Category Archives: Kids

That’s Some Loud Underwear You’ve Got There

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Yay! I got another article published at The Shake.

I should post it on my blog.

But wait.  I just posted yesterday.  I should wait a day or two before posting this one.  I’m bad enough about updating regularly – I should spread the love out.  If I start posting twice in one day, they’ll think I’m on some kind of writing spree, and get all spoiled.

I’ll wait a day.  Yeah, that’s a good idea.

And then I’ll write a really interesting intro, so it doesn’t feel like I’m just sending them a link and shooing them away.

Except…. Oh, geez.  SQUID!  THE YOGURT IS NOT FOR FINGERPAINTING THE DOG.  GROSS.  You either eat it or you put it on the counter….NO.  I MEANT EAT THE YOGURT IN THE CONTAINER, NOT LICK IT OFF THE DOG.  STOP.  I’m not joking, little man.  STOP, RIGHT NOW, OR YOU’RE GONNA PUT YOUR NOSE IN THE CORNER UNTIL YOU’RE 20.

Has he stopped?

Nope.

If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to put a kid in the corner.

Edit:

I did a little more research and discovered that the undies I wrote on was a marketing prank done by a feminist group to raise awareness of how sexist Victoria’s Secret underwear is…. which, the more I think about it, just makes it seem even sillier.

I actually researched it before I wrote about it, but I didn’t do a good enough job. BAD, Becky. Bad. Go get the Cone of Shame.

Also, I’m bummed, because I missed the chance to make fun of the angry feminists instead of Victoria’s Secret. Boo.

Ah, well.  It was a good lesson to learn.

Thanks, DragonMonkey.

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I don’t have a lot of pictures of the boys and me.

Oh, I have a lot of pictures of the boys.

And I have a couple pictures of me.

But I don’t have a lot of pictures of the three of us.   As the person who is usually behind the camera, it’s just one of those things.  So when my friend offered to take a picture of us with her cell phone, I was actually pretty happy. 

Sure, her cell phone didn’t have the highest quality resolution, but who cared?  Slightly blurred has always been my best look.

When she showed me the picture on her cell phone, I was delighted. Awesome!  Finally, a decent picture with my two boys.  We were all wearing clean clothes, all three of us were looking at the camera – perfect.   Visions of a new Facebook profile picture danced in my head.

I asked her to send it to me, and she did.

And then I saw the picture.

I mean, I’d seen it on her tiny cell phone screen, but this time I really saw it.

I have no idea what is going on with the DragonMonkey in this pic.  I really don’t.  All I know is that it appears picture-taking ability seems to be hereditary, and poor DragonMonkey seems to have ended up with the short end of genetic stick.

Neat!

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The Shake (an online Australian magazine) published one of my articles.

COOL.

It makes me feel like a legit writer, or something.

Anyways, you can go read it here:

Click here to read about animal sex, because I’m classy like that.

Also, in the spirit of “it’s my blog and I feel like bragging on myself”:

Guess who had a bright red face and cried when she crossed the finish line of her first 10k last Saturday?

I didn’t even puke afterwards, although there were a few minutes where it was touch and go. 

I said as much to the bake sale lady while I was sipping water, trying to calm down, and the look on her face reminded me that I really need to find a way to get better at small talk.

Anyways, I went for a nice, slow run today (and by slow I mean that the DragonMonkey leaned his head back at one point and asked if he could get out and walk beside the stroller) and realized that one day I may even be crazy enough to try a half marathon… or at the very least a Ride and Tie event.

Maybe I’ll even learn how to cross the finish line without bursting into happy tears.

Ignorance is Bliss

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About two weeks ago we put away the step stool which was in front of the boys’ bathroom sink.

It seemed a logical decision. While the stepstool’s original purpose was to help The Squid and The DragonMonkey wash their hands, they were only using it for evil.

We figured it was easier for us to lift them up a couple times a day to wash their hands than to constantly supervise their every movement whenever they disappeared around the corner. 

We thought it was a good plan.

Yeah… uh, no. 

It wasn’t. 

For the past week, several times a day, The Squid has been running up to me and boasting about the fact he has clean hands.

“Hey, Ma!  I clean hands!  I  clean hands!” 

And you know what? He was right.  He did have clean hands…. which should have clued me in that something was wrong.   The Squid is, without equal, the filthiest child I’ve ever met. 

Here is a picture of him I took at 9:05 in the morning a few days ago.  This picture was taken less than 10 minutes after I took him out of the shower:

“Squid!  What have you been doing, eating dirt?!”
“No, Ma.  I no eat dirt.  I lick dirt.  Lick the nummy dirt.”

In retrospect, I should have known.

I should has known there was a creepy reason for his hands to be clean, and I should have asked him why he felt it was necessary to keep mentioning it to me. 

Alas, I didn’t figure it out until today.

Today.

Today, when I rounded the corner…. and then stopped dead as I saw The Squid leaning over into the toilet, scrubbing his hands industriously.

And that’s when I realized it.

He wasn’t forgetting a verb in his sentence.  He hadn’t been saying “I have clean hands” all those times.

He meant exactly what it sounded like – he had just finished “cleaning” his hands.

Only the last I checked, scrubbing your hands in toilet water several times a day…

in the same toilet your older brother uses…

the same older brother who consistently refuses to flush after he pees….

Well….

Well, that’s the exact opposite of clean.

“I clean hands!  Ma, look!  I clean hands!”

When I think of all the times I touched his hand this past week, or shared a bag of popcorn with him, or all the other million ways I touched those hands….

Ignorance was bliss.

It was an unsanitary, peaceful bliss.

Why I Need a New Grocery Store

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What the lady behind me in line at the grocery store said: “Wow, that is a lot of boys!” 

What I thought:  Wow.  I never thought about it, but it does kind of look like all four of them are mine.  I mean, the other two boys I’m babysitting are 2 and 4 years old, just like mine, but they’re so much taller that it makes them seem like they’re older. 

Geez, what if I wasn’t just babysitting?  What if they were all mine?  Could I even handle four kids?  I doubt it.  Having two is exhausting enough.  How would I handle four?   I mean, we’ve got the bedroom space for them, but it’d be awful.  And poor Squid would become a middle child, and he seems like the kind of kid who would really rebel in his teen years if he was a middle child. 

Oh, crap, if they were all mine I’d probably have to get a minivan, wouldn’t I?  And I’d have to sell my new Scion, and I really like that car. 

Oh, crap.  She said something, didn’t she?  She looks like she’s waiting for a response.

What did she say?

Oh, yeah.  She said, “That’s a lot of boys!” 

I should say something back. 

What do I say in response?  If I say “Yeah!” then it makes it sound like they’re all mine, and what if I bump into her for some reason a couple months down the road, and she thinks I have four kids, and prides herself on remembering, and then I have to correct her in front of everyone, and it embarrasses her…

I wonder if she’s just commenting on the amount of boys… or does she really think they’re all mine?  Do I look like the kind of person who has four kids?  Great.  Now I feel old.  Who the heck even has four kids in a row like this?  I mean, aside from the Duggars.  How many do they have now?  It’s in the twenties or somethings, I think. Those people are crazy.

Geez.  Life with four kids.  That would be crazy.  It would have to be on purpose, wouldn’t it?  I mean, you can’t have four “mistakes” in a row, can you?  Sure, I didn’t get pregnant on purpose with my two, but that’s still kind of understandable.  Two mistakes is sort of reasonable, although it’s still a little embarrassing.  Four mistakes?  Heck, once you even hit three “oops” pregnancies, let alone four, that’s not mistakes, that’s just being irresponsible.  

Shoot.  She’s still looking at me, and I haven’t answered.  What do I say?  This is getting awkward.  Just say something, Becky!

What I replied:  Oh, they’re not all mine.  Four kids?  I’m not that irresponsible!

What my cashier said, in a very cold voice:   I have four children.

And now you all know why I’ll be driving to the next town over to do my grocery shopping from now on.

A Mother’s Pride

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<overheard while the DragonMonkey plays quietly with trains> 

“Gordon, would you please help me with my impo’tant job?  Thank you, Gordon.”

a little later…

“Yes, please… please help me back on tracks… Oh, no!”  I hear a soft clatter.  “Oh, no, Gordon!  You make all the trains fall off the track!  Please, would you please be more careful?”

The play continues, and after a bit I  hear the gentle sound of trains falling yet again….

“Please get back on the track and be more careful, Gordon.  You please be more careful with your job, and please don’t make all the other trains sad.  Please, Gordon?  Would you please help us, and be nice?  Thank you so much, Gordon.  Thank you.”

Awww… listen to him.

This.  This is why I fight so hard, all day long, trying to instill manners and sweetness into my kids.  This is worth all the fits at the grocery store, and all the times in the corner, and all the headaches and frustrations… this right here.  Tangible evidence that my hard work is actually paying off.

“Uh, oh, Gordon.  You made all the engines go off the track again.  Would you please be more careful with your trains and engines?”

I smile proudly.  I can picture it so clearly – the quiet, peaceful scene he is imagining, all the little Thomas the Train engines chugging along like reliable little engines should – lending each other compassionate assistance when they mess up.

“No?  You not want to be more careful?  Well.  Okay, then.”

<violent clatter>

“I’m sorry, Gordon, but you not being more careful.  Now I crash you… and squish you… and hit you… and make you dead.”  Each pause is punctuated by another harsh clatter as Gordon is punished for his crimes.

“Now I make you bleed, and I not take you to the hospital…..”  A pause, as he thinks about that one for a moment, then his voice returns, with a new enthusiasm.  “Yes, I take you to the hospital… I hit you and crash you and I make you bleed…and you go to the hospital and they give you biiiiig needles.  Very big needles.  All over you.  You are gonna bleed, and then you gonna have big needles all over you.” 

Another pause, and then a regretful, “I sorry, Gordon, you not want to help other engines. Now you all bloody and squished and you die.”

I think I’ll just blame it on the TV.  I must have missed that episode:  Thomas & Friends and their visit to the KGB.

How To Give Yourself Writer’s Block

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“Mama, Squid’s bleeding.”

And he was – sitting there calmly on the side of his bed, bleeding and laughing, his teeth stained an eerie red, with the entire side of his room coated in a layer of blood. It looked like a scene from Dexter.

“Holy crap… are you okay? DragonMonkey, how the heck did this happen?!”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I stomp on Squid’s nose with my foot to make him laugh.”

“Again?! Again, DagonMonkey? Hahahahaha…Kick me again!”

****

“MAMA!  Squid is throwing the kittens’ poo-poo all over the toy room again!”

****

“MAMA!  Squid made Artemis all white with baby powder again, and now it’s everywhere!”

****

“Mama!  You need to get outta the shower – I tried to count the chicken eggs but they all fell off the counter and I’m sorry and they broke and now Artemis and Squid playing in the mess and it is everywhere. Please help.”

****

“MAMA!  Squid trying to get Artemis to chew the TV cord and it’s gonna burn her and she’s gonna die, and then I’m not gonna have a puppy, and please hurry up going poo poo or we gonna have a fire!”

****

“Mama, Squid opened the dishwasher again and he got a big knife and he won’t give it back to me.”

****

McDonald’s BBQ sauce is borderline impossible to get out of a carpet.  So is oil.  And a quarter pound of bacon grease.

****

If you dump apple juice on the ground and walk on it, you can make sticky footprints EVERYWHERE 😀 😀 😀 

****

“Mrs. Becky!  DragonMonkey and Squid are throwing books and breaking things and they won’t stop, no matter how much I tell them to.”

****

“Mama, Squid bit me!”

****

“Mrs. Becky, Squid bit me!”

****

“Mrs. Becky, Squid bit my brother, and then when DragonMonkey told him to stop, he bit DragonMonkey!”

****

“Mama, Squid’s eating the dog food again!”

*****

“Maaaa, D’agonMonkey hiiiiit meeeee…….”

*****

“Mama, I sorry I color the walls and your jacket and my book.”

*****

“Mama, I sorry we chew up the library book.  I sorry you have to pay lots of money to the library man to buy the book.”

*****
*****
*****

My book revolves around a woman trying to do whatever is necessary to keep custody of her three year old boy.

The thing is, the only time I have to write is at 9 o’clock, after I put my little monsters in bed…. and by the time 9 o’clock rolls around, the last thing in the world I want to do is pick up my laptop, open my writing software and immerse myself in a world where I have to take care of another kid, even if it’s a fictional three year old.

I swore to myself I’d have my rough draft done by the end of January, and be ready to submit it by mid April.

The thing is, every time I open up a chapter and start writing I begin actively daydreaming about having my main character just give the kid back to his dad and drive off into the sunset, never to return.

Since that’s the antithesis of the entire book, it’s not exactly something I can just fold into the storyline.

And that’s how I gave myself writer’s block. 

Mental note to future self:  make the next story about freedom and lack of responsibility and sleeping in and horses, so it’s a place to escape to, not escape from.

Who the Heck is Michael?

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“Miiiiichael!  Michael!  Miiiii—iii-iiiiiichaaaaaaeeeeeelllllll…..”

“DragonMonkey, who are you calling?”

“I calling Michael, Mama.  I need him get me some more toilet paper.”

Um.  Michael?  Okay, now I’m curious. “Uhhh, would you like me to get you some toilet paper?”

“Yes, please, Mama.”

“Here you go….. and DragonMonkey?  Who is Michael?”

“Michael’s your brother.  MICHAAEEEEELLLLL…..”

“DragonMonkey – I don’t have a brother named Michael.  Who is Michael?”

“Michael’s your brother, Mama.  Michaaeel.  MIiiiichaaaeeel, where are you?”

“Miii’ael.  ‘ere are you?”

“Look, DragonMonkey, now you’ve got your brother calling for this imaginary person.  Is this an imaginary friend or something?  Because, honestly, you’re creeping me out.

“No, he’s real.  Miiiiichael.  Come here!”  The DragonMonkey runs around the corner at top speed, in search of Michael.

“Miii’ael!  ‘mere!” echoes the Squid, following in his footsteps.

We don’t have any Michaels in our family.  I checked his preschool roster – nope.  No Michaels there, either.

Dude.  Who the heck is Michael?

It’s Been a Long Week

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“Come wipe my butt!  RIGHT NOW!”

“Young man, you do not talk to me in that tone of voice.  Apologize right now.”

“I’m sorry I rude, Mama.  Would you please come wipe my butt, right now?”

“You don’t tell adults ‘right now’.  You’re a kid.  You don’t order people around, DragonMonkey.  And no – you wipe your own butt.”

“EWWW.  Poopoo is so gross.  YOU WIPE IT.”

“No.  I’m not doing it.  You’re four years old.  You wipe it.”

“No!  I don’t want to.  It’s gross.  Eww.  Ewww, eww, ewww.”

Disconcerting pause.

“Eww.  Come see.  Come see, Mama.  Eww.”

“No.  I have no desire to come in that bathroom.  You’re four.  You wipe it.  You’re not a baby any more.”

“Wiiiipe my bu-u-u-u-u-tt…. Wipe it!  Please, come look at my butt and wipe it!”

“Here, I’ll make you a deal.  I will come in there and wipe your butt–“

“YAAAAY!”

“Don’t interrupt. I wasn’t finished.  I will come in there, and wipe your butt, but when I am done, I am going to spank it.”

“NO!  NO SPANKING!”

“Then wipe your own butt.”

“No.  I have an idea. You just come wipe my butt, but no spank it.  Does that sound like a good idea?”

“No, DragonMonkey, it does not sound like a good idea.  You have two choices:  Wipe your own butt, or have me wipe it, and then give it two spanks.”

“No, mama… NOOOO.  It buuurns…  Oh, it buuuuurns… owwww… poopoo….  It so ewww… it buuuurns…”

“DragonMonkey, you’re not the Wicked Witch of the West, and that’s not water.  It’s poo.  It’s just as gross for me as it is for you – you wipe it.”

“I ca-a-a-a-an’t… I’m too sick to wipe it…..”

“If you’re too sick to wipe it, then that means you have to spend the rest of the day in bed – right after I go in there and wipe it, and give you the two spanks.”

“No!  I not sick!”

“Then don’t lie – you know the policy on lying in this house.”

Long silence.

“DragonMonkey?  Are you done?”

“COME WIPE MY BUTT, PLEASE, OH, PLEASE….”

“No.  I’m not getting into this habit again – you perfectly capable of wiping your own heiny.”

“Bupt?  Bupt, Ma?  Bupt?”

“NO.  IT’S MY BUTT, SQUID.  MY BUTT!  YOU DON’T SAY BUTT.  I SAY BUTT.”

“BUTT!  BUTT!  BUTT BUTT BUTT BUTT BUTT BUTT BUTT!”

“DON’T SAY BUTT!  ONLY I SAY BUTT!  ONLY I ALLOWED TO SAY BUTT!”

“BUTT!  BUTT!  BUTT!  BUTT!  BUTT!”

“MAMA!  SQUID SAYING ‘BUTT”!  HE NOT ALLOWED TO SAY BUTT.”  Pause.  “COME WIPE MY BUTT, PLEASE.”

It’s 2:11 pm.  I have 8,000 more words to write by tomorrow evening in order to finish NaNoWriMo in time.

My boss gave me over an hour of EMERGENCY-OH-MY-GOSH-GET-THIS-TO-ME-ASAP complicated dictation that I can’t do until the kids take a nap.

My four-year-old is currently in stink-bug position in the bathroom, gross little heiny pointed at me.  We’re at a standstill in negotiations – it’s like that really cool scene in a Western film where the two cowboys face each other from opposite ends of the street, waiting to see who draws first… only it’s less tumbleweeds and shiny pistols, and more screeching and feces.

In other words, it’s not nearly so cool.

My one-year-old is still racing around the house, screaming “BUTT!” at the top of his screechy little lungs.

Happy Thursday, everyone.

Performing for an Audience

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Dear DragonMonkey,

Mornings are nice, aren’t they?

Your daddy and I think so, too.  Sometimes, mornings can be very, very nice.

Anyways, I have a little favor to ask:

The next time you wake up super early, can you make a little more noise?  I appreciate that you are trying to be quiet so you don’t wake The Squid up, but once you’re downstairs can you…. I dunno… announce your presence a little louder?

Sometimes when I, uh, hug your Dada, I get a little distracted and I don’t always notice you opening the door to my bedroom.

It has come to my attention that I also don’t notice it when you cross the room and climb up onto our extra big king-size bed.  What can I say?  Sometimes your Dada can be very distracting, indeed.

So, to help your poor old Mama out, can you please, please, pretty please make a little more noise?

It’s a little disconcerting to be in the middle of, uh, hugging, only to see something out of the corner of my eye, turn my head sideways, and see you a little over a foot away from my pillow, staring silently with wide eyes.

Actually, scratch that.  It’s not disconcerting.  It’s creepy.  It’s creepy as heck, and I’m pretty sure that image is going to be burned in my head for the rest of my life.  To be honest, I’m not sure who needs more psychological help at this point – you or me.  

It really didn’t help that you’ve taken to sleeping in your underwear – you looked like the world’s tiniest little pervert, kneeling there in your skivvies, silently watching us.  

Please, kid, for the love of all that is holy – please, just make a little more noise?

Love,

Your traumatized mother