uh

Sock in water bowl
The hell is it doing there?
Blame dog. Blame baby.

I was going to regale you

Hilarious stories of grocery shopping, court house annex visits, and the trials of other mundane yet exciting things will have to wait. As I stand here trying to blog (yes, I’m standing and typing as I cook dinner. What? Don’t you do that?) the wee-er one has BITTEN me on the THIGH through my jeans.

Um, OUCH.

The baby wins. Blogging must wait. And I must buy thicker jeans. Or a new kid. Either way.

I know this is going to sound crazy, but…

people can be nice
even when they don’t have to
how crazy is that?   

I just got back from the Tax Assessor’s office. Now, you’d think this might require a Letter to Someone I Hate, but it doesn’t! I’m am very, extremely, happily pleased to announce that the people at the tax assessor’s office are quite nice. They’re nice on the phone, they’re nice in person, and then they’re nice in person again when you have to go back because you lost the receipt they gave you when you went the first time.

The lady today thought about not being nice. I could see the battle of good vs evil going on behind her eyes. But I smiled a lot, made fun of myself, totally played the frazzled mama card, and even batted my eyes a little, and it worked. She was nice!

Thanks to her willingness to be friendly and helpful, I will avoid having to pay extra fines and/or have a warrant issued for my arrest. Whew.

Have I mentioned lately how much of a pain in the ass traffic tickets are? It’s not the money, it’s the hullabaloo involved in taking care of the thing.

But anyway, hooray for the tax assessor’s office. I never thought I’d say it, but there you go.

diagnosis?

By the way, when your seventeen-month-old wakes up looking like a prizefighter because her eyes are swollen? It may turn out she has a double ear infection resulting in pink eye.

In case you were wondering.

our eight weeks is up

wily little thing
superhero steel stomach
makes me cry sometimes

That wasn’t a very good haiku, but you have to forgive me. First, the wee-er one woke up with both eyes almost swollen shut. We called the doctor and made an appointment. Then she slammed her fingers in the closet door. We kissed them and felt better. Then we had a lady come walk through the house to tell me how much it will be for her to scour it from top to bottom (not too bad, though she did seem a bit dazed to be accosted by a noisy dog and a toddler prizefighter).

And then.

Then we had a bit of a catastrophe. You’d think I’d be used to these things after the wee-er one has eaten rocks, sipped old beer from the trash, sucked on an imodium, gobbled up some pirate’s gold, etc. But it’s always a shock to have to call poison control.

Here is the aftermath:

There is no such thing as childproof with this kid.

A special day

sweet young innocence
yet it’s still freaking me out
how does this happen?

"Today was a special day because I got something no one else got," the wee one told me when I picked him up from school today.

"Oh, yeah?" I answered, thinking it was a sticker for good behavior or something like that.

"I’m going to show you, but it’s a secret for everyone else," he said. He whipped his backpack around and pulled out a piece of paper. "It’s from Natalie." Natalie is a girl at school he talks about a lot – her pretty hair, how fun it is to hit her at recess, etc.

The paper had a drawing on it of a boy and a girl holding hands. On the top, written in wonderful kindergarten handwriting, was a profession of love.

"I wish I could jump into this drawing," the wee one said wistfully. "I would flip dimensions so that I could kiss Natalie and then flip back really fast."

"Oh?" I asked, trying not to sound shocked.

He gazed at the drawing. "It makes me want to cry I like it so much," he said, closing his eyes and smiling.

It kind of makes me want to cry, too, but for many different reasons. I knew he was precocious, but this is (charmingly) unsettling, you know what I mean?

My five-year-old lothario. Good grief.