I hate today.

I should have known today was going to Suck. The kiddo wore big boy underwear to bed last night instead of a pullup. He woke up and went and used his little potty then dumped the pee into the big potty. And flushed. Thats all normal. But whats not normal is someone (husband) taking a big dump, clogging the toilet and then leaving for work. Without unclogging it. So when the kiddo flushed the toilet and it didn’t go down. He flushed again. And again. I was still mildly asleep and heard water splashing on the ground. Kiddo came running into the bathroom. “Mommy come look what the toilet did.” Ah, yes. There was a half inch of water on the floor with more spewing out from the toilet. Yeah for Tuesdays!  I went to unclog the toilet first, thinking I had shoes on, but really it was just socks. So that was awesome. Toilet water is freezing. On the bright side stepping into some freezing pee water woke me up like four cups of coffee.

My sister volunteered me to take my grandmas 35lb cat to the groomers this morning. I’m allergic to cats. My eyes swell and I break out in hives. I’m starting to think my sister hates me. I’m trying to get the kiddo dressed, since he just wants to be “nekkid” all the time. He will wear his Thomas the Train underwear and that is it. “Clothes are icky mommy. I be nekkid. FOREVER.” 30 minutes later he’s dressed. Not well. But he does have enough clothes on as to not excite any of the pedophiles lurking around. We arrive to the retirement home. My grandma is in fine form. I get her creepy fat hairball into the paper box that has two cutout holes for it to breathe and fart out of. Grandma insists on carrying it because I’m pregnant and can’t carry stuff. So she carries it. And we stop every 5 steps so she can rest. Finally I just pick it up and book it down the hallway. We were already running late. She’s yellin and rantin behind me.

The groomer convinced my grandma to get a “Lion Cut” for her cat. My grandma doesn’t understand what this means.

We leave the groomers and go to SuperCuts in the hope that my 2.5 year old will get a haircut. I made the mistake of saying he looked like a shaggy dog. 40 minutes, two tantrums and one total effing embarrassing meltdown later he had not even sat in the chair. He wanted to remain a ’shaggy dog’ We walk out into the parking lot.

I’m opening the back door to the Explorer and the kid starts to dart off into the parking lot. “Stop! Get your butt in the car and put your straps on.” I say in my very stern-mommy-means-business-tone. The kiddo stops, walks closer and shakes his head no at me. I pick him up and put him in the car. “I want my orange!” he screams. I say, “No. You didn’t get your haircut. Oranges are for boys that get their hair cut.”  I get that to an outsider it might have sounded like I was withholding food, but we use oranges like other parents use candy.  I get him buckled in and shut the door.

Then I hear it.

From about five empty parking stalls down.   “You’re a bad parent and shouldn’t treat your child that way.” I look around and see the lady with the bad perm sitting in a run down landscaping truck.
“Me?” I was totally and absolutely caught off guard.
“Yes, YOU. Thats inexcusable, how would you like to be treated like that?” She responds.
Still dumbfounded I respond with, “Are you talking about the way I parent my child?”
“Yes, I feel sorry for your child. You’re a bad parent.” I was completely caught off guard, and speechless. I’m never speechless. The best I could do was,  ”You haven’t been around for the past hour. You don’t know me.” I was trying to explain myself to someone that I didn’t need to explain anything to.
“That’s no excuse. You’re a terrible parent and you should be reported.” Then I got angry, still speechless. But angry. I called her a psycho. A flippin psycho to be exact. She pulled out her phone, I got in my car while she got out of hers. I started to back up as she was repeating into the phone my license plate. I left.  Here is what my grandma says to me. Because she loves me and could see I was incredibly upset. “Geezus Lindsey. You’re going to start a riot. These people carry guns.” Tears are rolling down my face. “Are you trying to get us shot Lindsey? Thats all we need now.”  She continued on about how the world is uncivilized and I’m trying to get us all killed. I silently cried all the way to my grandmas retirement home to  drop her off. Her idea of comforting me when I still hadn’t stopped crying was “Pull over at the grocery store I’ll buy you roast.” What do you think Christmas is like around my house?

I bawl. Bawl. It has been a long, long time since I’ve cried like I have today. And this was the first time the kid has ever seen it. Immediately he starts in, “It’ll be ok mom. I’ll get my haircut. Mommy, I want my haircut. No sad mommy.” Which of course made me want to cry more.

Why am I so upset and so worked up over what some lady that looked to be a lost member of the breakfast club, said to me? I honestly have no idea.

A few theories though;

1. I was jealous of her because I always wanted to tease my hair with 2 bottles of Aqua Net and be brave enough to show myself in public.
2. I’m tired of defending the way I raise my child. I know I do things different than the norm, I get that. My kiddo doesn’t have 90% of the vaccinations ‘required.’  I’ve been putting him in time out since he was 10months old. I let him eat candy. He buys scratch tickets out of the vending machine while I do self-checkout at QFC. Something that’s apparently illegal but the checkout ladies get the biggest kick out of him counting dollars and taking ten minutes to ponder which ones to buy, they let it slide.
3. I’m pregnant and anything can set me off, like Progresso Soup commercials, that airplanes were wishes song or goodness forbid those poor mop commercials where the Swiffer wet jet is a homewrecker

I’m pretty sure it was number 2, but I did just shed a slight tear thinking of that poor dirty mop.

My kid was starting to become really worried about his mommy. He kept saying “I love you TOO much mommy! Don’t be sad. I make mommy happy. I get my haircut. Be happy mommy. It’ll be ok.” I start to feel really bad. Not that I’ve sheltered my kid from my emotions but I have definitely edited what he sees. If I have a little sad breakdown moment like having a flashback of my brother, I’ll hide in the bathroom a minute or hold it back. Same with if I’m super angry or stressed out. This was different though - and the kid knew it.

But - and maybe this speaks volumes to my parenting ability - I totally capitalized on my emotional breakdown and my son’s willingness to get his haircut. We drove to a different salon, he sat in the chair, and let the lady buzz, snip, comb and shave his head. I’m extremely proud of him. I think that was his first totally selfless act. He sat there still while his eyes were screaming “See how much I flippin love you? This lady is buzzing and cutting and it’s scary and I hate it, and you know I hate it, but I’m doing it because I love you mommy.”

He then got down from the chair and peed on the floor.

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First let me start off  with a biggest, most awesome CONGRATULATIONS to Miss. Sarah (@gksarahj5) She popped out her beautiful little boy - natural - and he was 9lbs! Congrats Mama

Now lets talk about my evil sister. Her name is Meghan. Normally she does really awesome things for me, like bring me Starbucks. However yesterday was not one of those days. It started out like one of those days. She stopped by to see if I wanted to head up to her rental house, then head over to Sonic for a Cherry Limeade. Don’t need to ask a preggers twice about their delicious cherry limeade.

She has a house that she owns with her ex. That should paint a clear picture without having to go into any details about why the renters have moved out. (But I’m sure you can guess it’s due to his douchebaggery.)

Meghan unlocked the door and went in. I was walking Piddy Poo up the walk when I caught a whiff of the house. “Geezuz, what is that smell?” I ask.
“We shut the power off 3 weeks ago and I think he forgot they forgot to clean the fridge out.” The fridge is black with french doors and bottom slide out freezer.  She opened the doors and the fridge was cleaned out except for mustard bottles, mayonnaise jar and other random condiments. The smell was so foul, so repulsive, it was obvious it was not coming from the fridge. It was more likely that something had rolled around in its own feces and Limburger cheese, died, then someone else stomped upon it with rotted gangrene feet, then was left to bake in sweltering heat for 3 weeks.

Then she pulled open the freezer. Can you guess what I saw next?

A gigantic plume of Stink floated up much like the atom bomb when detonated. Now it took a second for it to register what exactly happened. We looked at each other, paused, booked it outside and threw up. Thats right we puked up our lunches. I threw up mac n cheese and Megs heaved out her Big Mac and Fries. It was disgusting. Not the puke, the freezer. No, no, the smell of puke was a welcome breath of stink. Never again will I gag at the smell or sight of raunchy puke.

We create a plan of action which consisted of leaving all the windows and back door open, heading to Wal Mart for febreeze, bleach and other things associated with a Do It Yourself haz-mat suit. After that we headed to Sonic for the happy hour half priced Cherry Limeade. That is after all what got me into this mess. Megs gets a burger and I get some cheesy tots. We grab the kid a green apple slushie. Head back to the house.

While I’m getting the kid out of the carseat, Megs headed into the house to get all set up. I was making my way up the walk when I hear Meghan yell “We got a bigger problem.”
“Bigger than that ‘effing smell?” I start to hear buzzing. Her front bay window covered in black.
“That’s the bigger problem.” Flies. Thousands of them. Literally Thousands. Buzzing through the house in every window.

We walk in the house. Three of the houseflies (named Harry, Hitler and Hilda) immediately attacked Megs. She went running back outside. I followed, the smell had not dissipated but only grew more pungent. I threw up again. Then Meghan threw up.

My haz mat suit consisted of rubber gloves and shoving wadded up toilet paper in each nostril, then a dish towel wrapped around my face and secured with a pony tail holder. This was our plan;  We alternate who holds the bag and who throws the rotted out food in the garbage bag. We only fill each garbage bag half full so we can get a good launch when we throw it in the neighbors yard.  Why the neighbors yard? For Two reasons, 1. We are awesome like that. and 2. the power was shut off, the garbage man wasn’t coming either. I did the first round of putting the crap in there. Then I took a breath. I started puking - mind you I had the dishtowel wrapped around my face, so I’m literally puking into myself, inhaling my own vomit. Ahh, Good Times, Good Times Indeed.

Its now Megs turn to put stuff into the bag. I bet you can’t guess what happened next!

Did you guess that a whole Tyson fryer chicken exploded out of the bag due to the decomp gasses it created during the last 3 weeks? If you did, you must have had this happen to you before. If not, imagine the kind of funk that flies out of a chicken carcass. Megs yells “I can’t do this”  and turns around and runs outside, probably to puke some more.

So I Do It. Yup, I packed up the gaseous bloated Tyson chicken.

I even launched it over the fence to the neighbors yard.

Once everything was out, now came to cleaning the liquid. At the bottom. Because when things were once frozen, like ice cream, when it warms it melts. And molds. Science can be such a bitch. Megs helped a little bit, and when I say helped I mean she laid down a garbage bag and a towel on top. I used a mop to squeegee the brown gray moldy liquid onto the towel. Megs would periodically check on me and say things like “You’ve dealt with dirty diapers for two years. You can do this!” or “You have a higher tolerance for nasty!” Were these words of encouragement or was she just making herself feel better for puking every 3 minutes while I, 18 weeks pregnant, mopped up the mold?

I dumped a half gallon of  bleach and used hand towels to wipe out and scrub the stubborn spots. I was really trying hard not to make the fatal mistake of breathing through my nose, so I inhaled a fly. Probably Hilda. But Seriously. In my mouth it flew in and did God knows what in there. Oooh, Interesting Sidenote: That chicken ruptured from all the bacteria in the carcass farting. I find fun tidbits like this out by having know it all friends who hold weird degrees like biochemical engineering.

We threw the mop and all the towels in the neighbors yard as well.  Then headed off to Lowes to pick up some fogger to kill the now millions of flies.

I’m the best sister ever.

EVER.

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Aghh, Mothers Day. The one day a year where mom is appreciated and worshiped for all her hard work.

On Mother’s day, I’ve realized that there are two types of Moms. The one’s that want to spend the day with their kids and the ones that don’t. Guess which category I fall into? I love my little piddy poo with all my heart, but just ONE day - no diapers, no cooking, no cleaning, no entertaining - I just want to be lazy and drink lattes.

My Mothers Day started with the kiddo throwing a scone at my head yelling “Happy Mommy Day!” Never mind, it was 7:30am. Thank goodness his daddy was holding one of the most beautiful triple grande whole milk caramel lattes I had ever seen. yumm.

Then it was Prime Rib at the retirement home with grandma and the rest of the family. Overcooked roast beef, squishy asparagus and rock hard mashed potatoes. And as unpleasant as that was, it could have been worse. Well better, but I would have had to cook and clean up the mess. Which I’m pretty content with some mushy food. If I don’t have to cook, clean and the hubby didn’t make it. The last thing we needed was hazmat making a trip to the house. again.

All in all it was a good day.

I redid my blog and linked it to my twitter and facebook. Not sure how I feel about that. I really like keeping parts of my life compartmentalized. I don’t think I spelled that right, but there is no little red squiggly line underneath it.

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The hubby is having baby fever. He wants a baby, like yesterday. I must admit its pretty damn cute to have the hubby obsess over having a new little one. Because, let’s be honest here, the first one wasn’t exactly planned. It became known as “Oh Shit Surprise of 2007.” The hubby and I didn’t really focus on the excited “We’re having a baby,” it was a terrifying thought. He focused more on the “Oh shit, we’re having a baby.” while I focused on the “Oh Shit, I have to shove what through where?” part of it.  But we did it. Pretty well in fact. I did it natural - as in - I shoved my little 8.8lb watermelon through my va-jay without an epidural. The doctor gave me a mild anxiety pill, a couple steps down from a valium. Just enough to keep me from going into a full blown panic attack and choking out the hubby for impregnating me.

We’ve been talking about it for a couple months and I finally decided to not start ‘trying,’ so much as just giving up birth control. Just letting it happen. Actually planning to get pregnant scares me. We did so great without planning on it, I don’t want to break that mold. So here we are the first month birth control free. I’m hoping that if and when I get knocked up it will be after the World Cup. That ends July 10th. There is nothing more that I love than drinking Guinness at 7am watching some 3rd World country upset a superpower. Sidenote: Ghana, this is your year.

It’s really different getting to not plan a planned pregnancy. I guess I’ve spent so much of my baby-makin life trying NOT to get pregnant that now, it feels like I am breaking the rules by actively planning on having an unplanned pregnancy. Who am I kidding? This is obviously a planned pregnancy. But planning a pregnancy is scary. Especially now that I know how the whole preggo thing works. There is constipation, heartburn, uncontrollable mood swings, forgetfulness, fatigue, uncontrollable mood swings twice as bad as previously mentioned, backaches, swollen feet, weight gain, and that beautiful amazing moment when your hubby looks at you wide eyed because  the hormones have taken over all rational thought and behavior. Lets just say that after that day at Babies R Us, I was forcibly kindly asked never to return. The hubby also hid all the knives and scissors in the house.

The first time around the hubby didn’t understand why I had to eat 7lbs of oranges at 3am. This time he is excited to go to the store, buy ten pounds of oranges and peel them all for me at 3am on a work night. I’m serious. He is excited for me to start bawling for twenty minutes at a Johnsonville Bratwurst commercial. And not just to laugh and mock me either. He is excited to be that “Excited We’re Having A Baby!” type of person, that him and I both really missed out on the first time around.

Yes, I feel this has all the makings of a romantic comedy horror film.

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When the kiddo first started talking I was so ecstatic. I was thrilled. He would finally be able to tell me what he wanted, when he wanted. At least that’s what I thought. Yea, I know you’re laughing right now. Blame it on new parenthood ideas. My friend has a 7month old and she is so excited for her baby girl to start talking. Ahh, the good ole’ days.

I’ll admit, when the kid started talking it was hilarious. When he would say “Cracker” and it sounded like ‘Crack Whore.’ He was at my dad’s house for the weekend and came back saying ‘Butthole’ which was ‘backhoe.’ He still hasn’t quite got the ‘K’ down yet either. The hubby and I like to have the kiddo say things like ‘My backhoe dirty’ or ‘Daddy has a big backhoe’ and of course my favorite “Cracker likes the Backhoe.’ It’s the simple things that make us smile. It also makes up for the moments when he just won’t shut up. Like tonight out at dinner.

Damn you family friendly restaurants with quarter candy machines at the entrance. Here is how our entire dinner went, over and over and over:
“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Candy Please.”
“After dinner sweetie, but only if you behave” Whatever, my kids been eating candy before he had teeth. It’s not like you haven’t questioned my parenting skills before.
“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy Now. Mommy, Candy Now Please. Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Money for Candy, Mommy, Candy Now Please. Money Now Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Money Now Candy Now, Mommy Please.”
“No. No Candy before dinner.” I say.

I just remember back to when he would just cry for what he wanted and I would pretend I knew what he wanted. It was so easy then. Those were the good ole’ days. Because even now, with him talking, if I respond with something he doesn’t like, he just cries anyway. It’s so much more acceptable to be in public with an infant crying, than a toddler screaming “Caaaannnndddddyyyy Mooooooooooooooommyyyyyyy.”

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