try getting that shit out of your head. Go ahead. I'll wait.

The Right Path

I went to pick up the boys at their dad's house yesterday, and my little mini-me decided that she wanted to come with me "to the brudders house" as she calls it. They live a short 30 minute drive away, so I get some good music time (and talking time) with the munchkin if I take her along. We discuss rhyming words, and numbers, and philosophy (stranger danger, the benefits of doing what Mommy tells you do to, and my tried-and-true favorite: how much she likes/hates pizza and has always liked/hated pizza at any given moment.) And no road trip would be complete without singing chick songs (Lady Gaga is currently her favorite, but P!nk is a close second.)

It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown! (AKA The Miracle Baby)

I was talking to my mother the other day, and she mentioned she had been reading my posts (and strangely, wasn't upset.) She said that she remembered when all these things I write about happened, and that one of her co-workers was impressed with the lie about boys that didn't eat vegetables turning into girls, and thought it was super-creative. "You remember that?" I asked her, and she also remembered something else - it worked. "Wow, you're right, I totally forgot that it worked! They ate all kinds of vegetables for months!" She also mentioned that in the post about our telephone conversations, I had left one out, and asked me to tell it because it was so funny. And so I am, the funny parts, and the not-so-funny parts.

An Offer You Can't Refuse

My pre-schooler basically told me to, "Go fuck yourself, Mommy." Not with that exact wording, but that's what she meant. It's like the scene from The Godfather when the one guy finds a horse head in his baby's crib: I got home from work today, and found a butter knife in the bathroom. My bathroom. You know, where I get ready for work.

The Cherry On Top Of A Whipped-Shit Sundae Day

I've worked night shift for a big portion of each of my kids' young lives, and although getting sleep is always challenging, if I had to work (and I do) at least by working nights, I could still spend a lot of time with my kids during their waking hours. When my boys were little, I got off of work at 6 am, which meant that my (now ex-) husband was getting ready to leave for work, since he had to be there by 7 am.

Life Lessons Learned

Yesterday morning, my little mini-me ALMOST had me convinced she listens to me. I thought that we had come to an understanding, that she had finally started to get our rules, and more importantly, follow them. I thought I had made a breakthrough as a mom, and she had made a breakthrough as a daughter. Looking back, I might have over thought it.

Lies Mommies Tell

Do you ever wonder how many times over the length of your childrens' lives you will lie to them? I started thinking about this after the last post, and I wondered how bad of a mom was I that I lied to my kids. But then I finished thinking: I know I've lied to my kids several times (Yes, Mommy does have eyes in the back of her head, that's how I knew you were grabbing that cookie, honey!) but mostly about totally inconsequential things or, conversely, things that may have great impact in their lives if they make the wrong decision.

It's All Fun And Games

My four-year old daughter is once again on her way to see her cousin. I'm glad that her grandparents take her when they go to visit, since it 1) gives me an opportunity to have special time with the youngest, 2) gets Diana out of my hair, 3) brings her closer to the cousin that lives farthest away, and 4) gets Diana out of my hair. Did I mention that once already? Oh, well, it's such a fabulous thought it bears repeating. So, the first day she's gone, their dad cleans the shit out of their room, to find a half-eaten sandwich! No one knows how or when she made the sandwich, but I personally suspect she has figured out the gate to the kitchen. I'm still not sure what was in the sandwich, though, since she's gone and I can't ask, because she's out of town! If I didn't know better, I'd think she planned it that way. I can trace her activities using the items in her room, which tells me that by the time she's a teenager, I might as well open a private investigative agency!

The Birds, The Bees, and The Ugly

When my boys were young, I agonized about how to explain the 'facts of life,' and my ex-husband told me at the time that he would "take care of it." I was relieved, in a cowardly and non-me-like way. When the time came, however, my ex-husband was nowhere near close enough to save me from this gaping, giant, black hole that swallowed my integrity in silence.

A Beautiful Mind

Tonight I went through my normal routine for work - I showered, washed my hair (and everything else,) wrapped up in a towel, and put my contacts in. I was running late, so I quickly plugged my curling iron in and the hairdryer (all kept in a special place in the bathroom where prying toddler fingers hopefully won't mess with them) and pulled out my make-up to put it on while the curling iron heated up.

And that's when I found out what my darling mini-me had done:

I Wish I Could...

My four-year-old has started the most annoying fucking habit ever in the history of 4-year-olds - instead of actually asking for something (e.g. "Mommy, may I have a cookie please?") or asking-as-a-statement (e.g. "Mother Dearest, I would like to have a cookie.") I get a wistful, wishy-washy, frustrated, bourgeoisie-esque wishful statement: "I wish I had a cookie..." while sighing sadly and looking far off into distant lands, as though someday her hero would come and bring her a fucking cookie!

Fall Blues

I hate August. And September. October just better not piss on my boots, or I'll lump it in with August and September, and July - well fuck you July. Not just for the heat, and the end of summer (y'know, the normal reasons people hate August, September, October. And July) but because it's allergy season. I've always had horrible allergic reactions to various things, and August... well, August just isn't my month. Matter of fact, my mom told me once that for three years in a row when I was a child, she refilled my allergy medicine on August 24th. Great! Glad I could be so predictable, Mom.

Things My Mother Said

My mom is going to hate this post, but it's ok, I think I'll live. She has a tendency to freak me out, then go on as if it's business as usual. I totally hate that, so I tend to get even.

First story: I'm pregnant for my first child. She called me to see how I'm doing, and I told her I'm finally holding down food and not barfing as much, and my premature labor seemed to have slowed down, and my ankles weren't as swollen as they had been the first six months. She brings up someone I went to high school with: "Do you remember such-and-such?" After telling her I didn't, she asks if I know who he married, and I of course didn't. "Well, they just got married last year, and she was pregnant with their first child. She went into premature labor in her seventh month from pre-eclampsia, and they couldn't stop the labor."

List of Toddler 'Tells'

Tonight my youngest daughter (2 ½) decided that it was time her opinions and attitudes were taken into account. They have two large toy boxes in their room that she dumps out, turns on its side, and jumps on it like a trampoline. I don't have to tell you how dangerous that is, and since taking the toy boxes out would result in mass toy hysteria, cats and dogs living together, instead I have to try to get the concept of 'No!' across to her. This is important, she could get hurt, and anything that could hurt her qualifies her for spankings in my book.

Dieting (AKA Food Management)

So we're in week two of 'The Diet' and strangely enough, I feel both hungry and full at the same time, which, if you think of it, is quite an oxymoron! (Dr. Poole is right, you're an ox, and a moron! That movie rocks! So many big-name stars!) Small meals (well, small to me is normal To everyone else, right?) and small snacks every 2-3 hours. I have never eaten so much! And yet, conversely, been hungry at the same time. Weird, huh?

High Maintenance vs Princess-ness

My daughter walks up while I'm watching History Channel and asks me how fish die. "Well, fish can die if they don't get water, because they breathe water, so if they stay in air, they die. And if you're fishing...well fish can die in other ways, too." I ended lamely. I am not talking about cutting off fish heads to my four-year-old, but sometmes my mouth goes faster than my brain.

Blame Game

My youngest son is eleven, and has a bit of a weight problem. He has a perfectly legitimate reason in my eyes - he's allergic to cats, his step-mom has cats and refuses to get rid of them, so he's on an inhaled steroid and a daily allergy pill to control his allergies. You know, so he doesn't die or anything. (Bitch! Scream it at the screen with me. Have your toast handy a la Rocky Horror Picture Show.) Anyway, re-cap: 1) Steroids can make you gain weight, 2) he takes a steroid daily, so 3) he might end up a little chubby, with boy-boobs and a spare tire. I get it, and I don't let his brothers tease him about his weight, but I can tell it gets to him. He no longer swims without a T-shirt because he's self-conscious.

Pribacy, Please!

This morning, "Crazy" (AKA Diana, 4 years old) and I had a discussion. Now, I understand that having a discussion with a four year old is kind of like arguing with a mirror, or talking to an Echo (she moves her head like me, she puts her hand on her hip like me, she repeats the last word of every sentence I utter. I'm telling you, those Greek story-tellers were talking about a toddler when they passed on the tale about Narcissus and Echo, I just know it!)

Boobies Act II

My honey and I are thinking about a going on a diet. Actually, he's thinking he'll change my mind, and I'm thinking this time next year, I'll be pre-babies-body. We'll see. We've tabled the discussion for now, but in another week I'll bring it up again. And again. And again. Weight loss through Chinese Water Torture might just work. So, we're sitting in the living room in between 'discussions' when my little intuitive (or lucky) child popped in with her opinion:

Poo Et Al

This next subject is a little ... strange.

Toddler poop habits. Yes, toddler poo. Maybe I'm strange, but with each of my kids, I have never been able to avoid noticing their poo as I change their diapers, and remarking on abnormities. I picked up this habit when my youngest son was in diapers, because he bit a toy, got a hunk off of it, and we had to watch his diapers for about a week to make sure he passed it. (Yes, the 'old wives' tale' about being able to pass a LEGO is true. As is the one about DUPLO's, FYI.)

Potty Training

My 4-year-old child is mostly potty trained (and in my head, I hear Billy Crystal from The Princess Bride.) 'Mostly potty-trained' equals 'mostly trying.' If someone asks her if she has to go potty, she'll go in the bathroom and go potty, than call, "Mommy, I need you!" which translates into, "Mommy, come wipe my ass!" This is my life, ass-wiper extraordinaire.

Dog Bowl

All of my kids have chores of some kind to do. The three oldest rotate between doing dishes (well, loading and unloading the dishwasher, this isn't a sweat shop, although if you ever heard my kids bitch, you might wonder) and trash. Man, you would not believe the amount of trash we put out in a week, mostly diapers and what-not (hence the name, "Screaming Diapers" - Hey, I see what you did there, you are surely thinking, because you're smart like that. Yeppers...anyhoo...chores.

Pig Tails and Sparkles

When I thought about having a little girl, I kind of pictured her with long hair, french braiding it and putting it in pony-tails, with pretty hair ribbons and sparkly shit all over it. Or maybe that's my rosy/sparkly glasses. Anyway, I when I dreamed of having a girl, it was always a little angel who hung on my every thought and listened to me when I talked, treating every word out of my mouth as a revelation of Biblical proportions.

Red! Red! Red! Green! Blue!

It seems that sometime within the last month, my youngest daughter has really started talking up a storm. She actually answers when I call her (ok, not understandably, but it's a start.) She still gets super-pissed when I hold her and she wants down, and still screeches when she doesn't get her way, but she seems to actually be trying to communicate at other times. When we got her (and the rest) back from my mom, the first thing my mother told me is that she was saying, "Mommy."

"It figures," I told her. "I'm not there to hear it, so why not try to please you and say what you tell her to."

"No, really, watch: Daphne, say 'Mommy!'"

Horses and Elephants, Oh My!

One day last summer, I saw a flyer for free horse-back rides at a local horse ... farm/boarding house/place, or whatever you call it. I made arrangements to take my then 3 year old. I don't know what I was expecting, maybe that Golden Book moment, where she develops a life-long love of horses (queue cute music here,) or a Black Beauty-like thing who would capture her little girl's heart and she would suddenly decide to work with horses when she grows up. I mean, a princess is a fine vocation (and I'm pretty sure that's her current goal) but being a princess doesn't pay the bills (or it better not anyway!) Every little girl loves horses, right?

One Color Wheel Coming Up

It seems as though a period of my life (pun intended) is ending, and another beginning. Peri-menopause is evidently what a 'woman my age' starts as her 'fertility cycle' winds down. (Yes, that's a lot of 'air quotes') But after five kids, my body is probably putting it's little foot down, stating no more. But, I whine at my body, our tubes were tied, crimped, burned, and cursed after the last baby. I don't need menopause to ensure no more babies, you freak!

Spider-Fest

I got up to get the girls lunch today. The boys were playing xbox (summertime = videogame time) and they can fix their own lunch food, so I start on the girl's lunch. Hot dogs, pickles, blueberries, yogurt pretzels - the lunch of champions! (I want spaghetti! Diana tells me. Take off your new shirt, then I tell her. Nevermind! she says. Guess she didn't want spaghetti that bad.)

And So It Goes

She's back. My precious little ... mini-me. She had been home about ten minutes, when she noticed that her dress-up clothes were not where she left them (we had cleaned) and she comes into the living room, "Mommy, I need my princess dress. I can't find my princess dress anywhere!" with her hands on her cheeks in a comical over-done version of child shock. "Oh, no!" I'm telling you, she personifies drama, and makes it her own.

The Trip From Hell

Well, it's summer time - you know, when kids (and I have a gaggle of them, or would it be a passel? Whatever) are not in school, bored and generally suffering from insanity. Bored kids are dangerous (two words - fingernail polish) If you're not careful, an experiement gone wrong could burn your garage down. I remember summer as lazy time, sleeping in, no homework, etc, not as a time to learn what items in the garage are flammable, and which ones blow up. Someone whose name I won't mention (but you know who you are) got the boys some sort of book dedicated to driving a mother crazy, and it included many interesting shop experiments that last summer, my hellions ... improved upon, we'll say. Well, long story short, burn marks on a garage floor stay there pretty much forever. Especially if they're from paint thinner.

A History of Mental Illness. (0r, The Terrible Two's)

One day a year and half ago, I was at work and I got a call from my honey. "Just to let you know," he starts out, and I think, Oh shit! All of his You're-going-to-freak-out-because-I'm-freaking-out stories start with that phrase.

"What?"

"Well, Chris was making Ramen soup, and Diana pulled it over on her," he says. "I rinsed it off with cold water, but her shoulder where she spilled it is red. What else do you want me to do?" He's not an overt panicker, he is controlled and focused, kind of like how he is now. He's got this under control, so I have him give her Tylenol, and tell him to call me if she develops blisters. I have sunburn crap in the closet, and I have him rub it on her shoulder.

Silly Mommy!

At least once a week, I get notice from my honey that his parents want to keep the girls overnight. He always asks me if that's ok, as if I would have any possible reason to say no. I mean really, show me parents who don't want a night away from the kids, and I'll show you a cult. To me, a happy, well-adjusted child should do what my daughter does when I leave her at Grandma's house - wave bye, and say, "I love you and I'll see you later." Even my youngest has no problem with leaving me behind, and to me this is great. Does it somewhat hurt my feelings? Yep. But do I think my children's actions should be dictated by my feelings of loss? Absolutely not. That, and after five kids, being childless for a day makes me insane with joy.

Step Puppy

We used to have a pit bull mix named Sidney. He was white and tan, a chihuahua-pit bull mix (picture chihuahua head, pit bull body, with a neck smaller than his chest, and ugly as sin) who probably should have been red-headed, because that dog was super fucking annoying, and everyone in the family (except me, I guess) hated him. He farted constantly, barked in an octave that was so high-pitched other dogs would howl in pain, and he barked constantly! Every time some neighbor three houses down even thought about walking near our house, Sidney started barking. A mouse farted next door, he barked. I can't even say he had a good personality - he bit the other dogs with tiny chihuahua-like jaws, and pushed them around with his 75 pound shoulders. No joke, he weighed 75 pounds, and wore a 13 inch collar. But he was our dog, and since I'm a dog person, dogs are like children - once you get them, they are family for life.

Princess Hair

A few months ago, the girls' hair was getting long. I got home from work in the morning, put the girls in the bath, and after they had been washed, I got my scissors out, and trimmed the baby's length and bangs. I asked my 4 year old if she wanted her length cut, and she said, "No! Don't cut my princess hair!" and started crying, "Don't cut off my princess hair!"

"Ok sweetie, we'll just trim the bangs," and I trimmed her bangs, put the scissors back in the cabinet, and fed them breakfast. I put them back in their room and laid down on the couch for a few hours' sleep.

Who's Da Mommy!

When I was working day shift last year, my mother in law was (and is) a true gift. We would drop both girls off in the morning, and pick them up 9 hours later, and they would be fed, spoiled, and well-cared for. You should never overestimate the comfort you receive as a working mother when you know, you just know, that the person to whom you have entrusted your babies is trustworthy and reliable. I have small complaints (that I never express) but they are all due to differences in child-raising, and she's Grandma anyway. So I feel entirely comfortable anytime they stay at Grandma's.

So this epic story starts on a Tuesday. Tuesday the youngest (15 months at that time) was peckish, didn't want to eat, and a little feverish. Well, anyone who has kids at that age knows that 15 months is prime teeth-cutting age. She already had a mouthful, but their teeth pop up in unexpectedly sometimes, so I wasn't worried - Tylenol, cold drinks, etc. and I really didn't think much of it. Kids get fevers sometimes during teething.

Pener Pam

I might have mentioned a time or two that my 4 year old princess doesn't listen to a word I say. No seriously. I'm this bossy manager at work, and when I get home, my daughter constantly disagrees with me. I can't request her termination like I would an employee (well, I could, I guess, but that would be creepy and evil, and I'd like to think I'm not evil...yet) but if she was an employee of mine, I would have long-ago got rid of her ass for insubordination. And no, contrary to what some people might say, she does not act 'just like me.' Whatever.

So, she disagrees with me at every turn, and I mean at every turn! A simple request for lunch preference brings about an argument on whether she has ever eaten the particular food in question. And yes, my darling mini-me, despite what you say, you used to love pizza. It has never been yucky and up until this very instant, you have eaten every bite. (Pizza, the four-food-group-staple of every mom, right?) And by the way, water does not taste like ocean. I am also sure you have never seen an ocean, let alone tasted one, so there!

Pull My Finger

I grew up in a "pull my finger" kind of household, where farts were (and are) funny. By the time I was 8, I knew better than to actually pull the finger, because those farts usually stink. I work with a bunch of guys and guy farts are funny. And stinky. Well, the funny ones, anyway. But in my mom's house, she doesn't fart. Ever. That's just the way she was raised, I guess. I didn't realize I had picked up on this until I actually had a girl of my own. Who farts. Very, very loudly. She must get it from her dad.

My honey farts machine gun style, and strangely enough, they usually don't stink. Mine are just the opposite, where-in no sound is heard, just an incredible stench that permeates the very air we breath, sometimes for days, choking the life out of the air like The Fog. Uhm. Yeah. Anyway, my daughter must have inherited her "farts" (if such a thing can be inherited) from her father, because she farts just like him. And I laugh at her, just like I laugh at him.

I Should Have Known Then...

When I found out I was pregnant with my fourth, I was ecstatic! Maybe this one would be the long-awaited girl I wanted. My first three were boys, so working the odds, I should get a girl. In the meantime, I had divorced my husband and found the one man who would actually put up with my craziness. It's not an easy road, especially for him, but it works just fine for me. I'm sort of selfish at heart, though, so, if it works for me, well, it works for me. End of story.

Anyway, my excitement expanded when I found out it really was a girl! "Are you fucking shitting me?" I asked the technician.

"No, um, I'm serious," she stuttered. Maybe she wasn't used to such profanity as I use on a daily basis. "Look at the ultrasound, you can see, right there, no penis. It's definitely a girl."

"That looks like a penis. What is that line?"

She's Baaaack!

Well, my daughter came back from her cousin's house. I missed her, and she was all about stories of swimming in the pool, playing with her cousin, showing me her new skirt, and telling me how much fun she had. I was thrilled, especially to have her back. I asked if she'd had her hair washed, and she told me her aunt washed it, but had gotten some soap in her eyes. I said, "I bet you were a big girl and didn't cry,"

"No Mommy, I screamed really loud, like this 'Aaaaaahhhhh!" Well then.

As soon as she took a breath, we discussed her new-found affection for hourglasses, since she wasn't here for the actual clean up.

Sippy Cups

With the 4 year old gone, I kind of expected the baby (the 2 year old) to ... miss her a little at least, but nope. She's been happy as a clam in sand. Playing, knocking things over. She emptied out her toybox twice, climbed inside, and most mornings, I find her sleeping in there, curled up with a blanket and her favorite toy, a piano. She's been building block castles, and then knocking them down. And laughing. Loudly. Is that normal? Maybe she's a closet psychopath... or a closet demolitions expert. What? It could happen!

I wanted to take this opportunity to get to know her a little. Sometimes with so many kids, it's hard to see the gem behind the shine, you know what I mean? I know each of the kids, their quirks, their strengths, but at times it's hard to see the particulars. Knowing their favorite food isn't the same as knowing what they'll eat and what they won't. I had opportunity with each one to bond, but the littlest one confuses me. She just doesn't want to talk to me. Oh she babbles, she communicates, she sings, and she dances. But she just has no need to make other people (specifically me) understand her. She wants something, she screams, eventually she gets it. End of story.

With All My Bitchy Heart

I complain a lot about the kids getting into stuff, and it is a true pain in the ass (I mean, really, life would be easier if she would just listen to me when I say things - although I do recognize the absolute futility of that hope and dream) BUT I do realize that what she's getting into now has absolutely no comparison to what she used to get into. At one point, we had the fridge locked up tighter than a whore in .... Anyway, very tight. You know why we did this? Because milk is a bitch to get out of carpet. And she would dump every gallon of milk we had on the den floor. Then play chemistry teacher and combine.

Some of her most memorable combos were:

Language

My daughter and I speak different languages. I speak English, but she speaks Toddler, with a slight lisp. We're working on her pronunciation - she is four, after all, and will start school soon. I don't want her in speech therapy though if I can help it. Her after-school hours are probably going to be taken up with actual therapy. She'll need some time to do dishes.

She ran into the living room, crying her little quiet cry. I asked her what was wrong, and she showed me her left thumb, and said, "I have an owie. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts! Ooooowwwww!"

"Ok, ok, sweetie, come on, let's rinse it and I have some stuff to dump on it," and I washed it, put witch hazel on it, and she screamed. Witch hazel doesn't usually hurt, and that's one of the reasons I use it. Hmm. I told her it wasn't that bad, and she didn't have to scream. I dried it off, and she was fine. It was dinner time, so I took her and her sister to the kitchen to make a quick dinner for them. The princess tells me that her finger still hurts.

Party

My kid threw a party, and didn't even invite me. My four year old is currently on her way to visit her cousin for a week with Nana and Poppa. We were in a rush this morning, mainly because she had to be dropped off at such an early hour. When I got home, her dad was putting on her shoes. I took the dogs outside and come back in. My honey had some news for me.

"Uh, both the girls had something red on them when I got them up today. I thought at first it was blood, but then I realized it wasn't, and I think it might be fingernail polish."

Oh no! I thought, and ran over to the very high shelf where I had put the red fingernail polish after I had painted her fingernails yesterday. Shit! Gone. "Child, where is Mommy's nail polish?"

"Well, uh...well," she stalled, and put her head down. "I don't know." which is the standard answer when she doesn't want to say what happened, or admit culpability.

The Littlest Bit

This little BIT (bitch-in-training, FYI) walks into my living room... As joke opening lines go, it sucks. But true, none-the-less. So, my 4 year old 'little bit' walks into the living room with her sippy cup, "Can you get me a drink, Mommy?"

"Sure, where's your sister's sippy cup?" The standard procedure involves two sippy cups, not one.

"I looked, and I looked everywhere, and I couldn't find it. It's not on the floor." Hmmm.

"Really? So if I walk into your bedroom right now, look on the floor, and find the sippy cup, can I spank you for not telling me the truth?"

Animal Control

We have two dogs, an 11 year old lab/dalmation mix, and an American pit bull puppy, 16 months. Both females, and at first they got along great. Last summer, though, they were picked up by the dogcatcher and things haven't been the same since.

The pound here is rather "anti-pit bull." I've had friends that told me this, but until I saw it with my own eyes, I thought they were exaggerating. I don't think that now. This was the second time the puppy and the lab mix were picked up, and the puppy had two weeks to go until she turned six months. After talking to the staff, they took me to the female area. There was my lab mix, but where was the puppy? Then they took me through the male side.

"She's a female," I told the attendant. I didn't really think I had to mention it, but I guess you never know.

The Princess

Sometimes, in my head, I decribe things with Native American-sounding names, I dont't know why. I've always been told that we have a lot of Indian blood in the family, maybe that's it. Or maybe it's just very descriptive. Anyway, 'The Princess' walks into the living room, having just woke up.

"Good morning, sweetie. Go potty real quick and I'll get you a sippy cup. Is the baby awake too?"

"No," she tells me.

"Ok, well hurry up and go potty, and either Daddy or I will get you a sippy cup when you're done."

She puts her hands on her hips. "No, either Daddy or you will get me a sippy cup, now."

The Littlest Dictator

My youngest child may be smarter than all of us combined. She just turned two, and runs the house with an iron fist. Being Mom, I am wise to her ways, but alas, it seems I am the only one who sees her for what she truly is - a master manipulator in the making.

When she was a year, I took her in for her check up, and told the doctor that I was a little worried because she wasn't talking. He asked me how she communicated, and I told him: when she screeched like a fire engine, she was pissed, usually because someone had taken something away from her. When she yelled loudly, she wanted food/drink/diaper change, and usually all three. When she threw herself on the floor and screamed, she was tired. And when she cried like a normal baby, she was bored.

He asked me if she was saying any words at all.

Mismatched Clothes

My boyfriend came to parenting late in life. I already had three boys from a previous marriage when we became a couple, and three year later, we (well, I, mostly) decided to have a child together. But he had never been a father, and his parents had kind of given up on grandchildren from him. When he told them they were going to be grandparents again, they asked, "You mean, your sister's pregnant?"

"No, Amy is."

"Your Amy?"

It took them a minute to figure out that he meant that he was going to be a dad. He was over 35, and wasn't married, so I guess they gave up on that idea years ago. But his sister (and their only other grandchild) live 5 hours away, and his parents were really thrilled, so they spoil the shit out of the girls. I am very lucky in my in-laws.

The Storm of the Century. Whatever.

When the boyfriend bought this house, I knew we needed at least 5 bedrooms, and this one only had four. He really liked this house, and since he was purchasing it, this was the house we got. It does have a finished basement, though, and I suggested we put our bedroom in the basement. The basement has carpet, finished ceilings, and over 600 square feet of space. It was called a "mother-in-law suite" because it has a separate kitchen. Plenty of room for all of my clothes, storage, the laundry room, my dressers, my shoes, et cetera. Oh, and his shit fits too. There was even a half bath, complete with raised "throne." I labelled it "his bathroom," and threatened to find a gold toilet seat.

I told him while we were moving that eventually I want to get a steam shower for the basement. It has always been my dream, a two-person steam shower.

Eggs

When my second son was 4, he used to get into the refridgerator and take out food at night, too. Shortly into summer that year, I came home from work to find my (now ex-) husband returning food to the kitchen, and throwing stuff away. I naturally asked what he was doing, and he showed me what he had, and said he had found it all under the second son's bed. A peanut butter jar (sans lid), a loaf of bread (opened), a bottle full of apple juice for the baby (half-full), a 7-up can (unopened, thank God!), a bag of chips (you guessed it, opened), and a half-full carton of eggs. Yes, an egg carton. With eggs. Upstairs, under a child's bed, in the summer.

Y'see, it was just after Easter, and they had of course colored boiled eggs and hid them, then found them, and ate them. At that time, I didn't yet understand that the path of a child's thought is made of squiggly cork-screw lines, with little resemblence to reality. And every lesson you give your children is never the one you're trying to teach them.

He got most of the stuff this particular day from the fridge (the peanut butter was out on the counter) except for the chips-those were kept on top of the fridge. I naturally asked my son how he got the chips down. "Did you climb on the cabinets?"

The Gated Community

My fourth child is willful. And very imaginative. And will be a holy terror when she becomes a teen-ager.

My 4 year old and her sister (2 years old) live inside what I call the "Gated Community." Outside of the gate, there is a decided lack of kid-mess, mischief, and mayhem. Outside of the gate, most things are no-nos, toys aren't allowed to be left lying on the floor, and tag is only allowed under certain circumstances. No throwing balls, no jumping on the couch, and no high-pitched girl screams. Outside of the gate, grown-ups live in a land of uncovered outlets and breakable items. And don't touch my shit. (Also, their clothes are kept in this area, because they dump everything out of their dressers and the prima donna would change clothes about 6 times a day or more if we let her.)

Inside the gated community, they can dump out their toy boxes, play in playhouses, squeal repeatedly. and cause chaos in general. Dolls are dressed, house is played, teddy bears are carried around like babies, and princess dresses are worn. Imaginary friends (that are named Monster) inhabit the room, which is child-proofed, with a TV playing Nick Jr, toys stored (initially anyway) in tubs, and no clean-up rules except at night. I really don't care if they carpet their floor with toys. And they do. Every day. They play in there most of the time, and I can't really blame them, it's a really cool room. And I don't touch their shit.

Boobies!

My 4-year old daughter and I were in the shower a few weeks ago, washing her hair. This usually involves screaming, crying, and yelling, and not just by me. Four years old, and she can scream loud enough to pop my eardrums! It doesn't matter how carefully I pour the water on her head, some of it always gets in her eyes and/or ears. (And yes, she screams equally loudly with either one.) Screaming ensues, followed by guilt, and usually candy. This time, after everything is rinsed while I'm still getting soap out of my eyes, she asked that dreaded question, "Mommy, what are those?"

I wiped my eyes with my fingers, and opened them to see that she's pointing to my chest area (ok, ok, my abdomen area) and for a moment, I couldn't think of what to call "them." "The girls" sounds confusing, "breasts" sounds so clinical, "tits" so perky and vaguely obscene, for "titties" see above with a slightly lower cup size. She's still staring at me, so out popped, "Boobies, honey, those are boobies."

She looked down at her own chest-slash-abdomen, so now I'm super worried (boob-size complex in the making, Dr Phil!) and told her that mommy-boobies are different from girl boobies. She said, "Oh," and I thought I dodged a bullet.

But children never forget ANYTHING you say that can cause embarassment. Yesterday, my mother-in-law gave her a new bathing suit for summer. It was a purple two piece, bikini-style (enjoy it while you can, my sweet!) with a matching skirt. What's the first thing my little angel of inappropriateness says? She picks up the top and says, "Boobies!"