5 Second Parenthood Readiness Test

          Do you find yourself wondering if you are ready to be a parent?  If you read this blog, in all likelyhood you have already reproduced, but I'm sure there are exceptions to this rule.  Regardless, if you read the following anecdote, and you find it anything other than completely reasonable, then you are probably not ready for parenthood.  Because no event in my life has more perfectly encapsulated the very essence of raising kids than this one.  Over the last couple of weeks, Skeletor has been having...poop issues.  Yeah, I know.  TMI.  Whatever.  We've all been there.  Point being, is that the aforementioned feces (baby mice!) were colored in such a way as to freak us out.  And, keep in mind, I'm a mother and a grown-ass woman, so green poop doesn't scare me.  Anyhoozle, the Captain and I were being all eagle eyed and such about the boy's trips to the bathroom.  We also had long, detailed conversations about them.  We were right on the verge of taking him to the doctor, where there would have been bloodwork done and traumas endured, when the Chalky Menace finally ended.  While I was at work on Saturday night, Skeletor had a poop so lovely and normal looking that Captain Gingerbeard was inspired to take a picture of it for me.  When I got home that night, I was greeted with the digital image of my son's leavings.  And, after marveling with relief at the utter typical-ness of the poo, I began to laugh my ass off.  Because, as I mentioned earlier, I can't think of a more perfect analogy for parenting than taking a picture of your child's poop. 

This Is/Was Halloween!

     As some of you may remember, Halloween is kind of a big deal around my house.  My boy child, Skeletor, feels that October 31 is better than Christmas, his birthday, Easter, and Valentine's Day all combined.  I tend to agree with him.  Other than working and baby raising, I really haven't done anything for the last few weeks except prepare for the big event.  I'm still exhausted, so I will now release unto the world a lame-o post that is mostly pictures.  You're ever so welcome.

Smarty Pants is clearly the most
 beautifulest witchy poo ever!

Miss Priss, the pretty gypsy girl.

Sassafrass as a gangster ninja. 
That's my girl!

Count Skeletor!

Captain Gingerbeard as Frankenstein.

Shield your eyes!  We're just too cute!

Miss Priss found that Corpse Bride to be suspect.

Visiting the graves of her enemies.

Reaching Nirvana.  Not to be confused with Narnia.

     And with that, my friends, I bid you good day and stuff.  I hope your Halloween was as awesome and spookalicious as ours was!

I Should Probably Feel Bad About This...

     So, I still feel utterly craptastic.  Not Man Sick, mind you, but still pretty terrible.  And, just for shits and giggles, I also have an ear infection to go along with my Funk.  Yay, good times!  Skeletor is also still sick, which definitely puts a damper on any afore-mentioned good times.  Also for shits and giggles, we are in the middle of trying to implement some ABA awesomeness in our house.  All of this equals super cranky pandas.  Because it's only been a month or so since we got an official diagnosis of autism, we're still in limbo in regards to all the behavioral therapies we need.  (Skeletor has been receiving speech and occupational therapy for over a year now, so we're lucky in that respect.)  We live in a medium sized town, almost smack in the middle of two major cities.  Unfortunately, those two major cities are at least an hour away.  And those two major cities seem to be the only places where we can receive the ABA therapy.  Hence the long waiting lists.  Which leads me to the thing that I should probably feel bad about.  I'm definitely no doctor or therapist, but I can read.  (I know you're shocked.  You should sit down if you are feeling light-headed.)  So, since we're going to be waiting a bit, I've been reading up on ABA.  The somewhat basic gist being you reward good behavior, and ignore bad behavior (within reason.)  And this is what I have started doing.  And Skeletor does not like it one little bit.  In fact, if he knew how to make fire, he would definitely set all of my autism books ablaze.  Despite all of the extra stress (which I know will pay off in the long run,) I have to admit that I got a bit of a chuckle earlier.  As Skeletor sat on the kitchen floor howling and gnashing his teeth because I had the audacity to pick up his toys, it occurred to me.  That is exactly how I feel almost every minute of every day.  Only I don't get to say it.  I don't get to throw things and scream and hit people (other than Captain Gingerbeard, but he's got a sassy mouth.)  And I know that I don't get to do these things because I'm a grown-up...allegedly.  I'm the mommy.  It's my job to not lose my temper.  And although Skeletor is to be granted a little bit of leeway due to the autism, he still has to be taught how to behave, no matter how long it takes.  But hearing him yell out his frustrations today did bring me a bit of levity.  It was kind of good to know somebody else felt the same way I do.  Which may or may not curse me to the deepest, darkest pits.  Aw, crap.  The child just walked up behind me, and ripped the back of my shirt.  Tra-la-la, ignoring it.  I do hope the Captain wasn't particularly fond of it.  I borrowed it from him.

Me.

Man Sick

     I wanted to write this post for the last week or so, but propriety dictated that I wait until after Father's Day to do so.  And now, the very next day, I would like to talk to you folks about a little something called "Man Sick."  Our germ infested sweet children were recently sick with the Funk.  Not the good, shake your groove thing kind of Funk either.  I'm talking about the sore throat, snotty nose, chest congestion, body aches, upset tummy, wanna punch people in the face kind of Funk.  You would think sickly little kids roaming around your house and moaning for juice like a zombie does for brains would be the worst.  You would be wrong.  The worst possible outcome of any sort of Outbreak situation is for the man of the house to become infected, too.  And, of course, Captain Gingerbeard fell victim to the dreaded Funk.  May God have mercy on our souls.
     When I informed the Captain that he had clearly contracted a serious case of Man Sick, he assumed that I meant that he wasn't sick at all.  That is not the case.  Being Man Sick does not mean that he does not have an actual diagnosable medical condition.  It does, however, mean that what ever ails him is obviously the worst case of a cold, the flu, gas, heartburn, or hemorrhoids that has ever effected a human in the history of the world.  Maybe some form of primate suffered worse than he back in the days of yore, but no modern man has ever been stricken with such a horrific illness.  And he is not afraid to tell the world of his woes.  (Vocalization is one of the hallmark symptoms of Man Sick.)
     Now, I know the Captain is sick.  I know this because the bastard infected me, as well.  (Sharing is caring, after all.)  But, you know what else I know?  I know that during the course of my illness I have also been washing dishes, cooking meals, bathing kids, cleaning the house, and getting up at stupid o'clock every day when the little ones pop out of bed.  And that is the difference between Man Sick and normal sick.  Somebody has to be the grown-up when everyone in the house is ill.  And you can bet your sweet ass it sure isn't going to be the one infected with Man Sick.

P.S. I still love you, Captain Gingerbeard.  But I had to tell my story!

Artist's rendering of Captain Gingerbeard in the throes of Man Sick.

We Love You, Captain Gingerbeard!

Happy Father's Day, Captain!  You kick ass!

We Are Classy Sophisticates.

     As I am writing this, I am well aware that I may drive away the few readers that I have.  It is entirely possible, that while reading this, all of you will lose what little respect you had for me.  (It's okay.  Nobody respects me in the real world, either.  I try to behave in a manner that will assure this lack of respect continues.)  But, dear reader, if you choose to go ahead with this post, and find yourself panicking and thrashing about like a drowning victim, simply look at this picture.  Remind yourself that we are not completely without hope.

Look.  The Captain and I are wearing top hats.
We've got class shooting out of our ear holes!

     Anyway, on with the show.  This morning, the Captain and I were sitting on our front porch watching the neighbors as this is what old, Southern people are supposed to do.  (I still need to get a floppy hat like Weeza in Steel Magnolias.)  We're both just kind of gazing across the street at the house that just got new tenants.  Or rather, we were just kind of gazing at their dog.  Our new neighbors are the kind of crappy dog owners that just chain a dog to a tree, and leave him in the yard all day and night.  So this poor dog is walking around in circles, clearly looking for a place to poop.  But she's all confused because her chain isn't very long, so she doesn't have many places to pick from.  Then the dog starts sniffing the little concrete walkway that leads to the front door.  That is when the Captain and I, two alleged adults, started quietly willing the dog to poop right in front of the door.  We even shushed the kids when they came outside so they wouldn't throw the dog off her game.  Sadly, before the dog could leave her justified, unpleasant surprise on the walkway, the woman came out and took the dog to the backyard to poop.  And by took her to the backyard, I mean she took the dog out back and tied her to a different tree.  That's okay.  We all know that one day that dog will have its revenge.