The afternoon where I briefly consider changing the name of my son to “Power Pole”

if I was famous
I could name my kid Frito
but folks would still laugh

The family was in the car today making our weekly pilgrimage to Target, when the wee one asked if he could have a fishing stick.

"You mean fishing pole," my husband said.

"No, stick. A fishing stick. The thing you catch fish with." The wee one said patiently.

"Right," said my husband. "That’s called a fishing pole, not a fishing stick. But it’s sometimes made from a stick, so I can see why you’d think that."

"Is a stick the same as a pole?" the wee one asked skeptically.

"Sort of. They can both be made of wood. Like that power pole right there. You wouldn’t call that a power stick would you?"

"Power pole????????" the wee one asked excitedly.

*pause* "Uh, yeah. All those poles out the window – they’re power poles."

"Power pole is a great name! Mommy! Why didn’t you name ME Power Pole?" The wee one’s tone was very excited and very accusatory all at once.

"Uh, I guess I just didn’t think of it. That would be a cool name, though, huh? Power Pole Roy."

"You could have your own TV show," my husband offered.

"Yeah," I said, stealing the wee one’s accusatory tone. "On Cinemax."

"Could you please call me Power Pole all day today?" the wee one asked as we parked and unbuckled our seatbelts.

"Sure, Power Pole," I answered. "Now hold my hand while we cross the street."

wee one takes over the world, one run-on sentence at a time

it has been one year
now the only freaking out
is when there’s NO school

A little over a year ago, the wee one started at his mother’s day out pre-school program. If you remember, the first day was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. Now that we’re a year into it, though, I can officially say it’s one of the best things I’ve ever done for him.

Yesterday was the first day back after a long, long holiday break. In the morning, he woke up all excited – he ran to my room, snuggled up in the bed with me and said, "I’m so happy school is today, mommy. I love it so much." That’s quite a difference from his fierce, screaming, body slamming freak-out of a year ago.

I can’t believe he’ll be in kindergarten in the fall. I talk about how I’m so excited about it and how I’m counting down the days, but…. wow. Real school. In only seven months. I guess I might be the one having the freak out meltdown when the day comes.

Hahahaha who am I kidding? I’m so friggin counting down the days. I mean, come on, it’ll be the first time in years I’ll have an actual reason for buying school supplies.

Right on.

The story of how the movie Zathura won’t be watched at our house for a few days

The wee one just came up to me, grinned and said, "Get me a juicebox, dee-otch."

"Excuse me?" I said, eyes narrowing.

He laughed merrily. "Get me a juicebox, dee-otch!"

Oh no he di’int.

"Where did you hear that?" I demanded, struggling against my instinct to correct his pronunciation.

"In the movie with the robot."

I briefly debate blowing it off and telling him it’s "Please get me a juicebox, dee-otch." But then I worry he may say this to someone else one day and they won’t think it’s as funny as I do.

So the movie with the robot goes on the shelf for a while.

I know, I know. That’s a real dee-otchy thing to do. Alas.

the fantasy shattering freezer

yay field trips are fun
help out the community
insult the freezer

Earlier this week the wee one had a field trip to our local food pantry. The wee-er one and I went along to help wrangle the kids (well, actually we went along because I can’t get the wee one’s booster out of my car so I had to drive him. Yes, yes, I’m Mother of the Year.).

The kids got to help sort the cans they brought and they learned about the color-coded system of filling food bags. As I’m sure you’ve guessed already, this was, shall we say, less than scintillating for a group of 4-year-olds. But they were all very well-behaved and the trip was short.

At the end of the visit, we were all invited into the walk-in freezer to take a gander at the gazillions of frozen turkeys. Most of the accompanying mommies declined a chance to freeze our butts off, but the kids jumped at the chance. As they filed into the freezer I made a crack to the other moms about how we should shut the door and high-tail it to Hawaii for an impromptu vacation. Didn’t get a super response from that joke. What? Can’t a mom joke about locking kids in a freezer?

Anyway, the kiddos came filing back out, shivering and giggling – except for the wee one. He had a trademark scowl and eye roll going on.

"What’s the matter?" I asked. "Wasn’t it fun to see all the turkeys?"

"They didn’t even have feathers!" he exclaimed indignantly – as if we had all pulled some kind of mean joke on him. "They were all cut up or something."

I guess that would be kind of disappointing. I mean, if you’re expecting a bunch of regular ol’ feathery turkeys frozen in suspended animation, it might suck to see a bunch of Butterballs.

So our trip ended with disappointment – there were no "real" frozen turkeys, and I missed my chance to skip town for Hawaii. Overall, though, the food pantry was surprisingly entertaining and educational. They do good work there, even if they refuse to lock children in their walk-in freezer.


so much already
could fill bathtub with candy
and that’s just from school 

OK, so we’re trying an experiment this Halloween. After trick-or-treating tonight, the wee one is going to pick out a handful of his favorite candy and then leave the rest as an offering to the Halloween Fairy. The Halloween Fairy will then take it all and leave a new toy in its place. A non-tooth-rotting, non-hyper-inducing, cool new toy.

Think it’ll work? The wee one already has about twenty pounds of candy from preschool today (they trick-or-treated at the school district headquarters across the street from school). As a test, I asked him to take out a few piece to save, and, well, 19.75 pounds have been deemed "favorites" while the lone butterscotches have been left for the Halloween Fairy. This is to be expected, I guess, because I didn’t give a specific amount of candy to keep. I’m still trying to figure that out. Is five not enough? Maybe ten – two pieces a day for the rest of the week. Oh, I don’t know. I don’t want to completely deprive him of crap, because crap is fun – I like crap, too. We just don’t need so much of it.

Maybe I’ll just sit down with the Halloween Fairy and eat all the candy tonight and leave nothing behind. My stomach already hurts for no apparent reason, why not feed the fire? (It’s that gut-punch ache you get just before and during barfing. Awesome.)

Or, we could forget the Halloween Fairy and just have a traditional tooth-ruining, hurl-causing, uproarious good time.

Nah. Experimentoween is ON, baby. Let’s see how it flies.

not so wee

tomorrow’s big plans
profess love and eat ice cream
sounds like a good day

I finished reading the wee one a book tonight and I leaned over to kiss him goodnight. "I have a secret, Mommy," he said, with droopy, sleepy eyes and a crooked smile.

"What’s your secret?" I whispered back.

"Tomorrow at school I’m going to tell Kaiah that I love her. She can be my wife when we grow up."

Then he rolled over and pulled the covers over his ear and closed his eyes, smiling.

My baby boy… the one who still prefers to eat Gerber chicken sticks over "big-boy hot dogs"… I can’t believe how fast he’s growing up. I’d like to tell him to stop it, or at least to slow it down, but I don’t really want that.

The problem isn’t that he’s growing up too fast, it’s that I can’t keep up with him. He is my Tazmanian Devil Time Vortex Tornado Of Unconditional Love. And man can he drive me crazy. But he also drives me to distraction, I love him so much.

I hope Kaiah accepts his proposal. Or agrees to a playdate at least. I am just not ready to mend a broken heart. Not yet.

woo woo woo woo

fire trucks are super
especially in driveway
at nine in morning

OK, the top five reasons why, when you start doing laundry on Sunday, you should finish doing laundry on Sunday:

5. So when you have to call 911 because your kid has his knee stuck
in the wooden slats of the glider’s armrest, your kid can be clothed in
something other than underpants smeared with peanut butter and poster

4. So when you’re talking to the 911 dispatcher you don’t have to
shout over the obnoxious noise your dryer makes (well, to be fair to
the dryer, you’d probably still have to shout over the screams of your

3. So when the firemen arrive they won’t trip on the piles of dirty clothes littering the hallway.

2. So you have something clean to dry your freaked out child’s tears
as you lube up his knee and try to slide it out of the glider armrest

1. So the firemen don’t have to sit on your piles of unfolded
laundry that cover the sofa as they take your personal information and
relay to the ambulance guys that your kid is OK and the paramedics
don’t need to come after all.


What a scary and crazy and funny and adrenaline-y thing to happen this morning. My hands have finally stopped shaking enough to type, and the wee one has chilled out enough to watch a little TV.

For a while there, though… it was pretty intense. I was on the phone with 911 dispatch, the wee one was crying and screaming "GET A KNIFE FROM THE KITCHEN AND CUT THE CHAIR" and I was frantically trying to give important information to the dispatcher, calm the wee one down, and find some kind of lube. (Olive oil and dish soap worked great, FYI.)

How does one get one’s knee stuck in the slats of the armrest of a glider? Only God and the wee one know, because I missed the actual insertion. But it was stuck in there good. I thought the fire guys were going to have to saw through the chair, but luckily they just distracted the wee one, and then squirted his knee out with a quick yank.

He’s fine now and I’m fine now, and the wee-er one just watched the whole thing, amusedly, from her bouncy seat, and Newman missed it all because he never stopped licking his butt.

I have since informed the wee one that if he wants a tour of a fire truck (which he got afterwards) and a cool 911 sticker (which he also got afterwards) all he has to do is ask. Nearly crushing his knee in a chair is not a prerequisite.

Is 10:32 AM too early for a margarita?



priorities straight
any kind of stinging bug
always the winner

Last night a kiddo of indiscriminate age (maybe 7?) was playing in the cul-de-sac with the wee one and some other kids. This little guy hauls his skateboard to the top of a very steep driveway, lays down on it – belly down, head first – and sails down the driveway at mach speed.

This is, like, the exact way one could scrap off one’s entire face as one careens forward off the skateboard and is forced to use one’s nose as an emergency brake across the asphalt.

Anyway, the kiddo sails down the driveway, manages to stay on the skateboard, and comes to a shuttering halt at the feet of the wee one (who is coloring with some sidewalk chalk). The wee one looks up at the exhilarated daredevil and says, "Whoa. You better be careful. There are fire ants over here."

Fire ants, indeed.

is that snow?

put away dark clothes
something wicked this way comes
evil cradle cap

I must preface this story with the fact that we’ve suddenly found ourselves combating some pretty gnarly cradle cap that’s settled in on the wee-er one’s head. In order to win the battle, I’ve been greasing up her head with olive oil like she’s a Sunday goose. It’s hell on MY complexion (nuzzling olive oil = crazy ass zits) but it seems to be working against the Gross Head Stuff.

Anyway, this morning, the wee-er one is in her swing and the wee one is playing with his "indoor sandbox" (a shoebox partially filled with really old Rice Krispies and some spoons) and I decided it seemed like a good time to go to the bathroom.

When I get back, the wee one is smirking. I take note of the smirk but I don’t question him. I do, however, notice that his sister is awake. I grab her up out of the swing to nurse her and I notice that the vaguely pasta-ish smell she’s had since we began the olive oil regimen is now a kind of fruity smell. Huh.

Then the wee one comes over and pats her head. I notice his hand kind of sticks there. He smiles at me. I give him that sideways, "Whatchoo been up to, Willis," look. Then he says brightly, "I put fruit punch in her hair so her head will be soft."



those click-talking tribes
not the best time to mimic
when mom’s sleep deprived

I have glorious plans of writing down my sweet baby’s birth story, and I will, I just don’t have the time or brain power to do it yet. What I CAN write about is the wee one and how he’s suddenly become enamored with those African (or aborigine?) tribes that use clicks as their language.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m happy he’s broadening his horizons (cough awayfromstarwars cough), but being clicked at all day, with the expectation of understanding said clicks and the frustration that ensues when I don’t follow… well, you can understand how this might drive a sleep-deprived mama a little crazy.

Ah, well, at least this gives him a distraction from constantly smothering his new sister with sloppy kisses.

Until later… click pop clickclickclick click.