Friday, May 4, 2012

Writer's Block. I don't think I am worthy of using that term. Maybe if I write Writer's Block many times it will feel ok.
 WRY TERS BLOK. writer's block. Le Block of Writeur (totally made that up - in case you were thinking, "Damn! She even knows french!). writer writer writer block block block. WRITER'S BLOOOCK!!!!!!!!!!!! Writer's (&(*)**(%^&$%#$ Block.

What was I saying? Oh yeah. That WB thing. I said I'd try my hat at blogging about the asses lasses and I am. Stories and rants and witticisms and Jack Handy (google it if you're too young to know) deep thoughts run marathons in my head but for some reason I'm either a lazy ass and don't feel like typing. Or, it's that mean old Mister Self-Doubt that freezes my fingers up over the letters.

Sure, sure. It's one thing for me to kick my friends' behinds or thump'em in the arm and tell them to go out there and do what scares them. Take that swan dive into the abyss of their fears. Ah, but oh so hard for me to come out from under my bed and do the same. One awesome thing about getting older (there might be more than one- if there is, fill me in please) is that it easier to not care what others' think. I think anyway.

Well, this was just my teaser test for now. I'm off to witness the transformation of Gab into Amelia Earhart in her 3rd Grade Wax Museum of History. If she can do it, so can I.

Catch you at the tip of our abysses!

Thursday, March 8, 2012

Just stuff. Stupid stuff.

....We are on the cusp of Birthday Season with Bean in March, Gabber in April and Min in May. We don't have a Spring. We have a Birthday.  If you're a child in the T house, your birthday isn't just on 1 day. It's the entire month. You must mention it everyday, maybe 20 times a day, at any random moment. I'm in the bathroom, door shut. It would be awesome if you lay on the floor on the other side, pushing your little fingers under the door, telling me it is March 1st so you have 20 days until you get barbies, squinkies, floogies, zaps zaps or whatever dumped on your head. And absolutely NO WAY IN HELL are we going to have ONE centrally located party for all 3 girls- say, mid April. I mean, I would hate to not be able to coordinate 3 separate, complex parties with 3 different cakes and 3 different locations and 3 different dramatics. No, that would make me a super meanie mom.

....Bean: "I wanna be a dog."
Me:   "Why..."
Bean: "Because I don't want any more shots."
Me:   "Dogs get shots."
Bean: "Than I wanna be a cheetah." (than please run outside, cheetah child, where it's more like the wild)

....Gabbers is trying to enter my date of birth into a game on her iTouch. When she is trying to find the year: "oh man, this is taking a loooong time to go back so far!" (but look how gracefully beautifully so so I'm aging)

....Poop. Crap. Turds. Shit. Whatever it is, there seems to be a phase where they don't believe that if it's brown, flush it down. Did they forget they took a smelly dumpie? Does that also mean they forgot to wipe their poopy butts? Is this why they scratch that poopy butt and complain that it itches? (for god's sake, wash your hands before sticking them in the family sized bag of chips!). Do they leave turds floating around the bowl because they figure I like to check'em out, maybe see that it's shaped like the letter S? No. No, I really don't. So puh-lease flush'em when you poop'em. And that goes for your little friends, too.

...."you've got your dumped out kids, you better run better run out of my gun!"

....Gabbers asks Bean to get her Mario ds game so they can "verse" each other. "Let's verse each other!" I like it better than play each other. Awesome, Gab. She also comments about Bean traveling to my bedroom in the middle of the night. Hon, I'm just down the hall, not in Chicago.

....Oh Min Min. She sort of kind of oh my god has her first boyfriend. What do they do that makes them boyfriend (gah! not ready)/girlfriend? "Nothing. Just text." Good. As long that first "t" doesn't become an "s" I am so cool with this. When Min first told me about G (let's protect the innocent), she looked at me with her huge caramel eyes and asked, "Will you think differently about me now? I don't want you to." In my heart, you're still my sweet firstborn baby girl. Now, when you tell me you've kissed a boy....oh my heavy heart. And your dad's heavy shotgun.


Friday, February 10, 2012

Stop running jumping wrestling yelling slamming bouncing thumping stomping talking....MOVING.

I say these words, and variations of these words, all the time. I mean it. Ad nauseum. Yes. I want to throw up a little bit every time one of these words exits my mouth and hits that brick wall.

 But you know something? I'm a hypocrite. I may not be doing these actual movements (I wish I had the energy to though- I'd follow them around for a week doing exactly what they do and see if my ass tightens up this way) but I also never stop moving. And yes, those unlucky enough to be around me much would say that I also talk too much. It makes me wonder if those people are hearing the Charlie Brown Teacher Noise when I'm talking, like I sometimes do with my girls. Hmm. I think I'll give little tests after I've imparted my wisdom onto my friends and family folks. Just to see if they paid any attention to me.

"So, Laurie, did I drink red or white while watching Eclipse last night?

"Pam, so, does Marin like Gale? Or is it Carson?"

But back to the moving (sure, you're thinking the girls inherited diarrhea mouth disease from me, I know). I can't relax. I don't know if I don't know how to sit still or if I forgot. A big test for me is to see if I can make it through an entire movie- I mean from opening credits to closing credits- without doing anything but watching the movie. Ok, sipping my wine and refilling my wine is acceptable as is monching on chips. Nothing else though.

It can't be done. Let's see. Mama's got a full time job halfway across the continent (sure feels this way most days), daddy's got a full time job that actually does take him out of the state quite often and there are 3 precious wittle munchkins- 11, 8, 5- with a helluva busier social calendar than mama. So the movie gets rolling. I sit on the couch. I feel a tic. A nervous twitch of my eye. Than my mouth. My legs are shaking so hard that P can feel the spasms on the other couch. That's it! I grab the 3 loads of laundry that need folded, throw'em on the floor and I've lost the test before the first scene even starts. But hold up. There's a load in the washer that needs to be dumped into the dryer before they get stanky.

You'd think P would pause the movie but neither of us bother. It's pointless. We know I'm also going to windex some kitchen wall pretty soon. And when I do sit down- sip sip- and start to chill...why are the girls' boots sticking out of the closet? Damn it all to hell. Because now I'm reorganizing the whole freakin' closet while peering around the wall to catch a glimpse of whatever movie we started.

I need an intervention because I am really pretty sick of spending more time on IMBd to get my movie synopsiseses than actually watching it. 

Monday, January 30, 2012

Future social worker anyone?

Our Marin. Min. Minnypoo (surprisingly? the poo name doesn't embarrass her- yet). I am constantly amazed at the stupid wonderfully witty things all of my girls say and do.
"Really, Cindy? Wow. We wouldn't know since you never ever never tell us what cute poop thing Bean said or what 3rd grade riddle Gab told you or how Marin stayed up late, worrying about the Middle East. Seriously, Cindy, you should be more open about your girls."

Because I sense your honesty here and not an inkling of eye rolling, I gotta tell ya about our sweet Min's most recent musings, or more appropriate- "i can't sleep at night, mom" worries (I'll save that for a later post- I know, don't leave you hanging for too long- but I'm sick that Min may have inherited the super shitty, agonizing insomnia I had at her age).

Anywaze, so Min is sitting in the family room with her back to me, all quiet which makes me happy worried, than says, "Mom? Have I wasted my childhood? I feel like maybe I have. I should do more."

I'm sorry. Isn't she going to be 12 this May? Shouldn't most of us grown ups be wondering this?

"Why, yes, Marin, you are most definitely wasting it away and you should be doing more. So from now on, you can load and unload the dishwasher. And fold and put away the laundry. Oh, and clean the toilets. Yes. Now you're not wasting away these precious years. And don't forget to make my martini COLD."

Sooo, off comes my well worn sarcasm hat and on goes the serious mom hat. "Aren't you still in your childhood?" ....this led us into a  Min to Mom chat about volunteering, where she could "do more" for those with less. Or take some dogs for walks at the animal shelter. Or put on a food drive for the homeless vets at my agency.

For those of us who know our Min, I supposed this most recent musing of her's isn't much of a shocker. This child makes me wonder if I'm doing enough. And damn it, that totally pisses me off!

...but god i love this kid.

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

100 days of kindergarten...

And this is worthy of a school celebration. Oh yessirree it is. Yippeekiyay mudder fuggers! Bean has managed to slog her little 5 year old self through half of her kindergarten career. What a load off my mind. I mean, this is tough stuff, learning your address and phone number which she refuses to do on the grounds that Ms. Owens can just FB me if she needs to find our house or call our home. Can I call my 5 year old a smart ass?

Bean slaved away last night, counting out 1 cheerio at a time until the 100th made it into the baggy. We only had to start over at least 100 times (see how I can help make this 100 party even more awesomer?), what with Gabbers snatching every 23rd cheerio until I finally redirected her to the vents for goldfish crackers. See:

If she gets to have a hoedown for making it through 100 days of learning her letters, numbers and using a kleenex instead of little Joey's t-shirt, well than damn it I deserve a party for making it through 100 days of something.

  • 100 days have come and gone and I never once shut the 3 lasses in closets (separate of course- I mean I'm not evil) with just bowls of water and crackers so I could play Scrabble on my iPhone uninterrupted. What. This game is heroin to me.
  • 100 days of 6th grade, 3rd grade and kindergarten homework, band practice, choir practice, music programs, conferences, dropping off at friends, picking up at friends, time outs, headaches/belly aches/coughing/snotting/bloodied knees, lying, bickering...Hold up! That's 100 days of parenting! Congratulations to all of you! Here's 100 high fives to all you awesome moms and dads.
  • 100 days of being subjected to the god awful never ending ear bleeding ignoramus spewings of Newty, Ronny, Ricky I, Ricky II, Mitty, Michelley. You know I lean so left I can't walk without using the wall to balance me.
  • And of course of course of course I celebrate 100 days of smooches and hugs and I love you's from my seriously affectionate gals.
What 100th day celebration do you need to throw for yourself? Invite me. I'm good for the wine.