Backfire

My earlier posts about the creative ways in which I would get Doof to get ready for school in a timely fashion worked for a short while. I swear to God! He is the slowest kid I have ever met. I have tried everything I can think of and I consider myself to be a pretty creative person. I can stand there ticking off the minutes as they pass and reminding him to think about time passing as he's eating (pretending to eat).  I can threaten to take away things he really loves and then actually follow through and do that. I could try to think of things that he loves to eat and that I am positive he would just chow down...and that doesn't work, either. I cannot wrap my mind around the reason why he takes so long even when certain death is just minutes away. I had tried everything and was complaining to a friend when she suggested something she had heard or read. As I listened to this story, I knew I had found the answer! A mom who had the same problem with her son decided that she was sick of the kid missing the bus and being late to school. She decided that she would have him get dressed for school last and do everything else first. She would make him make his bed, brush his teeth, and eat breakfast and then get dressed. If he wasn't done in time, she would send him to school in his pajamas. It took two mornings of sending him in to school in pajamas and it was not a problem any longer.

YES! YES! YES! Shame AND embarrassment! At the same time!  This would surely work!

I prepped Doof the night before by telling him the routine would be switched up the following morning and that he would wear his pajamas to school when time was up and he wasn't dressed. He went to bed that night thinking a lot about how embarrassing it would be to be the only kid in pajamas and I know this because I heard him talking to himself that night in his room. "Doof. You can do this. Just get up and do all your stuff in a hurry. You can do this." (By the way, I think eavesdropping on Doof while he talks to himself at night might be my favorite thing ever.)

When I woke Doof up, I said, "Hey, buddy. Today is the day you get dressed last, remember?" He was so motivated to do things quickly that he hurried very quickly and did most of the things he is supposed to do, but then breakfast reared it's ugly head. All he had to eat was two (TWO!) teeny tiny Rudy's Farms sausage biscuits and take his medicine and vitamins. And he LOVES those things! I was doing him a FAVOR! A HUGE FAVOR! (Don't think it didn't cross my mind to make him eat cheese grits or scrambled eggs. Most people would prefer that, but not Doof. "Cheese grits AND eggs?!? MOOOOOOOMMMMMM!") Anyway, he actually ate his breakfast pretty quickly but it took him...I'm not kidding you...FORTY MINUTES to take two pills and two vitamins. But it gets worse! THE VITAMINS ARE CHEWABLE GUMMY VITAMINS, PEOPLE! Gummy. Chewy. Fruit-flavored. Vitamins.  Let me also say that the bus comes at 8:00 and I wake Doof up at 6:50. PLEN-TEE-OF -TIIIIIIIIME.

So after the forty-minute-vitamin-chewing-game I knew this wasn't looking good and I was secretly kind of excited and my adrenaline was pumping but I didn't remind him of the time crunch he was in because I wanted him to finally learn his lesson. He needed to know that I was serious and that I would keep my promise of sending him to school in his pajamas. But, you see, things got kind of tricky because he couldn't miss the bus because that was the best place to embarrass him, so I had to keep a close eye on the time. Well, I re-filled my popcorn and soda so I could watch the debacle unfold and have refreshments, too, and then when I looked up at the clock, I realized it was GO-TIME! I went to Doof's room to see that he was half-naked sitting in the floor on top of his blankets that were supposed to be folded nicely on his bed. "Uh-uh, Doof. You are supposed to get dressed last and your bed isn't made and actually, it's time to go to to the bus stop." You should have seen the shock on his face. He obviously absolutely does not have any concept of the passage of time! "ALREADY?", he said.

I just stood there in disbelief and said, "Put your pajamas back on. We're leaving." Then something horrible happened. I felt a wet spot on his pants. I am a social worker, people. This is already a risky plan, okay. I can send my kid to school in pajamas, but I certainly canot send my kid to school in peepeepajamas. UGH! He was ruining my plan! What was I going to do? Then it came to me. Check the drawer! Get clean pajamas! Right! And guess what was in the drawer. Only one pair of pajamas that were appropriate for the weather...and they were the coolest pair of pajamas he owns. They are superman pajamas. With a cape. (Thanks, Townsend Family.) So I had no choice but to make him wear his cool pajamas.

We walked to the bus stop. He avoided eye contact. He got on the bus. Nobody seems to notice right away. But, I am a proactive parent, so I decide to go to the school and talk to his teacher about his attire that day, so no special phone calls are made to any certain special child welfare people. I get to the classroom and Doof has just walked in from the bus and sits down at his desk. I whisper to the teacher the reason he's in his pajamas and she understands but then says, "Doof told me you sent a note to the office telling them that he was allowed to wear his pajamas today(....wait for it...)as a REWARD." My mouth dropped open and I looked at Doof. He was happy as a (why is "snake on a stump" coming to mind?) happy as a .... happy person could be. Just loving life in the second grade classroom while wearing his pajamas. I rolled my eyes and as I walked by him on the way out the door I whispered, "That might work today, but what are you going to say tomorrow?"

Well, the day goes by quickly and now it's time for Doof to come home. I anxiously await the arrival of the bus and when I hear it, I rush outside to get a look at Doof. I want to gauge how his day has been, you know, to see if he learned his lesson. He comes over the hill and I swear it's like something out of a friggin movie. He's running, his backpack held in his hand down by his side, his superman cape flying in the wind, and and great big ol' smile on his face.

Me: Hey, Doof! How was your day?
Doof: Mom! It was the BEST DAY EVER! All of my friends and even most of my teachers said they loved my shirt! The PE teacher even asked if I would let her borrow it! And my friend says he wants to wear it for Halloween!
Me: Oh. That's...great.

Major backfire. I don't have a Plan B, people. That was already by Plan Q. Shit.

Drunk People Aren't Known For Having Great Ideas.

You guys. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. It's been a while. You must just be so...fond...of me by now.

Okay. Listen to this story from 2005.

I lived on the second floor of these old and crappy apartments that were within walking distance to both the downtown area and the football stadium when I was in college. Rent was expensive...but not as expensive as a DUI, which is why these crappy apartments were always full. As you can imagine, that complex was also full of drunk idiots.

One night, my four male neighbors from upstairs got really drunk while they packed their stuff up to move out of their apartment. Well, "drunk" doesn't really do justice in describing their altered mental state, but, whatever. Keep reading.

So, one guy had the courtesy to come to my door and ask that I move my car before they threw their sofa over the third floor balcony. I obliged, and then my friend and I watched from the sliding glass door as a full-sized sofa teetered on the rail of the third floor balcony and then crashed to the ground.

Drunk. Idiots.

Well, the story doesn't end there because simply sending the couch over the edge wasn't enough for them. I walked out onto the balcony with my friend as two or three drunk guys started dragging the sofa into the middle of the parking lot.

Me: "Hey. Uh...what are you guys doing?"
One guy: "We're KILLING the couch!"
Other guy: "HAHHAHAAAA!"
Some other guy to the other other guy: "Tell him we're ready!"
One guy: "We're READY!!! Get your keys!"
Me: (crickets, then a thunderous noise of about ten people running down the cement stairs.)

They dragged the couch to the middle of the parking lot (you know, where the cars drive, not where people sit on couches and watch movies) and then another guy gets in his car and backs it out of the parking space and drives off. The idiots are all standing around and I start slowly realizing that they're planning on trying to run over the couch with the car. I mean, that's a brilliant idea, right?

I look further over the edge and see about fifteen guys watching and waiting to see how cool it's going to be to run over a couch with a car. Over to the right, I see the headlights of the old 1986 Honda Accord drawing nearer and finally coming to a stop. I hear the idiots urging him to "GO! GO! GO!" and like something out of a movie, he revs his engine a few times. I look over at my friend and we silently agree that we are about to witness something that could not possibly end well.

In slow motion, the engine revs one last time right as the drunkest idiot decides he wants to sit down for a second. You know...he obviously needs to rest. He was really too drunk so stand to even a minute longer. Actually, he can't stand up for even a second longer, so he decides to RUN and flop onto the sofa just as drunk driver guy puts the petal to the medal. I start waving my arms. "NO! STOP! OH MY GOD!!! STOP!!!" And then I see crash and the really tired drunk guy literally goes flying about 30 feet through the air before skidding across the asphalt on his face.

The cops showed up. People got arrested. Guys still have scars.

Drunk. Idiots.

I thought you needed to know this story.

Smarty Needs Some Training

Okay, so you guys remember Smarty, right? She's the sassypants girl who lives across the street and Doof's big sister-ish kind of friend. Good. So, Smarty's momma works her butt of providing for her family and I like Smarty because she provides great blog material is just as crazy as the rest of us. Anyway, I got the opportunity to pet-sit at a friend's house and this friend has a pool. A real pool. A really clean pool. (No way am I going to a public pool. All that pee. Teenagers doin' it in there. Babies without those tight plastic diapers. Sweat. Snot. Spit. Okay, I have to stop.) This pet-sitting gig was divine timing because it was hotter than a hundred hells this weekend and even the balmy water was better than no balmy water. So, I took Doof and Smarty and Stinks with me over to the house to swim and whatnot. Again, perfect because said house also has a baby bed for Stinks to nap in. Not sure why that's important to this story...but okay...Smarty needs some diversity training.

Exhibit A:
For some reason Doof has it in his mind that you cannot see him once he goes "under the dark water". Never mind that the pool is clean and the water is clear and the bottom of the pool is a pale blue or that Doof is BLACK. Smarty goes along with it for a few minutes. She likes to join him in his fantasy world from time to time. She is a few years older than Doof and I like to think she finds it freeing to go back in time a few years and play pretend. But, you know....there's only so much she's willing to put up with. So, there's Smarty on the diving board. She's looking toward the shallow end where Doof is sinking under the water and jumping back out saying over and over again, "Smarty! Can you see me? Smarty! Can you see me under the dark water? Smarty! Smarty! Can you? Can you?" Finally, she has had enough. "YES! I CAN SEE YOU, CHOCOLATE BROWN!!!! GAWD!"

Exhibit B:
Same day. Same pool.
Smarty: Hey, Ms. ______(oh my gosh. what am I going to call myself on this blog?)_____, did you say that your friends are going to adopt a brother and a sister?
Me: Yes.
Smarty: What color are they?
Me: Uuuuummm...you mean their skin color? They're bi-racial.
Smarty: What's that mean?
Me: Their mom is white and their dad is black.
Smarty: Oh yeah. I've seen those kinds of kids. They have weird, fuzzy hair.

Exhibit C:
Same day, again. Same pool.
Me (more to myself than anything): Man, Stink's ears are still so floppy. I wonder how long until the cartilage hardens.
Smarty: Well, at least his nose isn't connected to his mouth.

Smarty, really? So, I jokingly mention this to Smarty's mom and her response?
"She said CHOCOLATE brown. That's a compliment. She loves chocolate."

Wonder where she gets it.

There's Something You Should Know About Me.

I have been told many times over the years that I like bad music. Actually, the first time I ever heard this, I was in the sixth grade. There was a kid who called me "Murphy Brown" because I guess Murphy Brown likes bad music, too? Some comments were made in high school that it was strange that I knew all the lyrics to strange songs. When I would drive and flip through stations, I usually landed on some old lady station. And Travis thought it was funny when I cried the first time I heard Tesla's Love Song. If you ever see me sitting in traffic singing into my cell phone, I'm probably not singing anything current. 

I always think it is fascinating that personalities are so enduring. My dad once gave me a recording of myself at age 3 talking talking about a hippopotamus and singing Up On The Housetop and some other such nonsense. It was really odd to hear my three-year-old self saying "Noooo, I'm gonna spank YOU!" with the exact same tone and inflection as I use today. I guess what I am getting at is that I was probably enjoying bad music back then, too. Some things probably don't change much.

In my childhood, us kids had absolutely no radio rights in the car. We listened to what my mom and step-dad listened to and that was all there was to it. While my mom was single, we always listened to (i guess you would call it) light rock. Lots of Christopher Cross, Debbie Gibson, Bryan Adams, Peter Cetera...all really nice, if you ask me. Air Supply was also a favorite. (I am such a dweeb. I know, but  am embracing it.) I actually got to see Air Supply in concert when I was in undergrad. I was embarrassingly excited to go and eagerly asked my really awesome roommate (who liked some kinds of bad music), but Air Supply was just too bad for his taste. I had just met my husband and we were at that point in dating where he should be trying to please me and make me happy, so I just knew he would go with me. Nope. No one...not even one person I knew...would go with me to this concert. I won't lie. I was disappointed but I was not going to miss the concert even if I had to go by myself. 

I did some soul-searching and started wondering if my taste in music was really that bad. How could I be so off-base in my music selection that not a single person I know would take me up on a FREE ticket to see Air Supply? I mean...we all know the songs. So now I COMEEEEEE to YOUUUUUUU with OOOPPPPPPPEN AARRMMMMMSSSSS. Come on. You ALL know that one. Even Mariah Carey covered it because it's GOOD. Sigh. Whatever.

Anyway, I finally found someone to go to the concert with me. I packed a bottle of wine, a blanket, some fancy cheese and crackers and me and my mom had a great time and I even got to kiss Graham Russell on the cheek. Now all you haters are sad you missed it, aren't cha? Humph.

Why Didn't I Think Of This Sooner?

Every. Single. Morning. I have to fight with Doof to (a) get up (b) get dressed (c) eat (d) eat faster (e) OH MY GOD HURRY UP AND BRUSH YOUR TEETH BEFORE YOU ARE TARDY AND I LOSE MY MIND!!!!! I have tried everything I could imagine to get him just to, please, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD...MOVE YOUR ASS!!!  I mean, what is it with this kid? I have found myself asking if this is just a personality trait I will have to accommodate. Will Doof ALWAYS be leisurely? Will he NEVER care about hurrying the hell up for anything? I have even asked myself if it's a black thing. Would black mothers be as crazed as I am about getting things done on time, being prompt? Is he on "black people time" and I just don't get it?

I'm not kidding you when I say that I have, on more than one occasion and by 7:00am, grabbed him by the shoulders and shaken him until I heard his teeth rattle. It takes that much escalation and effort just to get his attention and to let him know that I am serious about whatever it is I am saying to him or asking of him. Am I proud of doing this? No. Am I human? Yes. Am I a perfect parent? Yes. Really? Yes. Perfect. I'll prove it in a few paragraphs.

It is so irritating to have to tell him over and over to do things. It is frustrating to me that he waits until he is told to do the things he knows he has to do. We call this "Learned Helplessness". And it is all my fault. He acts like he's helpless and I continue to treat him like he's helpless.

Me: Hey, Doof, put your clothes on.
Doof: Ok.
(fifteen whole minutes later...I mean, really, the kid has to put on three items that have been predetermined that he would wear. They're already laying there waiting to be worn. Three items. That's it. Five counting socks and shoes.)
Me: Doof, really? Where are your shoes?
Doof: In my room. You didn't tell me to put them on.
Me: (collapse to the floor and begin banging head)
Doof: Whhaaaattt?
Me: (now sobbing): How many days have you gone to school without shoes on? Do I have to tell you every single time what every single step is?
Doof: (standing there)
Me: OH MY GOD! GO GET YOUR SHOES ON! (then realizing I forgot to mention socks...) AND IF YOU COME OUT OF YOUR ROOM WITHOUT SOCKS ON BOTH OF YOUR FEET I AM GOING TO....(thinking, thinking, thinking)...GIVE ALL YOUR TOYS TO THE FOSTER KIDS AT WORK!!!

Mornings are bad. After school is terrible.

Doof RARELY has time to play after school because gets home at 3:00pm and he spends SO MUCH TIME on each task that by the time he is done bitching and finally doing what he needs to do,  we have dinner around 6:30pm (then he sits at the table for an hour eating so incredibly slowly) that after dinner, he goes straight to getting ready for bed.  Still, THREE AND A HALF HOURS is enough time to have a snack, do homework, pick one chore, and then play before dinner. It's ridiculous (right?) that he can't do these things in that much time. And then guess what happens? I get to listen to him moan and whine that he didn't get to play outside AFTER I have listened to him moan and whine about not getting the snack he wants, not wanting to do his homework, not understanding his homework, not being to pronounce the word "would"/"marble"/WHATEVER, and then complaining that he doesn't know how to "fold his blanket"/"find the trash bags"/WHATEVER. It is an understatement to say that I am sick of it. Sick to death.

I consider myself to be somewhat intelligent. I have a degree in psychology and a graduate degree, too. So why is it that I am so dumb when it comes to my own kids? I had this idea (okay, it wasn't really technically my idea, per se) that I would make these lists on small dry-erase boards for Doof. I would make a list of the tasks he needed to complete for each section, if you will, of the day. Each day he would choose the list and go through the tasks he needs to complete and check them off one by one.

Honestly, I put off doing this little kid-organizing task because I didn't want to have to go through all of his lists with him and double-check his work. I mean, that's like adding another baby to the mix...following him around, looking over his shoulder all the time, double-checking his work and most of all, listening to the whining!!! Plus I'm...kinda lazy and all...so, yeah, that's why this took so long. But, do you want to know what jump started this process? Frigging Target had the dry-erase boards for a dollar. Naturally, I bought ten because I have a lot of lists in my head (Poor Doof). Then I bought these Velcro strip thingies that would adhere to the wall, but would also make it possible for Doof to easily remove the board and carry it with him if he needed to do so and then put it right back on the wall.

We started yesterday afternoon after he got home from school. He was super excited to have a list and a dry-erase board! I couldn't believe it myself! He eagerly checked the items off the "After School" list and then...dun dun dun...HE HAD TIME TO PLAY OUTSIDE. Actually, a lot of time. It wasn't all great. The Before Bed segment was a cluster fuck challenging, but this morning....oh, PRAISE GOD, this morning was A DREAM COME TRUE! Doof got out of bed, dutifully went through his steps, checking them off proudly and running into the kitchen to make sure I knew when he had completed one, needed only a little bit of supervision, and got ready for school (including eating breakfast and brushing teeth and putting on socks and shoes) in TWENTY minutes. Twenty. We even made it in enough time for Doof to catch the bus! THE BUS!!!!!  I praised the heck out of him and made a HUGE deal about how GREAT he is and how I AM SO IMPRESSED and OH MY GOSH!! YOU JUST EARNED YOUR TOYS BACK!!! And he was just glowing. Smug. Proud of himself.

AND while we were waiting for the bus, I nicely asked Doof to put on his sweatshirt. A simple task and a kindly phrased direct order (not a choice).  Ugh. I could see it coming...the negotiating, the whining, this perfect morning was going to end in the typical fashion; Doof arguing with me over something so dumb. But...Doof surprised me again. He started to shake his head no, then stopped, then started to give some excuse, then stopped, finally took a big breath...and then a miracle happened.

He said, "Okay, mom. Yes ma'am."

See? Perfect Parent.

Jealous

Lately Doof has been asking me questions about his birth mom. I knew these days would come. In my mind, I knew exactly how I would answer him.

I guess I will preface this story by saying that my parents divorced when I was very young and they had nasty custody battles for years and years and years and years...you get the point. My mom was not very kind in speaking about my dad and many times I thought I was not loved by him nor worthy of love from others. It's so strange (and permanent) what a five or six year old mind can do to a person.

Anyway, I knew these days would come and I knew exactly how I would answer his questions. I would be different from my mother in handling things with Doof.  I would use my experience to be a "better" mother by answering him in a very loving way and making sure he knew that he was loved by her, even if only in the fucked up way she could muster. Well, I wouldn't say it like that, but I would make it sound all butterflies and bunnies and he would be satisfied.

These questions have been going on for a couple of weeks now and I was doing a great job of fielding his questions while considering truth and his feelings at the same time. I was saying things like, "She couldn't take care of you because she couldn't really take care of herself" and "I know she loves you because all  mothers love their babies". I was proud of myself for being so kind and thankful for my education in social work and therapy. But I am beginning to lose it. In the same amount of time this has been going on, I have found myself becoming uneasy and increasingly anxious about why he is asking these things. I have almost on numerous occasions told him things that he never needs to know. It won't hurt him to go through life thinking she actually loved him. It will only help him to think that he was not to blame, that he was always worthy of love. If he knew the things she didn't do for him, he may think he didn't deserve to be cared for. I have been up at night thinking about this stuff for weeks and even though I know what is appropriate and inappropriate to say to a wee boy...I am getting mad/sad/territorial.

And for some reason today I can finally name this feeling.

I am jealous.

I am not saying this is a mature feeling or that I have thought this out or even that I really understand it. But, ya know, I just don't want to have to share him. I am the one who was rocking him in the hospital those endless days. I am the one who was spending my nights laying awake worrying about him and his adjustment to our family. I am the one who signs him up for soccer and takes him to the practices and games. I am the one who does his laundry, packs his snacks, shows up for school functions, takes him to the zoo, the museum, the doctor, the emergency room. I wipe his tears. I laugh at his jokes and general craziness. I enjoy him. He consumes my every free thought, I LOVE HIM. He's MINE! And I should not have to share his heart.

But ya know what else is true? Because he is mine, I love him too much to break his heart and tell him all the things that she never did for him. All those little ways that a mother cares for her baby; the diapers, the doctors, the cooing, the holding, the playing...all those things she never did...

I need to come to a place where I am not so reluctant to share his heart with her. I'd rather share it and make it so full of love and positive images of himself and his life that it bursts rather than breaks. A broken heart can follow you around for a long time. A heart bursting with joy can carry you. But knowing these things and biting my tongue are two different things. And today I am really struggling with biting my tongue, which turns out to be a recurring theme in my life.

What's in a Name?

When I was pregnant with Stinks, my husband basically refused to say that he agreed with a name until the very last minute. It was annoying for many reasons. First, I think he just wanted to be in control of something (and we all know who's actually in control over her, right?). Secondly, starting at week seven, I barfed multiple every single day until the day I delivered, and feeling nauseated while someone else is pretending to be in control is just annoying. Third...it was terribly annoying.

Anyway, left with no other option, I named the baby Nauseous Bile and called him "NB" for short. People were convinced that I would call him NB forever and started to insist that we find a name for this baby. Again, there was no convincing my husband to concede and tell me whether he agreed to the name I liked or not. About two weeks before I was induced, he finally agreed to a name, but there we were in the delivery room and right as they lifted Stinks up so I could see him, my first thought was, "So, you're NB, huh? Dude. You are so...purple." I mean, really, he was. The thought crossed my mind and I said to myself, "Aw, man. We didn't have a cute baby." Never in my entire life had I seen such purple, gooey, and cone-headed newborn. It was unreal and a little scary.

I hadn't slept a wink the night before Stinks was born (because I was awake and vomiting...okay, sushi the night before you deliver a baby was probably not the best idea I have ever had, but I still maintain that it was Stinks's idea) and the epidural made me all itchy, so they gave me Benadryl.  I was asleep between pushes. Travis had this confused look on his face. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, but I could not imagine calling this baby by his name.

I promised I wouldn't call Stinks "NB" anymore after he had a name, and I only call him NB every now and then. But, it has become  obvious that I  have an issue with nicknaming things because I haven't call Stinks his real name in months now. He is called Stinks, Boons, Boons Farms, Boozie, Beebee, and Hunsie most of the time. I only worried about this when I was reading a pamphlet the pediatrician gave me which stated that by nine months, a baby should respond to their name when it is called. I guess we'll see what happens when they try to check this milestone at our next appointment.

Good Ideas GONE WILD

So, I'm not mad or anything at the person who suggested that we have a garden this year. I think this person has good intentions (generally speaking) and has incredible vision and garden-hero-potential, too. This person suggested a small-ish garden with a nice variety of fruits and vegetables along with some flowers and herbs, you know, to, uh...make it prettier and more fragrant...no...to, um, attract "beneficial insects". What? 

The person who had this great idea is usually the kind of person who sits on the couch and imagines things that are pretty or clever or useful. This person may also simply get ideas from Pinterest and pin the night away but never actually do anything, per se, with said good ideas. Well, not this time. The person who suggested this thing actually created  the garden. That same person used an actual tiller (A MACHINE FOR CHRIST'S SAKE), planted actual seeds, AND remembered to water the seeds. Surprised, and a little bit scared,  at the rate at which these seeds became tiny leafy green things, this person did not succumb to fear. This person finished  the making of the garden, including building a fence (okay...wrapping plastic netting stuff around poles and using zip ties to secure it), planning where to put the leafy, green things, and even installed a GATE...AND decorated the garden with a metal sunflower thingy and a pinwheel. 

This person was so committed to the idea of a garden that cinder blocks soon became homes for herbs, strawberries, and various pretty flowers, and the leftover wine corks became garden markers. I have to say, it is pretty amazing. The person who orchestrated this entire thing and sowed seeds and planted tiny plants that grew from seeds is pretty. Haha! I should have said pretty amazing, but she's pretty, too, so I needed to add that, you know. That Alyssa has really outdone herself this time, if I do say so myself.

Pouf. Poof. Poop.

You know the usually-brightly-colored-meshy-things that you use in the shower with your body wash? I call it a pouf.  I think that's the technical term for it. Read the back of your shower gel.

Tonight I was totally confused when I ran a cool bath for feverish Doof and after dumping in all the toys he says, "Me and Stinks have the same poop now." What? You can imagine what ran through my head. It starts with "You better not have pooped in the tub" and moves into "Wait. How would you know that, anyway" and finally, "Poop? Really, Doof? For four years you thought you've been scrubbing yourself with a "poop"? It's not a poop. It's a poof. Or is it a pouf?" It was a little touch-and-go there for a minute.

Duh, sweetie.

Note to Self: Don't drink coffee after dinner, okay, hon?

Sexy

Me: Hey, Smarty. How ya doin?

Smarty: I'm sexy and I know it.

Cuss

Me:  Hey, Doof, do you know what a cuss is?
Doof:  Yes.
Me:  Okay. So tell me.
Doof:  It's a sickness in your mouth.
Me:  Okay, then what's a swear?
Doof: You know. A pinkie swear.
Me:  Right.

Dessert Times Five

Doof has always been weird about eating. I cannot tell you the hours we have wasted as a family and as individuals sitting at the table waiting for Doof to eat, talking about whether he will eat this or that, talking about why he has these weird habits, planning new ways to get him to eat, etc. It is exhausting and I know better than to pay this much attention to it. I know that I cannot make him eat and that he will eat when he's hungry, but because I am a behaviorist at heart, I cannot stop myself from thinking about ways to condition him to do as I like.

It started years ago when Doof was in foster care. He was a sick little baby and was undergoing chemotherapy for a rare blood disease by the time he was thirteen months old. Side effects of chemo include the likely possibility of developing sores inside your mouth. Food starts to have a very different taste. Meat can taste especially bad and other things have no taste at all. This chemo treatment continued for more than a year, and then he had a bone marrow transplant. By the time it was all over and he was released from the hospital, he was two and a half years old. I guess it was the sores in his mouth, but this could would eat hardly anything. The only thing we could really count on was that he would never turn down a bottle of PediaSure. Besides PediaSure, orange Popsicles, sour cream and onion Pringles, chicken nuggets,  mashed potatoes, and ketchup squeezed from packets, the kid ate nothing. No vegetables and barely any meat for more than a year. Gross.

So, here we are, five years later and we are still thinking and talking about food all the time. He is small for his age and the three year old down the street weighs almost as much as he does. The endocrinologist is worried about his growth and has advised us to give him high calorie snacks before bed. Great. Sure, Doof, you can have a peanut butter and jelly and five cookies and a milkshake right before bed even though I just had to spent thirty minutes threatening you just to get you to eat your dinner. Here, son. Enjoy. It just goes against every logical bone in my body. But, I guess Doof has to grow. For now. After he's back on a growing trend, he'll eat WHATEVER I SAY.

Speaking The Language

Doof Malloy, our oldest son, is adopted. (I will probably call him "Doof Malloy" in this blog for two reasons. One, that's one of his nicknames. Two, he's got a pretty unique name given to him by his birth mom and if she were ever to find this blog and decide that she needs to have him back, I don't want to make it any easier for her to identify him that it would already be. (He's the black kid who acts like a wild animal and lives with the crazy white people in the very un-diverse small town.) And besides, he's MINE, bitch! Get to steppin'!

Fortunately for him, he was adopted by people who are just as untame as his biological folks obviously were. He fits right in here with us and our menagerie of pets. He growls at people he has just met. He runs on all fours like a leopard chasing a gazelle. (I would say, "like a gorilla". but I am trying not to be inflammatory in any way. (Side note: I NEVER knew that "monkey"was a derogatory word used to marginalize black people. Did you guys know that? When I met Doof, one of my friends would swing him around in his blanket and call it a "monkey swing" and boy, oh, boy! When a black lady overheard that that shit hit the fan.) One of the things I love most about this boy is that he is ridiculously creative. He operates on a level different from almost any other kid I have ever met. To us, he is a bit strange at times, but in an endearing and clever way.

When we first adopted Doof, we were busy working and I was also pursuing a Masters degree so we were rarely home. Doof was in preschool and went to pre-K at the same center and we didn't know any of our neighbors for more than two years. We were just never here. Actually, as I am remembering it, I recall a really typical Doof moment. Okay, let me set the stage here. It's a nice spring day. We have all of the windows open to let in the fresh air. Music is playing throughout the house. We're doing some cleaning. I notice when I look out the window in Doof's room that the little girls across the street playing outside in their driveway. We don't know them, but we see them outside sometimes. They're cute. So I send Doof to his room to put away some of the toys I had found throughout the house and I go about my business. After about ten minutes, I haven't seen Doof, so I go to check on him. He's only four. He might be doing something dangerous. I walk around the corner into his room and guess what I see? (Actually, don't guess. You don't stand a chance of guessing this.) There is my precious Doof with his bare asscheeks wiggling in the window. My son is MOONING the little girls across the street. Given ten minutes to himself, he actually took off his pants and  underwear and mooned the girls across the street in broad daylight with the window open. Shocking behavior.

Back to the purpose of this post.

So, when Doof first came to live with us, he would say strange made-up words consistently to describe things. In the bathtub, he would sit Indian Style (I capitalized this out of respect to our Native Americans.) and call the water in the little circle inside his legs a "souk". In context: "Mom, look at all these toys in the souk!" or as he is pouring water into the circle, "Mom, there's a waterfall in the souk!" or when you pull the drain, "NO! MOM! MY SOUK!!!" Another favorite word was "chuff". He would use it like a curse word. If he dropped something, if he lost something, if he broke something...just "chuff". My husband and I still like to use that word. It's a good one. Doof is also famous for making up new superheroes. Teddycow Light Chopper is just a stuffed animal, but it's worth mentioning because it's a funny name. Lightman is actually a storm trooper figurine but he has different powers now. There are more...but I don't care that much because I am a girl.

When I finished my Masters program and started working and then got fired for asking to be paid (that'll be a good future post), I was home a lot more and I got to meet the folks across the street. They're wonderful people and very open-minded and they love us a lot and we love them a lot. In fact, the youngest daughter in that family is Doof's best friend. Her name is...hmmm...let's call her Trouble Smarty Sasspants. She is the only other child I have met who really speaks Doof's language. Smarty is the female version of Doof, but maybe even a little bit more...comic strip character-ish. She is the perfect mix of boy and girl. I don't know how to describe her in a better way that that. Anyway, these two kids have a lot in common, including their weird language thing. They both have these crazy vivid imaginations and their minds meld together in a perfect storm of made-up words, superheroes, safari adventures, and wild west shootouts. It's a ....um... special kind of friendship. Like two amputees in a sack race. Now why in the world would that analogy pop into my head?

It's worked out very well having Smarty and her family right across the street. They have formed such a wonderfully strange friendship and I hope Doof will have Smarty in his life for years and years to come.  This is partly selfish on my part because I think of her as a daughter after all this time and partly because I know how important it has been in my life to feel understood. It's rare that you find someone who understands you and accepts you...someone who speaks your language. Smarty fills that need for Doof and I like to watch it. Recently I have been worried about Doof for some not-so-fun reasons. For now I find great comfort that Smarty has probably mooned Doof from her bedroom window, too.

Tupelo's Potentially Fatal Flaw

Tupelo is our Golden Corral dog. It's a long story, but suffice it to say that Travis did not want the mutt I saw outside out the local Mexican restaurant so I went the next day and found the same dog at Golden Corral. Sweet hillbilly mutt.

I found her that next day with the following logic: "If I were I dog, I think I would want to eat steak. Don't they have steak at Golden Corral?" There I found her...by the dumpster. My soul mate. Tupelo Honey Larsen.

I snatched her right up and put her in my back seat. The whole time my friend was warning me that she could bite. I knew she wouldn't bite me. I brought her home and sat in the backyard picking 32 ticks off of her and rubbing creams on her ant-bitten ears. I bathed her bony body and she just sat in my lap and let me pick at her and wash her all up. Just precious.

Nevertheless and from the beginning, Tupelo has been a thorn in Travis' side. Since we didn't know this dog, we kept her crated in our spare bedroom. The first night was fine. The second night was a fucking nightmare. She barked and cried and SCREAMED all night long. The third night we decided to crate her in our kitchen since it's a little farther from the bedroom and maybe we could sleep. That didn't work. At all. She just got more insistent that we should hear her.

But, my goodness, what a sweet, sweet dog she was every other second of the day. She would come to your side and lay her sweet head on your leg and just stare into your eyes as if she was repeating the same sentence over and over but emphasizing a different word each time.


I love you.
I love you.
I love you.

After three long nights, she broke us of our habit of crating her at night, but during the day, we felt like we didn't really have a choice. We worked long hours and she would be home alone all day. Alone with our other dog and cat who are not responsible AT ALL. So, like a normal human, we crated her and gave her treats through the bars and tried to make it as bearable as possible. But, whoa. We did not know how crazy this dog was nor how skinny she could make herself.

I came home and I found the new mutt out of the cage. She was really sweet to greet at the door, but I knew this was a bad sign. I walked to the back bedroom and I found a very strange sight. I saw the tray that would normally lie in the bottom of the crate. It was intact, except it was in the wrong place (read: not INSIDE the crate). Then I saw the crate. Mysteriously, it was also intact. It was like a rectangular cube with the bottom  slid out from underneath it. How in the hell is that even possible?

Tupelo taught us very quickly that she would not be crated ever again. But that's not even her potentially fatal flaw. That's just her stubborn personality. Her fatal flaw is something called spay incontinence. It's as awful as it sounds. Basically she leaks pee and doesn't know it. Her bladder muscle is weak after being spayed and it just leaks. I am a mommy. I understand how awful that can be to have a leaking problem. Travis, however, doesn't care. He just hates her even more than he did already.

Anyway, she takes medicine that is definitely helping, but now Travis is all uppity about how much money these medicines cost. I don't really see that there's an alternative to giving her the pills, but Travis keeps threatening to "go Ol' Yeller on her". So, if he does it, that would make her pee problem her fatal flaw for sure. Right now (and hopefully for a long time) it's just an annoying expense. I love that dog.

Trapped

Today I woke up and got my oldest son ready for school. He's in the first grade and is flexing his sass lately. The bus comes at 6:55am (FOR FIRST GRADERS!!!) so I have to get him up early plus allow an extra fifteen minutes to argue with him about eating his breakfast and whatnot. All this to say that with the seven-year-old and the baby, I rarely have a minute to myself.

This morning was going to be different.

Today I would lake time to take a shower AND shave my legs and I even entertained the thought of blow drying my hair. I waited until it was almost time for Stinks to take a nap and I started using my visualization skills just to make it through those last few minutes. I imagined the mirror getting all foggy...the hot water stinging my shoulders...the rich lather of my dandruff shampoo and that familiar scent that clears my sinuses. Romantic. Luxurious. Selsun Blue.

Just my luck that my angelic infant refused to go to sleep. He screamed and screamed and SCREAMED. I decided I would give in and pick him up from his crib but that I would not allow the little monster to ruin my shower and at this point I was not even willing to wait.

I took him in the bathroom with me and shut the door. I turned on the water and was comfortable with the fact that he had some toys to play with while I could see him through the foggy shower door. Determined to enjoy five minutes in semi-solitude, I turned on the shower and waited for the steam. It was better than I had even imagined it to be. I had about twenty minutes in the hot, hissing shower and I enjoyed every minute. Dandruff shampoo, Rainbath body wash, and even my fresh razor. In between wiping circles on the door so I could see where baby was, I was starting to feel refreshed! I was feeling like a new, softer, cleaner, smoother me.

But, like any good thing,  knew it must come to an end. The water was getting cold and, besides, Stinks was too quiet.

I reluctantly turned off the water and squeegeed the shower, looking through the fresh swipes to see if I could discern where exactly the baby was. I was about to push open the door when I saw a little hand right at the bottom of the glass.  And there he was, sitting on his knees right in front of the shower door. It was cute, at first, seeing his tiny baby hand through the foggy glass. I bent down and put my hand up to his hand. We babbled at each other through the door for a few minutes. Cute, right? I know, but I was starting to get cold and there's nothing more irritating than getting goosebumps after you shave. ALL that work for nothing. Baby needs to move.

It is only now that I realize I have no way out. If only I hadn't used all the hot water, I would have just turned it back on and waited for him to go play with the underwear I left on the floor. Instead, I am faced with a difficult decision. If I open the door, he will fall backwards and bonk his head on the floor, or worse, the toilet. If he falls over by himself, even landing on his tush, I will have to push him across the floor with the shower door so I can open the door wide enough to get out, effectively squishing him between the shower door and the wall. So there I was. Trapped in the shower.

You might wonder how I got out. I opted for the second choice and slowly pushed the door open and that worked out okay. But, just as I flipped my head over to wrap the towel around my hair, I see Stinks crawl away. I swear to God, I had no sooner flipped my head over again by the time I look around to find baby...standing by the toilet and splashing in the toilet water.

Note to self: Two things. Get those toilet lid lock things. Leave baby in crib while showering.

Minor Improvement?

Well, let me start by saying that I expect to be judged very harshly by some for the thing to which I am going to admit. I have a little secret that I have gone to great lengths to hide from a lot of people. Well, it's no secret that Stinks McGhee has huge ears. The secret is about how I am going to cure this minor problem.

I went online and I bought a kit that will help make my Stinks' ears not stick out so far. It was not quite a suggestion from my pediatrician, but he did mention it as something that a crazy and neurotic person might consider. (That's how I knew he was subtly suggesting it to ME, in particular.)

You may be wondering what a person could do to their baby's ears to make them less "bat-like". Well, all you need is a little thingy that looks like a pipe cleaner made of silly putty and some really sticky tape that costs about a hundred dollars.  (Note to self: Check the exchange rate BEFORE buying an item online in a foreign currency.)The answer is EarBuddies. You just stick the pipe cleaner thingy around the curvy part of the outer ear and then tape the whole darn ear flat against the head. 

Just. Like. That.

So, yeah, that's the secret. I've taped my baby's ears down to his head and he often wears a hat these days. I don't post pictures of him on Facebook right now and I make sure he wears a hat when we have take his brother to the pediatrician so that the doctor doesn't report me to the family social workers. I mean, it was kinda his suggestion and all, but I think he'd deny it. Good news is I only have to do this for the next, oh, four months.  But, it says right on the package that a few millimeters can make a dramatic difference in appearance. So...yeah. Millimeters. And even if I decided right now to unleash those floppy bad boys...I can't because the flippin' kit cost me a hundred dollars. Sorry, Stinks. Maybe you'll thank me one day?

Note to Self: Eliminate the word "Jack" from curses

I was getting ready to go on a short weekend trip with the boys and I ran into a little problem with my conversational cursing.

Me: I have so much to pack! I haven't even started.

Friend: Are you packing for the kids, too?

Me: Yeah, and I haven't packed jack shit. Well, I actually did pack Jack's shit, but nothing else.

Now "jackass" is off limits, too. I prefer "dipshit", anyway.

Inspire Your Children

Every morning, every evening, it is the same thing over and over. "Z, go brush your teeth. And do a good job." Oh, I know what the hygienist says because she says the same thing to me every time we go there. "Mom, you have to help him brush until he develops good habits. You should be helping him every time. First, he can brush and then you get a turn." Whatever. Who really does that, anyway? So, on the irregular somewhat occasions that I actually brush after him, I notice that he has done an ABSOLUTELY SHITTY job of brushing his teeth. I usually brush after him when I walk by the bathroom and he is just standing there either a) sucking on the toothbrush, b) smearing toothpaste on the counter, or c) rinsing the toothbrush obsessively.

Well, finally I had reached my limit. The kid is now SEVEN years old and since before he turned FOUR I have been brushing his teeth with him and hounding him about the proper technique and blah, blah, blah. He's old enough to be brushing his teeth well on his own and to give a shit about it.

I decided to take action. He needed to know what the consequences would be if he continued NOT brushing well and flossing. So I did what every concerned parent would do. I forced him to look at the Google images for "meth mouth". He peeked through covered eyes and begged me to not make him look. I mean, I get it, kid. That shit is scary-looking! 

He brushed and flossed this morning...for a LONG TIME.

Curtsy.