wee one-a-palooza

just so many things
perfect storm of craziness
will he recover?

Preschool graduation? Check.

Dance recital? Check.

Birthday party? On target for tomorrow.

Airplane ride to visit grandparents? Coming up in three days.

Could any more exciting things happen to an almost five-year-old in such a short period of time? No WONDER he’s been a beast the past two days. A happy, spoiled, super cute beast.

I’d be living more in the moment right now if I hadn’t spent the last four days coughing so hard I’m pretty sure I made one of my ovaries explode. Ouch. Two trips to urgent care have brought no relief and a referral for an ultrasound that I can’t get until Monday. In the meantime I will continue to feel like my girly organs are being ripped out of my body every time I cough. And I will bake a birthday cake. And pack for our trip. And try not to pass out. Did I say ouch? Ouch.

I have my fangs in you, baby

why we don’t talk religion
or word origins

The other day, while I was driving the wee one home from school, he asked me what fangs are. Here’s how the conversation rapidly went down hill…

[me, beginning the conversation genially] "Fangs? You mean like teeth?"

[the wee one, frustration setting in early due to what I call Tired Post School Temper Trouble or TPSTT] "No, FANGS, mommy. The things you have IN people."

[me, trying to stay genial] "Like ‘sink your fangs into’ something? Sometimes people say that when they mean to take a bite out of something."

[the wee one, bubbling over with TPSTT] "NO, MOMMY! Like we learned at school! Fangs. FANGS!"

[me, getting irritated that he’s irritated] "OK. You shouting it at at me over and over? That doesn’t make me understand you any easier, alright?

[the wee one, sighing dramatically] "I’m just talking about fangs. The kind of fangs that purple stands for."

[me] ????

[he continues, as if talking to the most pitiful, dumb creature on the planet] "At school, Mrs. Linda says that purple stands for fangs. And that we have fangs in God."

[me, ding ding ding!] "You mean faith? We have faith in God?"

[the wee one, thrilled I finally understand him, gets excited] "So we’re like vampires for God?"

[me, giving up] "Yes. We’re like vampires for God."

This is what I get for sending him to a quasi-religious preschool.

Little did we know…

telling future, past
it all seems kinds creepy
and expensive too

The other day, I was totally stressed with the move and the wee one and I were tooling around town, running errands, and I just had to stop the car and take a few deep breaths. Traffic was terrible, the wee one wouldn’t hush and I thought I was going to have a panic attack or something.

So, I stopped the car. After my deep breaths, I noticed we were in the parking lot of this psychic I’ve been driving past for years. I thought, what the hell, let’s go inside. Why not? The sign says walk-ins welcome.

The wee one and I walked in and instead of the velvety, musty, incense-filled movie set I was expecting, we were met with the grime, dirty baseboards and faintly tinged beer smell that I should have expected. At this point we should have just walked out, but we had been noticed by the uber-skinny, giant-eyed lady sitting in a ratty barca lounger, watching Montel on a staticky old TV.

She asked if we wanted our palms read or a tarot reading or what. I wanted to say we were just there to use the phone, but something compelled me to say "palms" and so we sat at a round table, not unlike the kitchen table I saw at a garage sale a few weeks ago and thought, "I bet that table weighs a thousand pounds."

The wee one and I each took a chair – at this point he was chattering on and on about Star Wars and light sabers and ninjas and something called a "power kick" and he barely noticed when the lady reached out and grabbed his hand.

Her brow wrinkled, her eyes closed, and she traced her fingers all around his palm as he giggled and squirmed and tried to pull away. She held on fast, though, and after a few moments she said, "This young man will always enjoy peanut butter."


"You will have to watch his consumption of bacon."

I laughed. "He’s only eaten bacon once and that was last night. He liked it, but I doubt he’ll eat it again. He doesn’t eat a lot of different fooo—"

She held out her other hand to motion for me to shut up. "He likes music." she said abruptly.

And she was right. He’s always loved music. From the time he was in the womb, to now when he hums the Indiana Jones soundtrack to lull himself to sleep. But all kids like peanut butter and music, right? Was I getting my money’s worth here?

Then she asked a weird question.

"Has he ever mentioned Priscilla?"

I was ready to balk but then I remembered that he had actually mentioned a Priscilla a few times. When he was tiny and just learning to talk he talked about how he "wuved pwisilla" and I never really knew what he was talking about. I always thought it was a sesame street thing. I had forgotten about this until our "psychic" mentioned it. In fact, just the other night he was sleeping and yelled something about "Priscilla and the baby" but I didn’t think much of it.

"Yes," I said, feeling just the beginnings of a hair-standing-up-on-the-back-of-my-neck zing.

She continued to feel his palm and study his face. I wanted to get us out of there. I’d only gone in and agreed to this whole thing because I thought I would be the one having a reading. I didn’t want to freak out the wee one. He seemed to be having a blast, though.

She mumbled something about Memphis and the sun and a dead twin and that’s when I stood up. "No dead twins here," I said quickly as I grabbed the wee one and we hustled towards the door.

"I would suggest a past life regression!" she shouted after us as we hurried out. When we reached the doorway, the wee one stopped and turned towards her.

"You make me happy." he said strangely. "You make my dreams clear." She smiled and I wigged. I grabbed his arm to drag him out the door.

"You know now that Vegas was a bad idea!" she shouted after us.

"I’ve never been to Vegas!" I shouted back.

"Say no to drugs!" the wee one yelled back as I wrestled him into his booster seat.

"Good-bye, Elvis," the lady said from the doorway just loud enough for only me to hear her.

Once we were in the car and spinning out of the gravel parking lot the wee one asked if we could listen to the "little less conversation" song.


And also completely untrue. Happy April Fools Day!

soccer mom!

black and white round thing
oversized shorts billowing
look! it’s a flower!

The wee one has started soccer. This makes me officially a soccer mom. I find this both hilarious and wearying. For those of you out there who, like me, are an oozy mess that happens to drip outside of the "soccer mom" mold, here are some things I’ve learned.

1) Do not yell "kick it!" at your child. Soccer is apparently not about kicking. It is about dribbling. And while parents on the other team can yell things like, "Don’t be lazy!" and "Are you PAYING ATTENTION?!" at their 4-year-olds, you can never, under any circumstances yell "kick it!" at your own kid without earning yourself lots and lots of dirty looks.

2) Learn the names of all the kids on your child’s soccer team. Though you might think it’s funny to yell, "Hooray, Small Boy With Red Hair! Good job, Cute Girl With Pink Bows!" other people will not think you’re funny.

3) It doesn’t matter if the game is located exactly on the equator, if it’s set to begin at 8:45 am, the weather will be freezing, windy and drizzling, and you will leave your jacket at home and the picnic blanket in the other car.

4) Wearing your "WTF" t-shirt is inappropriate for the initial parent meeting.

5) There will always be one ringer per team. Even if the teams are full of tiny kids just learning how to play, there will still be one child with a budding mustache and muscles bigger than your own, who is ostensibly "5-years-old" and can play single-handedly against a troupe of five other kids, beating them easily. Except for on your kid’s team. Your kid’s team has no ringer. But they will be able to pick all of the dandelions on the soccer field in record time.

6) When you see someone riding on a motorized cooler you should not mutter loudly, "How lazy can you GET?" If you do, that person will hear you, and that person will end up being the uncle of a kid on your kid’s team. That uncle will then obviously and continuously ignore your child as he gives every other kid a ride on the Dumbass Cooler For Lazy People, and your kid will cry.

7) Don’t bring water for your kid to drink. Glow-in-the-dark sports drinks are the beverage of choice and you will be scored, SCORNED, by your child when you hand him a bottle of warm Ozarka and tell him cheerfully, "It’s warm on purpose – and it’s healthy!"

8) It is not a soccer costume, it is a soccer uniform.

9) Under no circumstances is anyone to urinate on the field.

10) Soccer is way, way, way better than tee ball ever was. Seriously.

when he’s president…

I just picked up the wee one from school. He had a "book" that he made to help celebrate President’s Day (in the book are pasted in silouettes of former presidents). On the last page he drew a picture of himself as president and dictated a message for his teacher to write:


The wee one would be the best president ever!

my belly hurts from laughing

some crazy shit up in there
some crazy great shit

This morning the wee one wanted to play ninja turtles.

"I’ve given them names!" he exclaimed with glee. "Here you be this one." He handed one to me and I took it.

"Yours is named Peacock Butthair."

"Peacock Butthair?" I asked, choking on my tea. "What did you name yours?"


the flat top shop

We walked through the door and this is what we saw: two pictures of Jesus hanging on the walls, a Coke machine, a corkboard full of business cards, a cash register, a checkerboard with only a third of the checkers, three barber chairs, one barber, one guy with a Marine haircut, sitting in a chair in the waiting area, and one guy sitting in the barber chair.

The guy in the barber chair had the kind of comb-over that starts at the top of one ear and goes all the way over the head, rainbow-style, until it reaches the top of the other ear. If there was a stiff breeze, this dude’s hair could stand up straight for about a foot and a half. He was having the non comb-over part of his hair trimmed. And his goatee maintained.

So the wee one, the wee-er one, and I all sat down and I began to rethink my brain wave to go see a real barber. Initially I was like, hey, this will be cool. A real barber will be impressive, the wee one might get a spray of manly hair spray or something (thus smelling like "man stuff" – aka what he calls deodorant or aftershave) and it will be fun for all. Plus, I could save a few bucks. The place we usually go is one of those kiddie haircut extravaganza places with motorcycles you ride, and movies to watch. Cool, but not cheap.

Anyway, as Barber, Combover and Marine began somehow simultaneously discussing the war and broadband internet, I started to feel a little uncomfortable. For one thing, they could probably smell my commie pinko liberal blood from a mile away. For another thing, no one had acknowledged us when we came in, and ten minutes later there was still no nod of "I see you over there, be with you in a second."

We sat. The wee one fidgeted, begged for a Sprite, tried to play checkers, ran around and eventually it was his turn.

The barber put a big cushy block thing in the chair and the wee one sat on it. The barber ran his fingers through the wee one’s crazy rat’s nest mop and said, "How short do we go? A 2? A 3?" I was like, "Uh, 2 inches?" And then he showed me the clippers and I still didn’t really understand the whole 2 3 thing, but I agreed to a 2 on the sides and a 4 on top. The barber said it would be a Howie Long flat top. "Do you know who Howie Long is?" He asked. "Indeed," I answered, smartassedly, because even though I’m a girl I know about football. "Just don’t make it a Howie Long mullet." He gave me a sideways look, but didn’t say anything.

The barber got to work, shavin’ shavin’ shavin’. The wee one stayed very still, even when he was giggling. Then the flat top part began. "It’s like a carving," the barber said, as he buzzed and snipped and measured and combed. He had to put some kind of gel in the wee one’s hair, then blow dry it, and then comb it and then shave over the comb to even it out. He must have done this six times. The wee one was in the chair FOR OVER AN HOUR getting this damn flat top.

As the barber worked, he kept shaking his head. "There are a lot of cowlicks here. And tufts." He would shake his head some more and keep working. After a while, a kid appeared from a back room, carrying a math book and talking about dinosaurs.

"If the dinosaur could breathe fire, he wouldn’t have to use the microwave to make bacon!" the kid said gleefully. Then he bought a Coke and went back into the back room.

I wanted to say, "Are we in a David Lynch TV show?" But I said nothing. I was afraid if I spoke, the magical charm that was holding the wee one still would break and he would accidentally get his head chopped off, as it was at about this time the barber whipped out a STRAIGHT RAZOR.

"Uh," I said. "Be still, wee one." And I closed my eyes.

I heard giggling, and a sharp admonishment to be still, and I slowly opened my eyes. The wee one had survived. Hooray!

Finally the flat top was finished. "You may want to rethink this haircut in the future," the barber told me. "This kid’s head has all kinds of tufts and cowlicks and bumps and his hair is very thin. You’ll be very busy every morning making this haircut work." He looked at me accusingly, as if my child’s abnormal head was all my fault (which it is, I guess). I smiled, paid the bill and tipped him 25% because he worked very, very hard on his "carving."

The wee one got some pink lemonade Double Bubble for his trouble. He was quite happy.

His hair has not been flat since it was designed by the barber. I mean, are you kidding me? Use a blow dryer on a four year old every morning? Who knew flat tops were such trouble.

It’s damn cute, though.

beam me up

jumping out of skin
no big deal for snakes, crickets
big deal for people

The wee one is worrying me. Not because he’s toying with fast cars and faster women (though that would be worrisome)… but because of his new affinity for teleportation.

Yes. Teleportation.

It would be nice if he’d use his gift for good instead of evil. He could pop into the wee-er one’s bedroom and grab an appropriately-sized diaper and then pop back to Target where I’m struggling to change her with the newborn diaper that I found at the bottom of the diaper bag.

Instead, he has embraced the Dark Side. I’ll be standing in my room, trying to remember why I walked in there and BAM, there he is, standing right at my elbow. He shows up immediately and silently. I remember why I’m in there (socks!), turn, trip over the large-headed, skinny-armed creature hovering at my side, scream, clutch my heart, and watch the room spin. Then, a few hours later, I go into the bathroom (thankfully, I remember why). I sit down, close my eyes for a millisecond and BAM, the large-headed, skinny-armed creature is back, standing right at my elbow. I scream, clutch my heart, and watch the room spin.

Of course, he thinks this is all quite hilarious. I, on the other hand, am not so amused. His teleportation has shaved YEARS off my life – and added a gray streak to my hair. I can’t handle this kind of surprise attack four times a day. I’m beginning to show signs of post traumatic stress disorder, I think. Everything makes me jump – loud noises, giggles of small boys, baby farts… everything.

I wonder if someone has invented a device or outfit or tin foil hat or something that I can use to prevent his teleporting – or at least slow it down. I’m going to try the "DO IT AGAIN AND YOU GET NO DESSERT TONIGHT" tactic. I hope it works. Otherwise, I’m going to have to keep doing my Fred Sanford impersonation, and why punish innocent bystanders?