poopin’

yes, it’s natural
and yes, everyone does it
but not in meetings

The wee one has developed a propensity for saving up his poopin’ prowess for when we’re out of the house.

He came with me to a meeting about some freelance work: 5 minutes into the meeting – poop.

He stayed with Daddy at work while mommy went to the doctor: 5 minutes into visiting Daddy’s office – poop.

He went to the dentist this morning for an "orientation" visit (to just meet everyone and see the equipment, before we go for the cleaning next week): 5 minutes in the waiting room – poop.

This is not counting the urinating on the floor at the vet’s office.

You might think he’s just a nervous kid, pooping at the mere thought of meetings or doctors. But I don’t think that’s it. This is a gregarious, walk straight up to strangers and strike up a conversation (!) kind of kid. He doesn’t really get nervous.

You might also think this is a potty-training thing. But we’re not pushing the potty at all. He’s wearing pull-ups and gets stickers if he goes in the potty, but that’s it. We’re trying to be low-key about it, so he doesn’t get all weird about it. Right.

So anyway. My kid needs to be in public to poop. Does that sound like a Maury show, or what?

speaking of curse words

hello? sanity?
sorry about this morning.
can you please come back?

Took Newman to the vet. AGAIN. For his ears AGAIN. Nothing new. Except that I’m out another $120.

Oh, and while we were there, the wee one PEED on the floor of the exam room.

Mmm-hmm. Keep laughing.

Bastards.

bastards

It’s taken me a long time, but I finally stopped peppering my language with obscenities… until I started watching The Wire. Just when I thought I was out, those gaping asshole cocksucking fuckers pull me back in.

(sorry mom)

just a sample

no wonder I trip
and fall on my ass a lot
there’s shit everywhere

I’m very busy. All week I’ve been working on editing the You Know, For Kids! novel that I’m trying to get published, and I’ve been doing a lot of freelance writing (more freelance thinking than writing, really, but that’s how it works).

Anyway, my house is reaping the consequences. Currently, on the floor in the kitchen:

a ripped Entertainment Weekly
a ripped drawing by the wee one
a hot pink feather
a partial Jimmy Neutron thing from a Wendy’s kid’s meal
several Buzz Lightyear napkins
a penny
a wooden dollhouse chair
Newman
most of Newman’s hair

On the living room floor:
many, many more Buzz Lightyear napkins (the wee one covered the entire sofa at one point)
a spyglass
a hair pick
a circle e candles hat
darth vader
a flaccid Bert puppet
a facedown Zoe puppet
Buzz Lightyear himself (in several plastic and non incarnations)
a star wars picture book
a Maisy book
the TV remote
the DVD player remote
the TiVo remote
an elephant nose
all the pieces to Don’t Break the Ice (and not in one nice pile)
an empty shoebox
a toy John Deere wrench
a newspaper
myriad green toy soldiers

That’s just the stuff I can see from the kitchen table.

Oh, and did I mention we have relatives coming to visit this weekend? Oh, is that right? this weekend starts right now? Oh, am I not finished with any of my editing or freelance writing? Oh, am I wasting time blogging? Oh, will the wee one watch Toy Story 80 frillion times today? Is that right?

Starting today I’m taking donations for a maid. And part-time pre-school. And a vacuum cleaner that effing works for a change. And an ear transplant for Newman. And a half-way decent haircut. And a house with a playroom.

I’m off now, to fall on my ass on so many different levels….

oh, lord

should have resisted
the very early sex talk
should have known better

Over the past few months I’ve been getting a lot of "where do babies come from" questions from the wee one. A lot of his friends are getting baby brothers and sisters now, and he’s naturally curious. Now, I know that as a three-year-old, he’s not going to understand how babies are made. Yet, I don’t want to feed him the stork story either.

We briefly talked about mommies growing babies in their tummies, but there was no mention of how the babies got there in the first place. Then, all by himself, with no explanation or prompting involved, the wee one began announcing to people that babies come out of mommies butts.

So we cooled it on the baby talk for a while.

Out of the blue this afternoon he came up to me and asked, "Do babies come from eggs?" I asked him where he had heard that – did daddy tell him that? He shook his head. So I told him that some babies, like birds and lizards come from eggs. Then I went a little too far and said that mommies have tiny, tiny eggs that babies come from.

The wee one said, "but you have big eggs. I can see them."

"You can?" I asked, wondering what strange bulges he was referring to. "Where are they?"

"In the refrigerator."

actual conversation

why is he so shocked
that I am even more shocked
at what he’s doing?

Me: What are you doing?

Wee One (sitting ON TOP of his dollhouse, lapping at a small wooden chair): Licking the wood.

Me: Why?

Wee One (looking at me like I’m insane): so I can clean it.

I guess I should be happy that he’s cleaning things.

cul-de-sac under siege

big ol’ ugly van
I hated you for a while
now you sort of rock

My neighbor has this ass ugly white van he parks in front of his house. It’s all ratted out and beat up and rusty and it leaks oil and makes a huge mess everywhere.

Mostly I hate The Ass Ugly Van.

But today I noticed it has a bumper sticker. As I drove by, silently cursing the Ass Ugly Van, I saw Steven Seagal! And his hair (almost as oily as the road under the van) was pulled back so tight I couldn’t tell if his squinty eyes were from the tightness of his ponytail, or because he was, you know, "acting" mean. Next to his slit-eyes and pursed lipped grimace are the words, "No Compromises" in white letters. There are other words, but they’re too small for my blind eyes to read.

Now my conundrum is, do I sneak over to the neighbor’s house and take a picture of the bumper sticker for you all to enjoy? It’s a risk. If I’m busted taking a picture of The Ass Ugly Van I don’t know what will happen. These are the Gribble neighbors after all. But they aren’t in their garage watching NASCAR right now, so I think they may not be home.

I really want to share the Steven Seagal bumper sticker. But do I have the courage? Maybe I should go watch Under Siege 2: Dark Territory and take some notes.

hmph

something’s all jacked up
no idea what it is
I pay cash for this?

Well, as far as I can tell, http://www.haikuoftheday.com isn’t working for shit right now. http://haikuoftheday.typepad.com works fine, though. Last night everything was hunky dory. This morning… hmph. I’m working on the problem (well, I’ve opened a trouble ticket with Typepad) so hopefully things will be back to normal soon.

This is just God’s way of saying, "Dude. You have tons of crap to be working on. Stop playing with the blog right now."

To that I say "Hmph." And also, "God? If you’re going to talk to me, can I get my own TV show now that Joan of Arcadia has been canceled?"

story

sufficiently numb
makes visiting relatives
much, much easier

While we were on the vacay, we had the chance to catch up with quite a few relatives. We hadn’t seen most of them for at least two years, so it was fun to see everyone. It’s amazing how, even though so much time has passed, everyone is still the same.

We had a quite an adventure with Uncle Joe. The wee one took to him immediately. As he snuggled up under Uncle Joe’s sunburned arm, Uncle Joe regaled the rest of us with an alarming, but funny story about a friend of his who had recently been struck by lightning. The friend is a plumber, and the lightning actually struck his wrench, went through his body, and exited through his kneecap. Yowch. But this tough old mountain plumber just waited for his body to stop twitching, put some salve on his fiery kneecap, and carried on with his work.

Uncle Joe tells the story way better than I do, but the real point here is that the wee one was all ears during this tale. It’s also important to note that the wee one is not a fan of thunderstorms.

As Uncle Joe finished up his story and the rest of us were laughing, the wee one began furiously waving his arms. "Excusemeexcusemeexcusemeexcuseme!" he shouted (we’re teaching him to be polite).

"He had lightning on his KNEE?"
"In the thunderstorm?"
"On his leg?"
"In the rain?"
"With the booms?"
etc.

The wee one was at once horrified and mesmerized by the story. Uncle Joe quickly tried to mop up by saying that his friend was all better now and there was no problem at all. The wee one was not convinced.

"No problem?" he asked. "No problem with your friend and his knee?"

"No problem," Uncle Joe affirmed.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Because for the rest of the trip, every time the wee one spotted Uncle Joe he would holler out, "No problem?" And Joe would answer "No problem."

After a few days of this, Uncle Joe began arriving at our beach condo with a small cooler. The cooler was much like Mary Poppins’ magically bottomless bag, only it was filled with beer instead of floor lamps. Sufficiently lubricated to enjoy saying "No problem" 748 times, Uncle Joe was able to continue visiting us. And all was right with vacation. Except for the emotional scarring of the wee one.

A’ight bitches, I’m back!

there’s this stuff I like
so sweet, it’s called Malibu
twelve percent fruit juice!

We are back from vacation, mercifully un-sunburned, less mercifully de-pickling from the nightly pina coladas, and most definitely less mercifully weaning from the nightly walks on the beach.

There is much to tell. But for now I’m going to bed. Hauling ass through two airports, trying to keep a tiny tot from running amuck, and being purposefully starved to death by the bitches at continental really takes it out of me.

Beach anecdotes are forthcoming.

Tomorrow.