Attached

Jeff reported the following exchange took place between he and Bob during bath-time this evening.

“Daddy?”


 “Everything alright down there, Buddy?”


“I need you to help me take out this ball.”


“Do what now?”


 “Take it out, I want to play with it.” Jeff discovers that Bob is attempting to remove his own left testicle.


 “We don't do that with our parts. They are attached.”


 “Daddy, on your parts, why are there hairs?”


 “Well, when you grow up and become a man –"

“No! I don't want to grow. I want to stop growing. I don't want to be a man!”


 “It's fun. Being a boy is fun too. Growing is a good thing.”


 “But I want to be a lady.”

“Um, yeah, ladies are fun too...”










Reason #268 Why I Will Not Be Homeschooling

Bob and I are sitting together in the big chair.

“Mama, let’s read the book with Grover and the letters.”

“Those aren’t letters Boo, those are numbers. That book is about math. Math is all about numbers.”

Jeff yells out from the bedroom, “Math is not all about numbers!”

We sit in silence for a moment.

“Hey Bob, let’s read the Us Magazine and I can tell you all about the Kardashians. Us Magazine is all about the Kardashians.”

I'm Cool Like That

I am watching TV. During a commercial, I hear the water running in the bathroom. I go into the bathroom and remember that I had been brushing my teeth. I then pull the toothbrush out of my mouth.

The 3 year old is yelling, “Mama! Where are you going? This is not the way to the Von’s super market! You are going wrong!” He is correct and why am I pulling into someone else’s driveway?

I discover myself wandering aimlessly across the lawn with a Backyardigan action figure dressed as a pirate in my left hand and a Spring 2008 copy of the Auto Club magazine Westways in my right.

I put down the garden hose “for a sec” to check a text message. Four hours later the front lawn is flooded. (This happens twice in one week.)

I am sitting on the couch. Hear Daisy barking outside. Go to back door to let her in. She is not there. Search backyard frantically calling her name. Try to figure out how she could have escaped the yard. Realize it was actually the neighbor dog barking. Once back inside, I see Daisy sleeping on the couch where I left her.

The shirt I’m wearing is on inside-out, backwards, and I also realize, it's Jeff’s.

I am listening to the phone ring on the other end of the line. I can not remember who I am calling. I do not recognize the voice that answers. I abruptly hang up without leaving a message. I then realize that I was calling my own number to check my voicemail and failed to recognize the sound of my own voice.

High five everyone.

Smacksy Sunday Link: Lora Somoza at The Huffington Post

I have a precious girlie inner circle. This is not some euphemism for any of my lady parts but a reference to my amazing team of girlfriends. They are a gorgeous, kind, and creative, genius-y bunch. One of these Mensa-supermodels blogs for the Huffington Post and her name is Lora Somoza.

Lora is a sex educator, advice columnist and a beautiful and eloquent writer. She also possesses such a dirty sense of humor that it is, at times, unsanitary. (I like that in a gal.)

Enjoy.

You can also find Lora at Bliss In the Bedroom.




Smacksy Saturday Photo: The Cone

My advice to you is not to inquire why or whither, but just enjoy your ice cream while it's on your plate. - Thornton Wilder

Aiming Low

Back in the old-timey days, pre-2004, while you were listening to Maroon 5 and wondering how Adrien Brody would possibly follow up The Pianist, I was busy keeping my single gal apartment quite tidy. By “quite tidy” I mean pathological, OCD, combed the fringe on my carpets daily. When guests were coming over, I would purposely mess something up a little so as to appear more “casual,” this move, of course, proving just exactly how insane I was.

Then I met The Guy. Then we adopted The Puppy. Then I married The Guy. Then we made The Son. Then we moved to The House. There is nothing remotely tidy about any of that. I traded my diorama under glass of a life for a stinky, gorgeous, mess of people and pets and “white” sheets that by Saturday, resemble the Shroud of Turin. And I could not be happier.

Today, I have the good fortune to be recognized for my new levels of slovenly underachieving. The smacksy post, “What Not To Do: Bags” will be featured today on the brilliant Aiming Low website in their Three Day Weekend series. Please go there and read and comment about how clever and adorable you find all things smacksy so that they will realize that this was not all just some terrible mistake. (Like spending $18.99 for that Maroon 5 CD.)

You are very kind. That's why you are my favorite reader.

Location, Location, Location: A One Act

LOCATION, LOCATION, LOCATION

(I follow BOB as he runs into the bathroom. He has the awkward, unmistakable gait that accompanies an impending poop.)

ME

Do you need some help with your pants?

BOB

Please! Hurry Mama!

ME

There you go.

(BOB sits on the toilet, very still. He stares into the middle distance.)

ME
(cont.)

Bob? Everything OK?

BOB

Mmm.

ME

Where’s your poo?

BOB

It’s nowhere.

ME

Nowhere?

BOB

I think it went back down to my brain.


END SCENE