Friday, June 30, 2017

Just When You Think Your Mailbox Knows You...

Guys? It seems I've turned the corner, age wise. According to my mailbox, no longer am I a strong, virile* woman, mind like a steel trap:

sleeping the night away, confident that in the morning my eye hand coordination will be on point

Oh, no. Instead, it seems I am having problems. In the bathroom. Explosive ones.

Dudes. I didn't even know I had explosions going on all up and down in my bowel.

Unfortunately, it looks like in order to fix my bathroom jam...quagmire...toughie...enigma...stumper... metaphorical Gordian knot (Huh? *wink wink* Huh? *nudge nudge* Get it?)  I need to add peppermint candies and bananas to my diet:

(cue whiny voice) Ah. Maaaaaan. I hate peppermint. And bananas! Can't I just use coffee to set off, like, controlled explosions or something?

Apparently not.

But, yesterday, as I sat down, bowl of sliced bananas and crushed peppermint candies at my elbow, my recently arrived Mind, Mood & Memory crossword puzzle in front of me, and the ghost of my daily crossword completing Grandma in the corner, being all:

the doorbell rang.

I had a package!

And it was this:

I kid you not:

And after a quick check-in with my uterus (because, dude, seriously, that wouldn't be cool), I began to realize, my mail box, after years of a relationship full of giving and receiving, full on bonding through rain, wind, snow, sun, heat and even bird poop, doesn't know me. At. All.


At least my Google searches and I are still besties. Well, maybe.

*Anecdote to support my vocabulary choice: A year or two ago some lady walked up to me in the airport restroom as I was standing in front of one of the stalls waiting for Ellie, looked me in the eye and said, "Do you need some help. *deliberate pause* Sir?" So, see, I'm thinking, woman can totally be virile.**

**What I didn't say to the bathroom lady's face but did say in my head: Look, lady, if there is one place you can be sure someone is self identifying.....

Thursday, June 22, 2017

Names Changed To Protect The Innocent (Even Though They Aren't)

It probably comes as no surprise that I've spent something like the last 10 years of my life living in a baby proof house, leaping over baby gates I'm too lazy to open when hauling laundry up the stairs. 10 years of living with a combination of babies and toddlers who can't be trusted not to pull the bleach out from under the bathroom sink and drink it. 10 years of feeling comfortable telling all my friends exactly how many times my children put the tut-tut into the potty "like a big girl!" (And then making them high five me. For my own sense of fulfillment.) 10 years of trying to go to the bathroom, quickly, by myself, while yelling things like "What was that crash? What are you doing?" and "Quit banging on the door, mommy will be done in a minute. A second. Ok, ok, I'll...just...well, Ok, I'm done. Close enough. (flings open door) WHAT DO YOU WANT?!" 10 years of trying to entice my children to eat through the clever use of bribes, toys and pleadings. 10 years of pulling weird things they shouldn't eat out of their mouths: grass, sticks, rocks, shoes, books..... 10 years of having to spend 98% of my day with a child attached to my body one way or another, even though both were weaned before they could walk with any confidence. (Note to the breast feeding mafia: Simmer down there, Capone. My children were very late walkers. Which, by the way, I think is totally awesome, because I once read that lack of kinetic skill development in toddlers correlates with higher intelligence. Dudes, my kids are full on geniuses.)

10 years.

It's a long time.  A long time, people.

And then, a year or so ago, I realized those days were behind me and I began to relax. I began to sit down on the couch to drink my coffee out of a real grown up type mug instead of a sippy one. I took all the locks off the bathroom cabinets. I gave away the baby gates and poured the syrup of ipecac into the garbage. I stopped updating my running partner on the number of times Ellie or Katie tut-tut-tutted without having to be told that "big girls take care of their needs."

And then.


Jon began to look at me with those eyes.

And then?

The children.

The children were giving me the same look.

So I caved.

Because I'm a weak, weak womyn, people.

And the next thing you know, my house is the site of a rotating cast of living beings that survive on the strength of their cuteness.

Yes, I am now a puppy sitter.

Hey! Why don't you all check your shoes in case we missed any tut-tut piles in the front yard, hop over my newly purchased baby gate and come on in! I'll introduce you!

Meet Queenie,

who can't tell the difference between real animals and ones on tv, and must be consoled when she sees either. 

And Spot,

who requires me to constantly remove gross things from her mouth. Most recently? Chewed gum she found on the sidewalk.

And this is Fido,

 who must cuddle. At. All. Times. I never get to use the bathroom by myself when he's around.

And then there's Rocky,

who refuses to eat unless Ellie makes a trail of his kibble around the house, Hansel and Gretel style.

We've gotten to know Buddy,

who eats poop. And not just his own. Enough said.

And, then there is this little bundle of energy named Bandit,

who is the reason we don't have nice things anymore.

We all high fived each other this morning too, when Lucky

put his tut-tut outside, in the grass! 
Awwww! He's getting to be such a big boy!
Dudes! You know? I should totally tell Mabel about it on our run this afternoon!

And, guys? Last week? A puppy named Rex totally fell asleep in my lap. I'm pretty sure this

is the definition of a life come full circle.