PUBERTY!!

  What do you do when you realize, very suddenly, that your little girl will no longer be your little girl in a couple of years. If no sooner?

  I have, of course, been sworn to secrecy, but since her internet access is limited to what I allow her to view, I guess I can share... OMG, where to begin? Where, oh where?
  Niki has very hairy little legs, which I, for obvious reasons, do not see as a problem. She's a little girl, what does she need to be concerned with leg hair for, right? Wrong.  Apparently she is made fun of by the little boys (she has yet to realize that they actually like her, because shes cute as a button!) for having hair on her legs. So, being a concerned mom, when she complains, I shave her legs for her- on a monthly basis, ish... BUT this time, OMG!!! THIS time I look up, and there's HAIR! And I do not mean on her legs!!! She's only 9. What do I do now?

  Can I just kill myself? Or maybe, be cryo-frozen until she turns 18? PLEASE? It's only 9 more years...

A Trip To Hell

 It is 0900.... I  flip up the lid on the bench in the "foyer".... There are my Steel Toe Red Wing Boots... It's time for a trip to hell... Better be prepared... I slip them on, better double knot. This, after all, WAR. It is to be taken seriously, and prepared for appropriately, though no amount of training or conditioning can prepare one for the horrors that lie ahead.

 We refer to "Sprawlmart" (we'll use that alias lest we anger the powers that be in the Evil Empire) as "Hell". As it is the place we have nightmares about going to. Forget the 'Afterlife', we have a lot more to fear from the disgruntled customers at the said convenience shop-all.
 Aunt flow is announcing her monthly visit, loudly making her demands, bitching for this and that. Too bad she doesn't come with a mute button. *sigh* So, needless to say, I am at the mercy of the witch which has existed since the beginning of time, demanding as she is, I have no recourse other than to oblige.... I have no available option to abate her demands than to "Plug" her bitchy mouth... So, that is what I do... It is but a temporary fix.

 We park in the 13th (if I counted correctly) spot down on the left side of row 12, next to the cart return. Damon is absent as he travels through the masses with my lovely... Troy and Nikki are with me. We walk through the hell that is beauty care items, searching for something that is good for chapped lips, finding nothing but colour this, and colour that, there is so much artificial "beauty"... we decide that it is in out best interest to travel to the land of once living edibles... broccoli, garlic, avocado, zucchini, beautiful green bell peppers... Oh the joy of being an herbivore!
 On to the once living legumes and grains... The beauty of it all obscured by the carnivores cry for blood at every turn (now is the point at which I give the disclaimer that when "Quality" meat byproducts cross our paths we consume them- like venison, or fish that originated in the deep blue sea), and we see the lenth of cooler that runs from one end of the store to the other, packed with divided bits of shrink wrapped mammal carcass... Oh so sad!
 We travel through the land of boxed mixes and pre-mixed seasoning blends, and "instant" everything else (since americans have apparently lost the ability to read a cookbook, or Buddha forbid- google something!)  to acquire  raw ingredients such as whole wheat flour and dried sweet basil... I ask the clerk if they have any ground or whole "Coriander" in stock, only to receive a sideways stare from the woman. She does not even repeat the word I have spoken, likely because she has too few teeth left to properly pronounce it. I am on my own in a world of foreign product, searching for something wholesome.
  "Sprawlmart" frightens me for a number of reasons... Mainly the clientele, the scary ghetto women who will fucking sit on me with their 300 lbs worth of junk in the trunk if I DARE look at their man, effectively squeezing the life out of me with their grotesque buttocks the size of a side of beef. I'm constantly aware of my surroundings, and that I would fit much better in the middle of a Whole Foods or open air market- I'd even fit in better as an Atheist in the bible belt! (wait, that's me too!!!... Damned if I do, Damned if I don't).

 It is toward the end of out journey. Troy sits in the basket seat of the shopping cart, he is just a few feet away as I search for fruit pulp with which to begin my wine making journey (unfortunately sprawlmart no longer carries it, since it does not meet the criteria of being heavily processed, artificially colored and flavored, containing MSG, aspertame or high fructose corn syrup) as an old blue hair approaches with pinchy fingers, exclaiming "Oh what a cute little GIRL!!".... Troy appropriately responds defensively in the absence of his mother who is just out of reach, exclaiming "I NOT a girl!!!!!!" while slapping the elderly woman on the arm. She looks up at me as though I had been the one that slapped her. I simply respond by smiling. I feel no need to excuse my sons behavior since he was responding to the crossing of a physical boundary that should never have been breached.

I am not only  relieved, satisfied, and pleased but also proud of my son for knowing how to protect himself from random sprawlart attackers... He is quite the trooper, and responds with catlike reflexes to the combatant physical circumstances of WAR.

Want In One Hand....

...Shit in the other.

 We have all heard the saying at some point in our lives, unfortunately for some of us it does not truly ring home until we are confronted with the predicament of a little boys wants, paired with a hand full of shit.

 Bless it, Troy has been a trooper through all of the hell that has been the first couple years of his life. Through the abusive living arrangements with his sperm donor, to the flight for our lives (which said sperm donor denies was necessary- I am apparently crazy and imagined almost being wiped clean from the face of the earth several times), to hiding in a battered woman's shelter for 5 months after he began stalking us (and threatened to kill me), to the further migration south... In all, he has adjusted well. However, I did anticipate some developmental delays as a result of the earliest days of his life- To my surprise, there not only have been none, but he has succeeded in many, many, many attempts to prove his cognitive abilities. Too many.
 Troy enjoys taking things apart. If it has a screw in it, he will disassemble it, there seems to be no limitation to the things that he will take apart. Ranging from the ottoman, to his toy trucks and cars... He "found" a screwdriver and removed the screws from the bottom panel of his tonka truck, took out off of the dead batteries and brought them to me. Now, things like that might frighten me, had his older brother not prepared me for such situations to arise with a 30 month old child.
 Among other things, Troy has decided that it is time to use the potty, rather than standing astride his big bro, and looking at it while it is in use. It only stands to reason that given the opportunity to lead themselves, all children will self potty learn. Take away the diaper, provide a small seat (to prevent the potentially damaging experience of dipping ones ass into the cold, slippery-wet bowl of doom), show them how to "point it down!!!", and let 'em go. This worked well enough with Damon, that I figured, hey why not try it again. Well, Lo and BEHOLD!!! it worked. Big surprise, now Troy is using the potty, and only wearing diapers at night. He has had but one accident in which he did not recognize the need to visit the porcelain god was immanent, and was faced with two other options- He chose the latter of the two, which was to remove his "unerwear" (rather than making a shit pancake) and squat on the floor in the hallway, producing a very large multicolored Hershey Kiss (we're vegetarians... though there may have been some crayon in there) . The result was my lecturing that we always, always, always go to the potty! we only poop in the potty! this is ewwwy!... Now, in retrospect, I am regretting having given that little speech.
 It's about 11:30... Damon announces that he has to poop (like he always does), and treads into the bathroom to make his deposit. Moments later I hear Troy mumbling to Damon that he needs to go pee. Now, I should have heeded this warning, as he does not consistently tell me that he has to go poop, and is just a likely to say he has to pee, only for me to find him mounting the porcelain god moments later. Unfortunately, I did no such thing. I ignored him, because just as often he follows one of the older ones into the bathroom and imitates their need to eliminate, when no such immediate personal need has arisen.
 Suddenly I hear a distressed whimper, followed by shrieks of terror, or pain, or I just couldn't tell- I was highly concerned, as it was not at all the normal screechy complaint of a two year old. It was genuine, whatever it was.
 I followed the sound of the screams into the bathroom, and was not sure how to react upon entering. Should I laugh, cry, or continue standing here in an utter state of befuddlement? As it would turn out, I had no other option than to react.
 Troy was standing in the middle of the room with a large silver remote control car in his left hand, tears streaming down his face, very obviously disturbed by what had just occurred. In his upturned right hand, precariously balanced, rested a very large turd. Damon was still perched on the porcelain god,  and Troy toddled over, attempting to dump the shit in the potty behind him. Obviously repulsed by the sight of his oncoming baby brother armed with enough poo to win the shit flinging contest of the year, he swats at him... Now, in this moment I am unsure of what to do, as all I can see is this enormous putrescent tootsie roll being flung at my pretty pumpkin orange walls. As it turns out Troy reacted by tightening his grip, and my concerns were abated, though the result was the release of guttural screams not of terror, but disgust (which I had mistaken in those initial screams).
 Standing in the midst of so much shit, I was beginning to feel that a shovel may have been in order but I snapped to my senses- first wiping the residual "Doof" (is food spelled backward) from Damon's rectum, and then turning to troy, I grasped his wrist and attempted to force him to release the turd in to the mouth of the god. Unfortunately he was so disturbed by this incident that he would not release it, and it took a couple of gentle shakes of his wrist to send it soaring into oblivion. As soon as he was free of the chocolate submarine, he sighed deeply with relief and announced that "I not done poopin yet mom". So, up he went onto the appropriately sized cushy seat, and finished his deposit.
 Meanwhile I query Damon. He tells me that "Troy didn't want to poop on the floor, he said 'poop goes in a potty' and he squatted down and pooped in his hand. Mom, can you make his not do that again, it was gross." Troy, still comfortably seated, slowly shaking his head, tears streaming down his cheeks, says "Mommy, that's icky tit, icky tit mommy, icky tit. I wash my hands now?"..... "Please?"  and so, after cleaning his little chubby cherub rump, I take him to the sink and wash his hands with 1/2 a bottle of antibacterial soap, and then slather him with hand sanitizer... I'm a little OCD.

 I learned a valuable lesson about how literal my son is in his absorption and interpretation of instruction. I will never use expressions such as "There's more than one way to skin a cat" or "Want in one hand, shit in the other. See which fills up first" in his presence... lesson learned, and applied.

Peter Pockets

 As a mother of two boys, I find it incredibly interesting just how adaptable they truly are. Damon is the perfect Example; Their father (sperm donor) believes that you are not a man if you sit to pee- you are a bitch (beautiful concepts he it attempting to instill). Therefore he has taught him to urinate while standing, which in concept (like so may other things) works. It does not however, in practice, work. The result is a million tiny droplets of urine being evenly distributed on the floor, walls, and the toilet its self. So, so, so... In an effort to reduce the need for harsh chemicals to be evenly dispersed across the aforementioned surfaces, which is used in an attempt to remove the fine spray of stray winky tinkle, I thought "What IF?". The what if turned out to be having my little man SIT to relieve himself. Lo And Behold! IT WORKED. Now, out of respect while at home and using a bathroom that he shares with girls, he sits to pee. How Adaptable!

 Troy is also learning the ins and outs of the porcelain god, and how/when to utilize it properly. He is even wearing man panties all day long! He is absolutely amazed by them on an hourly basis, and feels the need to announce that he is wearing "unerwear" and can "pee ina potty!" and that he is supposed to "Point it down". I am so relieved that he is getting these concepts, and that I am not the one who is actually potty training him. His big brother is- and doing a fine job at that! (hey, he has to earn his keep somehow!).
 Every time Damon goes to the bathroom, Troy is not far behind. He is completely fascinated by the process of elimination, as is any young child who has recently discovered that when you flush the porcelain god the pee goes down the hole. As does an entire roll of toilet paper- IF you put the leading end of it in the swirling vortex the moment that it appears. The Porcelain God is magic. So is "unerwear". It has POCKETS!!!

 Its roughly 1300, Troy announces that he has to "go pee mom. now" and heads off in the direction of the pumpkin room to pay homage to the porcelain god. Suddenly I hear him squeal "Its a POCKET!". Knowing that he had not been wearing anything but his man panties, I am slightly befuddled by the exclamation, and proceed across the house to see what he is raving about. As I round the corner in the hall, I see Damon standing in the pumpkin colored bathroom with Troy, they are comparing "pockets" when Damon announces that "It is not a pocket. It is a winky hole. see!" he then walks to the potty and proceeds to demonstrate. Troy is dumbfounded by his newly acquired knowledge that he can now urinate without removing his clothing. I am now becoming increasingly worried by the realization that he will now be using almost every pair of man panties in the house in an effort to hone his skills... As if to confirm my fears, he walks to the porcelain god, lifts the seat, leans over and pees down his leg. He is now furious with damon- who has apparently lied about the use of the "pocket", and needing a new pair of man panties, he summons me.
 After deploying the winky dribble cleaning devices, I apply a new pair of man panties... Fast forward to later afternoon... Troy waddles into the kitchen in apparent discomfort, as I am prepping supper and exclaims "ITSA POCKET!". As I look down I realize why he is waddling, and as if on cue a matchbox car pops out of his "Pocket". He has a grand total of 13 cars, trucks, motorcycles, and a helicopter crammed into his man panties... As I begin removing them I explain that it is NOT a pocket, all the while trying desperately to maintain my composure. Enter Damon- "Troy, I told you it was a winky hole for peeing."

 *sigh*
 I wonder what today will hold?

Did You Fall In?!?

 When living in the world of toddler boys, few things are more significant than when they finally decide to use the potty. It means a level of independence, fewer diapers, and a lot more mess! Ever see the sings in a bathroom saying "If you sprinkle when you tinkle, be sweet, wipe the seat!" ?? Yeah, that is non-applicable in the world of wee little winky dinks, and chubby little fingers.

 Yesterday Troy absolutely refused to wear a diaper. I put one on him, he hid and took it off. I tracked, captured, and pinned down the wriggling little beast, attempting repeatedly to deploy the shit containing devices. To absolutely no avail. He dodged, twirled, kicked, wiggled, slithered, and clawed his way out of them every time... Finally, I caved. "Ok" I said "You win."
 Troy was extremely delighted by my defeat, he squealed with delight, and streaked about the house for the better part of an hour. That was when I became suspicious, and began checking for winky dribble. None. Ok, must be he hasn't had enough fluids today. In mid-thought nikki walks through the front door, completely disrupting the plan I was forming, to again capture and diaper the beast. Off he runs...
  Meanwhile, I question Nikki as to why she is home before 1500- apparently it was a 1/2 day. What a great mom I am, completely escaped being stored in my memory banks. She walks away abruptly, stating that the need to urinate is becoming imminent. I follow down the hall, still questioning, when I hear her squeal in a sickeningly sweet voice "Troy!!! Youe Peed In The POTTY!!!". I  round the corner just in time to see my half naked child on tippy toes, grasping the rim of the toilet with one hand, and his we little winky dink in the other, leaned almost far enough over to cause a surge of adrenaline at the thought of him falling head first into the porcelain pisser."I point it DOWN!" he says, and sure enough, I see that he had. Not one drop landed on the clean tiled floor.

 This is but one more step toward my baby becoming my little man... I wish I could freeze him just how he is now, for a couple more years. At least.
 On the other hand, it sure beats getting squirted in the face first thing in the morning, when you come to realize just a moment too late, that the little bugger isn't done yet.

On The Topic Of The Alarm Clock

 When an alarm is set, it is supposed to sound. That sound is intended to alert one to a specific time, date, warning, etc. Correct?
 This morning, my "Wake The Fuck Up!" alarm failed. For some unknown reason, it simply did not sound. Perhaps it was saying fuck you, I am unsure that the alarm could in fact think- Personally, I would detest being used to rouse a bitchy human at 0620 daily, only to be clutched by clumsy fingers that are still sleep numb, dropped, slammed about, or cursed at. Who is to say that the alarm had not finally reached its abuse limit?

 At 0643 today, Nikki roused me. Her internal alarm was accurate enough. She was dressed, hair brushed, shoes on, backpack in hand... I was in bed, curled against my lovely, in happy dream land, drooling on my pillow.
 "Mom!" in a hushed tone, through the veil of sleep drifted to me. "MOM!" more urgent this time. "Mother! it is 6:43!!!!".  Oh Shit! the realization struck me, that my faithful teli had not vibrated on the nightstand... my mind raced, time was wasting. I did the math. 7 minutes to get dressed, out the door, and to the bus stop. It takes almost 4 minutes to get to the bus stop- Mr. Nathan is always on time.
 I jumped up, groped for some pants. Found them! Triumph. Now, I need a shirt. Oh crap, wheres my bra? Fuck it! No time! I pulled on a sweatshirt and stumbled towards the kitchen... I had shoes somewhere.
 By the time we got to the front door, three minutes had elapsed. I was sweating. Cutting it a little close this time- But we would have missed it entirely, had it not been for Nikki's sense of duty, and her honesty. I do not know many children who would not have gone straight back to bed after realizing that their parents were still asleep.
 So, in reward of her good behavior, I did the thing I bitch almost constantly about- especially when I see children at the bus stop munching on honey buns & pop tarts. I gave her a cookie. For her good behavior, of course.
 We made it to the stop just in time.

On A Rolling Sea Of Vomit

 Over the weekend, I was reminded of the power of vomit. Oh, the things vomit can do for you- turning an otherwise calm, strong stomach, into a puddle of jelly in your gut. A puddle of boiling pepper jelly.

 Friday, Nikki came home feeling out of sorts, and I should have known what I was in for, bless it. I was hopeful, but at the supper table, she said that she wasn't feeling well, and then refused to eat. Being the suspicious type, I refused to believe that it could simply be a stomach bug, and not a ploy to drive me insane. (conspiracy theory anyone?- children are here to slowly drive us into the nuthatch, it is their purpose in life.)
 After supper she decided that a rousing game of tic tac toe would be stimulating, and while perched on my beautiful vintage sofa, suddenly realized that the sea must be stormy. Had trouble gaining her sea legs quickly enough... which resulted not in a smattering of  potato salad, blueberry pomegranate yogurt, and animal crackers, but a gelatinous sea of white and purple- reminiscent of our stars, minus the stripes.
 Unfortunately, it did not end there. While it would have been wiser to contain the erupting mess,   we are dealing with an 8 1/2 year old (the 1/2 is extremely important). The only wisdom she has to offer, is that farts and water don't mix (if you've ever let a nasty one go in the shower, you'll understand how true that is!),  so she proceeded st stagger down the hall, leaving what appeared to be a purple slug trail behind her. Upon reaching the bathroom, she again vomited on the beautiful tiled floor just through the threshold, and again, in front of the toilet. Not a single purple clot made it into the porcelain piss hole.

 The cleanup was enormous. It is truly amazing just how much vomit an anorexic 8 1/2 year old can generate!  After soaking up the mess on the sofa, on the floor in front of it, down the hall, in the bathroom, and pouring natures miracle on it all (which actually worked!! no pukey smell in the house!), I began stripping the sofa of its cushion covers. I knew as I did, that they would never be the same again, it made sense to wash both of them in an attempt to hide the fact that they were ruined.
 After much swearing, administering ibuprofen to the feverish Nikki, and positioning myself under a steamy flow of water- I felt much better. Until...
The next day, when i had dried the sofa cushion covers- they no longer fit. I expected this. After about half an hour of swearing and sweating, forcing the blasted things back together, I came to the conclusion that if ever she did anything like this again, i would make her eat it.
 Sunday night she vomited again, and I was forced to keep her home from school on monday. There are reasons that once a child reaches a certain age, they are sent to school 7 hours a day. It is not because they must learn arithmetic...

The Farts

 After two consecutive days eating chili for supper, the house has become a large, brick & siding disguised gas chamber. Upon entering the boys bedroom this morning, I was knocked back by the sickly aroma of black beans, onions, and beef that have been processed by toddlers digestive systems. As if to corroborate the assumption I had made in regards to the noxious fumes, Troy announced that he had "Tinky Parts". If you do not speak Troyesse already, I will translate for you. It means "Stinky Farts".  Stinky Farts was not all that the lingering aroma implied, It was in fact, bean shits. I located the wipes, and a crap saddle, sat on the floor and waited. Troy waddled down the hall, in his movements appearing as though he had a coconut clenched between his knees. I knew at that moment what I was in for. He laid down on his back in front of me, raised his legs straight up, grimacing as he did, and said one word. "EWWW."  I'll let the imagination take it from there, sparing you the gory details. Lets just say that I deserve a spotlight on "Dirty Jobs".
 Fast forward to breakfast, which of all words, Damon still can not properly pronounce- it still comes out "Brickswift". But he can pronounce words like Discombobulated without falter, go figure. They are seated at the table with their corn chex & soy milk, when all of a sudden, I hear a thunderous roar. Almost as loud as our inconsiderate neighbor with the excessively large, gas guzzling, swamp trolling pickup. I look around, Damon is smiling. Troy is too. No one admits to being the originator of the cloud of green haze that now hovers around the light fixture in the dining room... it is a conspiracy.
 After "Brickswift" I sent them to their room to pickup the matchbox cars, reserving the right to fresh air, I did not enter. Not until Damon politely requested that I open their window, and turn the fan on to remove the farts, which brought into question whether or not DHEC would deem the room uninhabitable for humans. I opened the window.
 After "cleaning" his room, Damon requested some celery sticks with ranch, so we migrated again to the kitchen to obtain said snack. While cleaning the celery, and trying to locate the special plate (which I can not for the life of me, understand why it is so special, aside from the small chip on the edge, which he always points away from himself) which I was unable to do, and was tempted to turn another plate into a "special" plate (see above description of special plate) to end the whining, we finally agreed on a new plate, and called it special. Standing next to the refrigerator, Damon asks me what is for supper, and if we had any tuna. I told him we did not, but offered fishy cakes as an alternative. He willingly accepted my offer of little salmon cakes with dill and lime, only then telling me that he did not want any more chili. Nor did he want any more chili mac.  "See Mommy" he said "The Mac is ok, it doesn't make me have farts. But I don't want anymore chili, because it makes me have stinky farts, and bean poop."  So I told him, desperately trying to maintain my composure, that "We're not going to have any more chili for a while."    With Relief in his eyes, he says "Good, Troy's farts stink a lot!"  At which point Troy, who has been standing silently by, watching and listening, lets go of a massive amount of gas from his overly pressurized bowels- Giggling hysterically he yells "Tinky Parts!!" and runs down the hall.

 The Chili is almost gone, maybe I can finish it for lunch. I will not be making any more for a significantly long period of time. The Troops have been compliant so far, but I fear that the ongoing presence of Chili as a menu item, will cause a civil war. That, and I think my farts are stinkier.