Two Years, Eleven Months, and One Day

          My husband asked me once why I write everything out longhand before I type.  I told him that the physical act of writing helps me better organize my thoughts and seems to require less editing later on.  He laughed and called me “old school”.  Old school?  Really?  He is two years, eleven months, and one day younger than I am.  Was there a technological revolution in the late ‘70s that I somehow missed?  Somewhere in the years of disco, TRS-80s, and Pong, my pathetic little mini-generation at the end of the Vietnam era was apparently left doddering in the dust with our quills and ink wells. 

          He is a conundrum, and I have finally realized why (although I had to write it out longhand to get it).  Women are not meant to marry men slightly younger than they are.  Cougars and cubs are fine – you expect him to be young and vital, and he revels in your experience and excitement (or so I’m told).  Gold diggers and sugar daddies are fine too – he’s rich, you’re gorgeous and you pretend to be dumb – everybody wins.  It is highly unfair though, at thirty-seven and thirty-four, you require a box of hair color with “maximum 100% coverage for resistant greys!” every four days, and he is despondent to find a single silver hair.  Giggly young cashiers hit on him as the bagger tells you, “Hey! My mom uses that same hair color!”  Your husband is carded while buying Nyquil and men your own age refer to you as “Ma’am”.  It’s OK though.  With a two year, eleven month, and one day longer credit history, my name appears on the house deed first.

          Old school…pfft.  I told my husband that I wanted a minivan with a rearview camera to avoid hitting things – mainly our children.  I have hit the garbage can and recycling bin more times than I care to count.  I ask this for the safety of our offspring and the taillights of the car, I said.  He told me to look behind the car as I was getting in and to strap all the kids in their car seats before backing out.  He thinks he’s so smart.

          He’s really just cheap.

          I mused aloud one day that the baseboards needed cleaning, and as my knees are past their warranty I might offer the eleven year old down the street some money to do them.  My husband gasped and choked until our five year old asked if we needed to throw him back in the lake or something.  “I don’t hire things done in my house”, he scowled indignantly.

          This is a lie.

         

He often asks when my brother and his girlfriend can babysit so that he can get some uninterrupted mommy time.  He had no issue having his father resod the backyard last year while the man was supposed to be spending his vacation with us.  He was thrilled to death when my mother sent her cleaning lady over as a surprise while I was in the hospital with baby #2. 

          OK, Captain Independent Pants.  Here’s your brush and bucket.  Good thing your knees are two years, eleven months, and one day younger than mine.

Jared Says...

So much of my funny material comes from my five year old, I'm just going to dedicate some posts to his comedy.

Tonight I insisted that he help clean up before dinner.  He poked and dawdled around, going as slowly as possible.  I got out my mother's great motivator (a wooden spoon) and laid it on the counter.  He looked up and said in shocked voice, "Oh crap....you were serious???"

Yesterday in the car we were driving home and Jared asked what he could have for a snack when we got there.  Mind you, he'd just had snack thirty minutes before at school.  I began naming things foods, and after a bit he interrupted me and said, "Hold on a minute...could you list the fruit options again?"

The Toddler Toilet Tango

            Once they are able to take more than three steps, every child on the planet whose home has indoor plumbing develops a fascination with the toilet.  Not just flushing to see and hear the great whirlpool, but to conduct scientific operations on volume, density, and what else can possibly be crammed down that funny little hole.

            My toddler has been obsessed with all things flushable since he could drag his chubby body to the bathroom.  Toilet paper was his first love, and every day was a celebration judging from the explosion of white streamers pouring out of the bathroom at any given moment.  If you visit our home and need a moment alone, you may be taken aback at the large basket overflowing with the toilet tissue that our thoughtful boy has joyously freed from the confines of its roll.  That stuff doesn’t roll back up, Martha Stewart.

            Personal products aside, toddlers seem to crave the sense of power a good flush gives them.  Our little one waddles into the bathroom ahead of you as fast as his diaper will allow.  There is no escaping him – he can sense urgency before you even know you need to go.  He would follow the Pope into the bathroom if His Holiness ever graced our humble domicile with his presence and requested a few moments of solitary reflection.  He (the toddler, not the Pontiff) stands, ready to pounce the moment he thinks you may have finished.  “ALL DONE!!” he screeches, hurling himself at the toilet before you have even a moment to consider where the giant basket of exploded toilet tissue is.  He begins pumping the flush handle, cackling like a tiny, insane madman at THE ABSOLUTE POWER!!  Young Dr. Toiletstein then often shoves on your hip, forcing you out of the way so that he can view the cyclonic extravaganza he has created.  He may step back at this point and allow you a brief moment of personal hygiene.  Be forewarned, however; he will be overseeing and engineering all waste disposal for the duration of your visit to the loo.

            Their fascination is not limited, however, to evacuation and interior decorating.  The study of flush mechanics and what will and will not pay for your plumber’s next European cruise is of top priority.  Anything is fair game.  Common items found in the bathroom such as soap dispensers, hand towels and assorted dental products are usually the first test subjects.  Feminine hygiene items are considered excellent for experimentation and generally require long term observation and testing (long term for toddlers being exactly two minutes) .  Small toy cars are inevitably next.  I personally believe that every homeowner housing a child under the age of three should receive extensive training in how to pull a toilet off the floor and removal of playdoh from copper pipes.

            By the time a parent thinks they have enough hands-on experience to qualify for a plumbing contractor license, the child flips the script and loses all interest in flushing the toilet.  Guest requests to visit the powder room result in a mad parental dash to make sure all toilets are in a sanitary condition. Bathrooms often resemble cesspools, with the now resident preschooler shocked that modern toilets come equipped with automatic flush systems.  This is the same child who, only a few years before, was the self-proclaimed Potty Nazi.

            There is only one definite in the Battle of the Bathroom.  The male of the species will never, ever develop aim or accuracy.  Ever.   Men may win medals for shooting arrows at a tiny bulls-eye half a mile away, but will never master the intricate technique of targeting a giant porcelain bowl only inches away.

Welcome to my table!

Let me preface by saying that my kitchen table (or my kitchen for that matter) looks NOTHING like this.

This is a lot closer to reality. No...not my actual table...but close...so close.

So pull up a chair, grab a soda, and shove the mail and sippy cups aside.  I've got hysterical stories, crazy pictures, funny quotes and stuff to help you laugh and relax among friends. 

This blog reflects the mentality and spirit of our family, summed up perfectly in just a few words...