Sandy has nothing on the natural disaster known as the mall

Last night, my girlfriend and I took our children to the mall for trick-or-treating.  At the time, it seemed like a good idea.  I was sure trick-or-treating on Halloween was going to be miserable with the rain and I wasn't about to let the boys out in that.  So, I figured some candy was better than no candy.

I was wrong.  So very wrong.

Forget the storm outside, this place was the real shitstorm.  I had never seen the mall like this for Halloween.  And I worked in the mall for years.  My girlfriend and I gave each other a look, but trudged onward anyway.  I mean, we had gotten the little people into their costumes and out into nasty weather conditions.  We were getting something out of it. 
As a public service announcement, I will inform you that mall candy sucks.  (You're welcome.)  I don't know who bought the candy for these stores, but a breath mint from your purse does not constitute chocolate Halloween candy.  Where were the snack-sized Snickers bars?  The mini Twix bars?  What was I going to take from the boys while they were sleeping??  We watched a child spit out his mint onto the (mall) floor.  And the mother?  Did nothing about it.  I guess she figured mints suck as treats, too.

While waiting in the extremely large line for our mint, we (slooooowly) passed by a convenience store.  I almost went in there to get each of the kids a real candy bar (and had about 10 minutes to contemplate).  I mean, some of these places didn't even give out mints.  They gave out stickers.  That said, "I just bought new shoes." 

And fuck you trick or treat to you, too.

Also, for our (read:  not my) entertainment, we slooooowly passed by Victoria's Secret.  The boys open-mouth stared at those images of women in their underwear for the 5 minutes we waited outside the store.  At least they got an education?  I don't know.

My brilliant husband stayed home to install a battery backup for our sump pump.  I think he got the better end of the deal.  Well played, dear husband.

The good news is that trick-or-treat has been postponed in our city until Sunday.  So, I'll the boys will get Halloween candy after all!  And you can bet I will remind my girlfriend of this experience when she suggests it again next year. 

No.  No, we won't be going. 

Kiss me, I'm drunk

Over the weekend, we went to an event our friends put on every year to raise money for Alzheimer’s.  It’s always a fun time.  It’s held at a bar during an Ohio State football game.  We hang with our friends, there’s a room in which to stash our children for the children, complete with cartoons, crafts and chicken nuggets.  We draw straws take turns checking on them every hour 20 minutes or so.  There are prizes to win, free food and drinks (well, with-purchase-of-a-ticket free) and it’s for a good cause. 

This year was no different.  The free beer was going down fiiiinnne.  The Buckeyes won the game and everyone was having a great time.  Including my favorite person, Drunk SIL!

Sober SIL is superfun, too, don’t get me wrong. But there is something about slanty-eyed, carefree Drunk SIL that just makes you want to be BFFs with her (Call me!). 

As “adults” and caretakers of little people, we try to reign ourselves in when the little people are around. But, well, since they were locked in a room having their own fun, we let our freak flags fly (at least, the non-drivers did; we still try to be semi-responsible - even when we’re acting like complete idiots).

There was a wedding held in the same building that night (we shared a bathroom). And, we noticed this superfun (as we could tell from the music) wedding had a photo booth!

Drunk SIL: Let’s take a picture!

The rest of us:
 

Then:

We loitered outside the restroom, closer to the wedding, trying to figure out how we could get in unnoticed.  After we were on the verge of being arrested a few minutes of looking stupid, we went back to our own party room.  No photo booth pictures for us. 

(Sidenote:  my girlfriend once told me her dad used to crash weddings all the time in his youth.  And I’ve seen the movie.  You’d think we’d be able to pull it off, right?  But, I guess with us in jeans and red t-shirts, we didn’t really blend.  And we weren’t really drunk enough to risk prison time.)

Alas, the evening had to come to a close.  We packed up our hopped-up-on-sugar-exhausted children and made our way for the door.  I didn’t think I was terribly drunk.  I didn’t call anyone an asshole or steal said asshole’s cigarette. 

Nonetheless, I usually run through a checklist in my mind to decide if I’m drunk.

Urge to smoke?
Drunk Lea – yes
Sober Lea – no
Saturday Lea – no

Urge to hug everyone goodbye?
Drunk Lea – yes
Sober Lea – no
Saturday Lea – yes

Pass out Fall asleep in the car?
Drunk Lea – yes
Sober Lea – no
Saturday Lea – no

Eat a lot when I get home?
Drunk Lea – yes
Sober Lea – yes
Saturday Lea – yes

By my calculations, I was only 50% drunk, which is not drunk at all.  However, after speaking to my husband the next morning, I may have to reevaluate my checklist. 

Him:  You sure were chatty last night.
Me:  Oh, God.  What did I say this time?  Did I call anyone an asshole?
Him:  You were definitely entertaining the crowd.

Gaah.  Going forward, I’m adding chatty to my list.  And if it’s yes, I’m hiding in the car until it’s time to go home.

Serves me right

A few weeks' back, we had a crappy Sunday.  It was cold and rainy and everyone was pretty crabby - kinda like today, which reminded me of this story.

On the weekends, the boys play with the neighbor kids (the 2 girls, in particular) who live behind us.  They usually play between the backyards, but, because it had been raining, the boys asked if the girls could play inside.  Of course, I selfishly said yes as I knew this would be a surefire way to have the TV to myself for an hour.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary while the girls were over.  After an hour or so, they went home and we went to dinner over my brother's house.  That night at dinner, we discussed how my niece is growing up too fast and I secretly (and out loud) said how grateful I am that I have boys instead of girls (this will be important later).   

After dinner, the boys came home, took showers, and got into bed, as usual. As I was tucking him into bed, my 5-year-old told me he had a seekwet (secret).  So, I leaned in real close as he told me the words I didn't know I was dreading to hear... until I heard them.

"(The 8-year-old) was kissing (our 8-year-old neighbor girl) behind the couch."

Me:


 Him:


Oh, crap.  I always knew this would happen.  And somehow, I always knew it would be the neighbor girl.  She's beautiful.  And?  Convenient.  But, did it have to start so soon?

I blame the hormones in our milk.  Or cable TV.

So, I dragged the 8-year-old out by his ear took the 8-year-old into our bedroom to have a little chat.

Me: You want to tell me what happened today?
Him:  With what?
Me:  With (neighbor girl)?
Him:
 
Me (waiting):  ...
Him:  Well, it's kinda hard to explain.
Me (in my head):  Yeah, I bet it is... to your MOTHER.
Me:  Well, why don't you try?
Him:  How did you find out?
Me:  Mommy knows EVERYTHING.  So just tell me what you did.
  
He then tells me that he kissed her.

And that my 5-year-old also kissed the 6-year-old neighbor.


Holy crap.  Were they having an orgy down there?  Why aren't I spying on them taking better care of these children?  Was this the first time?  Did they (horror upon horrors) do anything else?!

After a good talking to (which, by the way, was real hard to do with a straight face - don't judge me), I put the boys to bed at last.   And then sat on the steps to spy overhear their conversation make sure they went to sleep like the good little angels they are.

8-year-old:  Mom knows what happened in the basement.
5-year-old:  Yeah, I know.  I told huwa (her).
8YO:  DUDE!
5YO:  Just kidding.
Me:  (stifling laughter)
8YO:  Do you think they have some kind of video camera in the basement?
Me:  (Yes, keep thinking that.  As a matter of fact, that's a GREAT idea!) 

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be downstairs installing that video camera. 

Isn't he a little young for that?

My 5-year-old lost his first tooth this morning.

Say it with me:  Isn’t he a little young for that?

Right?  Because... well, to be fair, I have no idea how old you’re supposed to be when you lose a tooth, but it seems young to me anyway.  Of course, I thought it was early when my 8-year-old lost his first tooth the summer before he started Kindergarten.  So, what do I know? 

Maybe I’m just having a hard time with them growing older.  (Not that it has anything to do with the fact that if they’re growing older, I’m growing older, too.  I’m still in my 20s thankyouverymuch [*insert husband’s eye roll here*].)  But, I miss the younger years.  When they snuggled and pretty much believed everything I told them (I blame school for this one no longer applying).  The 5-year-old is still mine, but I’m losing my 8-year-old.  Oh, he’ll humor me with a hug or (gasp!) even snuggling through a whole half-hour TV show.  I love the age he is now, don’t get me wrong.  He understands humor and sarcasm (bless him – he is my boy); he’s smart compassionate and can wipe his own ass.  But, he calls me Mom.  And looking at pictures of him at age 2, I just get sad.

As for my 5-year-old, he still thinks I’m brilliant.  And still calls me Mommy.  And truly loves being with me.  Yesterday, he followed me around while I cleaned toilets and said he never wants to lose me.  I mean, could you just die?  I love these boys so much, I could eat them.

And dang, they are funny.  Whenever they say something particularly hilarious, I text my sister.  And, bless her heart, she has kept a running list of them.  So, in honor of my baby losing his first tooth, here are a few of his running commentary.  Enjoy!  I sure did.

(to the automatic doors):  "Thank you, doows! I'm vewy pwowd of you, doows."

"I can't wait til I can dwive by myself."  (me:  I can.)

"Mommy, thank you fow the best hot chocowate." (Forward bow)  "Thank you, youw highness."

"Mommy, don't touch my pwecious cookies!"

 (while eating ice cream): "My tongue has bwain fweeze."

Him:  "I want a snack."

Me:  "You just had a donut."
Him:  "Yeah, but this is diffewent."

I'm going to be supersad when he can pronounce cowectly.
     

Can't you just try to aim?

I try to keep a clean house.  It makes me feel good to know my family lives in a safe, healthy environment.  So, like one of my Pinterest pins told me to do, I try to do bit of housework every day.

I am fortunate enough to work part-time, so I have ample time at home each week to get things done.  And, for 2-1/2 blessed hours a week, I even get The.  House.  To.  Myself.  Before the children were school-aged, it took an act of God (or my mother's mercy - whatever you want to call it) for everyone to leave me the fuck alone for an hour of DVRd TV peace.  Now that we are given the opportunity to thrust hand over the children for someone else to deal with for a few hours a day, I can enjoy a cup of coffee without the guilt that I'm not creating some educational Pinterest crap craft with my darling children - because they're not here!!  They're actually being educated somewhere else!  It's a miracle!

The first time I was given my 2-1/2 hours, I had big ideas of using the attachments on the vacuum, cleaning out closets, washing down baseboards, exercising.  But, instead, I drank a cup of coffee and watched Love Story on cable.  And... time was up.

The second week, I was motivated.  I started the laundry early, I cleaned the bathrooms.  I went for a walk.  Around the block.  Then decided it was drizzling raining too hard, so back I went.  For another cup of coffee.  I pinned things to my Pinterest boards, I Facebook-stalked.  And... time was up.

Now my house is starting to suffer.  Because I'm a procrastinator by nature, these hours to myself are doing me no favors.  I was doing a better job keeping up the house when I had no time.

To make me feel even worse, I baby-sat for my cousin's twins this past Saturday.  His house is immaculate.  I have to believe they had just had their white carpeting replaced THAT MORNING or... I'm going to cry myself to sleep.

In my defense (read:  I tell myself so I don't jump off a cliff), their children don't move yet.  They can't possibly play catch in the family room (when they were explicitly told not to) and knock over their uncle's cranberry ginger ale.  Which is red.  All over the cream-colored chair.  Which is cream.  And carpeting.  Which is also cream.  Plus, their twins are still in diapers.  I live with 3 males and a cat.  No one knows how to pee.  In.  The.  Toilet.

It's enough to make you cry.

Instead of screaming all day long and basically being an asshole to everyone I love, I resolve to clean my house today.  Top to bottom.  I can make my carpet look new too!

As a matter of fact, I think I saw a Pinterest pin on that very subject!  I'll just look it up...

And... time is up.  Damn.

Fuuuuudge (aka Sorry Mom)

I love to swear.  For someone who doesn't do drugs or have really big hobbies, swearing is my vice.

Don't fucking judge me.

I come from a long lineage of swearers (we're very proud).  My mother?  Big swearer (and would be horrified I told people that).  She defends herself by reminding me she doesn't drop the F bomb, which, to that I say she's missing a huge opportunity.  I mean, it's the best one.  My maternal grandfather?  Also a swearer.  He moved in with us after my grandmother passed away.  I had heard some choice phrases living with him. 

Example:  The damn cat shit in my room.

Not funny.  But also?  Hilarious.

Picture an 80-year-old man with a heavy Greek accent saying that.

The dame ket seet een meye rrrrrrrroom. 

Bwahaha!

The thing about swearing is that clean words just don't pack the same punch.  My MIL was a firm believer that sometimes, only fuck will do.  And?  She was brilliant. 

The guy who cut you off? Jerk.
The co-worker who took the last donut? Fucking asshat.

Of course, having young mimicable ears around me most of my day limits my pastime.  I end up saving it all for my mommy nights out, leaving my mommy friends to rethink friendships with me (and their children's friendships with mine).  It is true I spent an entire weekend away with my cousins pontificating swear words at every opportunity.  I even decorated my weekend beer coozie with that magical word.  It was fucking cathartic.  Later, I go home and refrain from using those words until I am alone again. 

But then something large and heavy (and sometimes pointy) lands on my toe.  Or I step on a fucking Lego.  And... I'm sorry, I can't promise anything.

You have to admit (or maybe it's because I'm an asshole), it's entertaining to hear little voices spout obscenities.  I have caught my wee little ones saying some bad things over the years.  While I'm horrified those words came out of such sweet angelic faces, I can't help but giggle-cough when it happens.

Example:  When my 8-year-old was about 2 or 3, my sister asked him if he was the bomb diggity (as his teacher said he was).  His response?

No godamit (see how I made it all one word?  So it's not blasphemy?)  (See how I can justify anything?).

Or, when my 5-year-old says, "I have twicks that wiw bwow youw stinkin' mind off" or "My buttcwack says goodnight, too".

I'm going to get to know the principal very well when that kid starts fucking Kindergarten.

However, I mostly enjoy the made-up words my sister and I use.  You know, eff instead of fuck, sheet instead of shit, beach instead of bitch.  They're funny and, in turn, don't make me look like a total fucking asshole not nice person. 

And they are totally words that can pass through work email.  Wait, what?  Sheet.

The apple doesn't fall far

So, last night, I had a Mom’s Night Out with some of the other mothers from my 8-year-old’s class.  We get together once a month in order to allow our husbands special alone time with our children so they can warn, cajole, negotiate, threaten put our children to bed for the night (isn’t that nice of us?). 

We spend the first minutes regaling each other with hilarious tales of our children.  And man, they are funny kids.  We learn from each other what hot topics are being tossed around on the schoolbus (the election, duct tape).  We sometimes discuss the teachers or homework assignments.  But, mostly, we enjoy each other’s company.  It’s nice to be around people who understand this part of you. 

It’s also nice to hear things your child won’t tell you, but some of the more chatty other children will.

What?  It’s not like I’m reading a personal journal or anything. 

Last night, I learned my 8-year-old son, my boy, my first-born, is writing a book with his friend while they ride the bus to and from school. 

I cannot begin to explain what this did to me. 

For one, I am absolutely convinced that I created him all by myself.  It’s cute and all to pretend I had help from the husband, but, I think, with this one, it was all me.  He looks like me, he has my grandfather’s personality, my father’s hands and love of numbers.  And now he’s writing?  He’s mine.

My second-born, my baby, while I love him just as much, was definitely made in collaboration with my husband.  He’s received all of my husband’s good looks, his disposition, but my… snark.  He’s a great kid.

But, this writing thing...  I’ve been writing since I can remember.  I had always been an avid reader.  And, in fifth grade, I decided to attempt writing my own story.  I mean, how hard can it be?  You make up characters, setting and plot.  There’s a conflict.  Then a resolution.  Done and done.  Right?

My story itself was terrible, of course, but I liked writing it anyway. 

In high school and college, I kept journals.  I didn’t get the best English teachers available in my high school, so I didn’t really appreciate writing until my first semester in college.  I got my degree in English, with big dreams (and little ambition, drive, determination, motivation, skill…) of writing the Great American Novel. 

Eh.  I’m better with a blog. 

But, my son!  He could write the Great American Novel.  It might be about Legos or Star Wars, but who cares?  You go, kid!           

As MC Lyte said, "A party ain't a party..."

So, we had our first friend party for my now 8-year-old over the weekend.  Since this was our first friend party, I wanted it to be special.  We’ve been lucky enough the previous 7 birthdays to simply host a combined family party (both boys are born in September).  But, when my 8-year-old said, “May (yes, he said may) I please have a party with my friends this year?” how could I refuse? I mean, he used the word “may”.

I consulted my old friend, Pinterest.  I hadn’t been on Pinterest in about 6 months.  It was fun in the beginning, as all new things are, but, after a while, I grew bored.  It’s not as if I a) wore any of the outfits I pinned, b) made any of the foods I pinned, c) created any of the crafts I pinned or d) completed any of the exercises I pinned.  But, if there were ideas out there for a kid birthday party, Pinterest was going to have them.

I was not disappointed.  Pinterest is where crap goes to die.  Cute crafty crap, but crap.  What are you supposed to do with all this?  There’s.  Just.  So.  Much.  Stuff.  Thank God for the search function. 

I searched “kid party”, “Star Wars”, and “Legos” and came back with a gazillion results.  I also found supercute ideas for Halloween parties and briefly wondered we could pretend he was born in late October and have the party then or convince (read:  make) someone I know host a Halloween party that I could attend.  I’m choosing the latter. 

I came out with 6 solid ideas for games.  My husband told me I was going overboard, but since when do I listen to him?  One mother, when RSVPing, wished me luck while rehashing the horrifying tales of her child’s last birthday party.  Hey, thanks, lady!      

I thought my ideas were good.  First, we’d have the kids guess how many Legos were in the jar.  Simple.  The 5-year-old and 8-year-old counted the Legos the night before, I threw them in the jar, slapped a label on the jar with the Legos logo.  Kid with the closest guess won a prize.  Done.  Second game was a balloon game.  Object was to see how long the kid could keep up a balloon, using only his head.  This was a success.  The boys had fun, someone won a prize.  The third game didn’t go as planned.  The premise was simple enough.  Tie a balloon to each child’s ankle.  The object of the game was to pop your friend’s balloon and complete the dare inside the balloon.  The kids ran like crazy people, popping their own balloon, losing the dares.  There was no clear winner, no prize, so it was a bust sucked.

The husband and I got crafty for the next game.  Think Skee-ball, but throwing Legos instead.  We actually cut strips of colored poster board and fashioned the rings.  Go us!  This was a great game for them.  So fun, in fact, the kids played it until the game was completely and utterly destroyed.  Sigh. 

The finale was a relay race.  It involved blindfolds and crabwalking and walking with balloons between the knees.  All was going well until one blindfolded kid kept running… straight into a tree.  There was blood and everything.  And it took a minute for the adults to realize there was a casualty (it might have been the beer). 

Oh well.  A party’s not a party without a little blood, right?

All in all, I think my 8-year-old had a great time.  The party went until 11:30 (PM, people), so I’d consider that a success.  I like the parents we spend time with so it was as much a party for us as it was for the kids.

Now I just need to find someone to host that Halloween party.  I mean, we can make spiders out of Oreos!  Frankensteins out of Rice Krispies!  Cute crafty Halloween crap out of crap! 

Love that Pinterest!