Cabbage Patch gone bad...

I thought Noggin was safe. And it was.

But now they’ve changed the name to Nick, Jr., so I’m thinking they’re just going to skip all the fake altruistic stuff and market wherever and whenever they can.

It’s a recession, I guess. Everyone’s struggling.

So I found myself dozing on the couch, my three-year-old tuned into Dora the Explorer, staring at the screen just like I had taught him to do.

Say what you will about letting toddlers watch television. All I know is that as a single, working mother of two boys and the guardian of a freshman in college, I’ll take my dozing where I can get it. Hence Noggin. Rather, Nick, Jr.

So Dora was saving the little star, or the baby bird, or looking for Boots’s boots; can’t remember what exactly that morning’s story line was.

All of a sudden, out of a vaguely-awake corner of my ear, I hear music that sounds suspiciously like a jingle. A toy commercial jingle.

I cracked an eye open to take a look at the flatscreen sitting on the floor of the living room and there found a scene that looked like it had come from the mind of baby Hannibal Lechter.

Cabbage Patch Kids.

With tufts of removable hair.

That’s right. Tufts. Of removable hair.

I’ll pause here for the full effect of this image to sink in.

The tufts had barrettes, so I suppose there was some measure of comfort there. Until I realized that the barrettes were the mechanism by which the tufts were attached to the skulls of the Cabbage Patch Kids.

I stared, mesmerized. Until Dash, in a moment of clarity I had not yet found, declared, “Mamae…that’s creepy.”

I must be doing something right.

Size does matter...

Dash runs to the bathroom, his butt cheeks clenched in a hopefully-successful effort to keep his bowels from exploding in his pants.

Because he has just recently potty-trained. And going number two on the potty is something that he is having a hard time accepting as the normal thing to do. So he holds it for as long as he can, sometimes three days, and then finds the call of the bowl like that of a siren and finally hoists himself up, desperate to relieve himself.

After such an epic wait, the process of evacuation is, of course, one that is almost painful to watch. The effort faces alone are enough to induce a measure of compassion, even though, let's face, he's brought this on himself, the sphincter-holding beast.

Apparently, because of all the effort, and, umm, blood traveling to his nether region, his peepee has, umm, responded, shall we say.

Dash: "Mamae, my peepee is so big!"

I'm trying not to make a big deal of the fact that my son has a giant boner while taking a dump; and at the same time making a very concerted effort to refrain from laughing because that would likely induce its own trauma, one I'd be likely to have to pay some shrink to make go away.

So what is the proper response?

I smile and nod, at a complete loss for anything more helpful or interesting.

Dash: "Mamae, it's so big! Well, actually, now it isn't. It's just little again."

Smile and nod, smile and nod, wipe his tush, smile and nod while my son engages in a near soliloquoy about the size of his penis.

Visiting Whine Country

We tried desperately to take the exit ramp to Napper Valley. Unfortunately, much to the chagrin of all those strapped into the car and unable to escape the madness, we had Passed Go and were rapidly approaching Whine Country.

He took my toy! He's touching me! I'm hungry! He kicked me! I don't want to stay in my seatbelt! You said we would be there soon!

Once there, it's hard to leave calmly.

I'm going to pull over and give both of you a what-for!

Or rationally.

If I hear one more complaint from you, I'm leaving both of you on the side of the road.



Or gracefully.


Or at all.


There ought to be a law, or a Pavlovian command, or a restraint system...


But there isn't.

So I push the needle just a bit, and crank the music, and throw Cheddar Bunnies in their general direction, and threaten to throw whatever toys are being bickered over out the window. And then, when that doesn't work, because it doesn't ever really work, I grab the actual toy and open the window, from which I dangle the poor, unsuspecting Bakugan, whose short life is about to be pitiably and ignominiously snuffed on I-87.

AND THEN, when an imminent and hideous death is in the offing for whatever molded plastic piece of crap is the latest obsession, THEN the spawn decide that they will set aside their differences. For the sake of the Bakugan/Pokemon/Transformer, they will accept my terms for a peace treaty and stop fighting for as long as it takes to get to the next impasse, at which point there will hopefully be a McDonald's.

Protect the MotherBoard

I think I'm doing something wrong.

Well, let me clarify: there are many, many things I do wrong; but I think I might be doing something really, really, mind-blowingly W-R-O-N-G where men are concerned.

I find myself flummoxed, once again, by behavior both strange and mildly disturbing.

Like, say, someone sleeping over and having a perfectly lovely time, if my interpretation of, umm, the universal language of pleasure, is on point. And then the next morning, when I'm graciously walking him out, this someone says, as I put on my kick-ass metallic silver, wedge clogs, "Those are the ugliest fucking shoes I've ever seen."

Seriously?

When I called him on it two days later, he was outraged because he thought we were in an "open and honest relationship."

Again, seriously?

Or take, as another example, the one who asked for my number, sent cute texts for two days, quoting Shel Silverstein, no less, and then vanished into thin air. After, of course, making one date and flaking a few hours before we were to meet; then making a second date and never showing.

In related news, there's the one I dated for two years, who flitted in and out of my life at will for the last six months. I, of course, was an accomplice in the flit-fuck game; I guess at some point, though, it became irritating. Only because of the agonizing and hand-wringing and anxiety-ridden phone calls I would get six weeks after poking me. Which went something like this:

Me: Hey, great to hear from you. Wanna grab a drink?
Agita-head: Yeah, I don't know; I don't think that's a good idea. It doesn't end well.
Me: Funny, you seem pretty happy at the end of the night.
Agita-head: No, it's great...I just don't know if it's the best thing for us to be doing at this point.

And on and on, round and round, in circles; pacing back and forth past the quivering mass of developmentally arrested, quivering, pussy-ass pile of bullshit he vomits up on me following every single one of our encounters.

I finally tell him, I have to go, got lots of work to do.

Next thing I know, I'm blindsided by a request to friend me on Facebook.

Seriously?

So I text to ask why he's trying to friend me on Facebook. Why not? he says. Because we're not friends in the real world, I say. Sorry you feel that way, I rescind my request, he says. I hit delete and bathe in the deliciousness of my newfound Putting My Foot Down posture.

Because the bottom line is that although I'm probably doing something vastly and quite devastatingly WRONG on this front, my mandate seems pretty clear: Protect the motherboard at all times.

Time Warp

A month since my last update, and I'm still trying to figure out how so much can happen in such a short time.

• Got into graduate school.
• Saw undergraduate transcripts from ummm, well, all those years ago - can't remember taking 73% of the classes.
• Taught Dash to call minivans "Big Ass Cars."  Video proof coming soon.
• Ex-husband's girlfriend moved out.
• Ex-husband's new girlfriend showed up for brunch.
• Got winks from RETURNofTHELion, losthair, pro_fit_able, OfficerKrumke, and gentleman_jay.
• losthair augmented his wink with a profound follow-up note - "You are very pretty.  Call me."  Ooh, ooh, yes, please, I can't wait.
• Not.
• Luca learned to swim!!!
• Dash went pee-pee on the potty!!!  And pooped in the woods!!!
• Teenage sister, Gabi, moved in with us to start undergrad at NYU.
• I discovered the joys of having family close.
• And the frustrations of living with a teenager.
• Middle-aged (if my dog year calculations are correct) Westie dog, named Wallace, came to live with us after a stint with my ex-husband.
• Wallace got mad when we left him alone at home for a couple of hours and ripped up the crappiest McCrapped-Crap diaper he could find in the garbage.
• Discovered new community at off-leash hours in Fort Greene Park.
• Lost in court to Dash's father and his shark attorney.
• Figured out how to put my tax dollars to work with free legal help.
• Served papers on aforementioned sperm donor.
• Became a yoga studio manager.  Found inner peace.
• Even in the face of idiocy and collapsing economy.
• Re-ignited my passion for blogging.

What happens when sidewalk chalk is left out...

Maybe this is how Jackson Pollock got his start?

The Pinata Incident

Scene: 3-year-old birthday party at Fort Greene Park, lush hillside, under the shade of a beautiful tree.

Players: 3-year-old, her friends, parents, and friends' parents

It was a pleasant Saturday, late morning, up near the giant phallus, I mean, monument, in Fort Greene Park.  We were all enjoying being done with school drop-off for the summer; sharing stories of where the kids would be in school next year. 

Following bubbles, face painting, and pizza, it was time to beat the papier mache bull to shit and watch as the kids dove over one another for toys and candy.  So we armed the petite party-goers with a plastic bat and let them at it, encouraging a beat down on the defenseless paper bull.  One kid and another gave it their best shots, putting a few dents in the pinata.

It was clear after about four rounds, however, that the minis just weren't strong enough to crack the bull.  So the adults took over, fathers and mothers, in an increasingly awkward attempt to just get the fucking thing split already.

Finally, Mother of the Birthday Girl, in her, like, 17th month of pregnancy, took matters into her very strong hands and had at the bull, focusing on its already-tenderized ass.  I held the papered mess in place by holding onto one of the horns so the massacre would end quickly.

Only Mom stepped in a bit, and brought the stick down with such a whizzing force that it whistled as its tip caught not only the bull's back, but my knuckles as well.

Reader, I have not felt such pain since I was 10 centimeters dilated and pushing an 8-pound boy out my hoo-haw.  And at least then I knew I'd get a son out of the deal.

I fell to my knees, dropped my hand in the stainless steel tub of ice from whence I had recently plucked myself a beer, and willed myself to stay silent, lest I traumatize my older son, who had caught wind that Something Was Wrong with Mommy, a state of affairs that generally arises after a long day spent intervening in Hot Wheels spats.

The tears spilled noiselessly, and I hoped there was nothing broken, because, seriously? I AM GOING ON VACATION IN A WEEK...and I will drag my gimpy-ass right hand along and drive with my non-gimpy left hand ALL THE WAY TO THE CATSKILLS if that's what I have to do.

As it happened, there is nothing broken or fractured.  Swollen, yes; scabbed up, yes; MAJORLY bruised,  yes.  But nothing cracked.

I'm thinking of just telling people I got in a fight.  They'd be more apt to believe that anyway.