He's got the look

Quick: recognize this look?

That is the look of a coonhound who just ate $17 in Parmesan and then barfed it up on an 18th century Turkish carpet, leaving it where certain people and their Kid would be sure to walk right through it.

Looks cold.

Ragged Koan

Peanuts go in, peanuts come out.
Unlike plastic jewels, which do not.

Overheard horrors

Cool. The bathroom wall is exactly the same color as the booger. That's called camoflage.

Good morning, sweet darling mommy. ACTIVATE, LUMPY!

I can't tell if the hair on the toast is mine or the dog's. Oh well.

Mommy, the neighbor up the hill says how about doing a little poo removal along the fenceline?

When you swallow barf, you always kind of let a little bit dribble on the floor. I thikn that's the law of physics.

Editor's note: it is 9.15 on a Saturday morning. If anyone is out there and knows where I live, could you perform an emergency extraction, please?

Notes to Self

1. No shade of lipgloss really looks all that great if you have black hairs sticking out from under your nose.
2. Storing all tax-related receipts and forms in a plastic bag that also turns out to contain a mustardy napkin from Subway makes paying those taxes infinitely more demeaning and horrible. Go to better restaurants in future.
3. No one can tell decaf coffee from caf coffee just by smelling it.
4. "Wocka-chicka wocka-chicka" is the most appealing sound effect of all time--but is not for every occasion.
5. Don't agree to participate in business-related conference calls when Kid has breakfasted on raisins.
6. Do not take it personally when Kid insists you are not a genius at all, just a Crazy Old Woman. Which, coincidentally, spells "COW."
7. Wearing the antique gin bottle tag as a necklace gives people the wrong idea.
8. Always, always check seat of pants for pervy HoneyNut Cheerios.
9. Putting a Lightning McQueen towel over the bedroom mirror does not mean that you no longer look like a sausage in your bathing suit.
10. Some people have long memories. Best to avoid them.

World Victim Finals

Starting to notice: Kid is seriously invested in being a victim. Give him 11 Easter eggs, and he'll complain that only 8 of them are in red foil and surely this is because he is being ripped off on purpose. Give him a glass of milk and he'll note that yesterday's milk was colder and that this isn't fair. Give him a hug and have it pointed out that your glasses have "bashed" his forehead. There are only three Rebel troopers in his Lego battle pack, but ANDREW has four. Help him on with his socks and hear all about how you scratched his leg and could he please have a bandaid. Dad got 7 capers in his dinner and only 6 for poor Kid. He feels unloved when you ask him to please for the love of God please please brush his teeth.

Today being Easter, and me having had it to HERE with the histrionics, I thought I'd explain to him about victimhood on the world stage. As in the story of Jesus. How it ends, not how it started, which he knows all about. (The Mad Eyes brough presents but he couldn't play with any of them because they weren't toys and he had to go home from the hospital on a donkey.)

Kid, already feverish and chattering, is sitting up in his bed, hugging his knees, eyes very very large indeed, totally reconsidering his position on the Romans.

And another day of exceptional parenting draws to a close.

Another special day

See, here's how lame I am as a mom: I thought owl pellets were as bad as it was going to get.
Yesterday, Kid came home, eyes wide as saucers, with this to report:
HE HAD SEEN A STUFFED BEAVER.
(Hey, come on. That's enough.)

Yep, taxidermy day at the kindergarten.

The Perfection of the Morning

Saturday morning at the JCC pool.

We've been lined up in the locker room for 15 minutes, a rag-tag fugitive fleet of moms and squirrely children in damp bathing suits. The moms who haven't shaved in recent memory are wrapped in towels from waist to ankle. Or neck to ankle. One lady should have probably sha--but never mind. This is a story of my shame, not hers.

Within three minutes of being released, blissfully, into somewhat cool water that stands an excellent chance of dampening some high spirits, It Happens.

I should have known what the flashing green lights and the smell of rocket fuel meant.

It meant that: 16 oz of partially digested organic carrots were being launched from Kid's stomach, seeking their (almost) final destination down the front of my bathing suit.

It meant that: 11 squirrely children in damp bathing suits were evacuated from the pool. That's the word they used: "evacuated."

No one seemed to heed my reassurances that these were ORGANIC carrots and thus not to be feared. Avoided, sure, but not feared.

It meant that: 4 mothers in various degrees of inappropriate hairiness (not you, D., you're perfect) had gotten up early on a Saturday, driven through a snowstorm, shepherded their children into damp bathing suits and inched into cold water FOR NOTHING.

It meant that: I may never be able to look at carrots without recalling how they look, partially digested, nestled in my belly button.

And it was finished off with this touching scenario:

Chastened Kid sitting on changeroom bench in green frog trunks, waiting for Mommy to come back from her third shower.

"Mommy, do you still have my barf on you?"
BIG BLUE EYES LOOKING UP AT ME.
"Oh honey, don't worry, mommy's not mad."
"Just don't touch me if there's barf on you. That would be gross."