May you never have an infestation of lice in your house. That is what I’m wishing for you. May your children never attend a school where, when lice breaks out (and they break out everywhere — rich schools, poor school, private and not. They are geniuses at surviving. That is why lice will live and thrive long, long, long after I am gone) — if and when lice does break out — may the nurses, staff and parents at your school CHECK HEADS, SEND LETTERS HOME, MAKE PHONE CALLS.

And may they not roll their eyes at you and treat you like you’re some unreasonable crazy bitch.

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Here’s a Q&A with Wacky Mommy, by Wacky Mommy:

Q: Only dirty sluts get lice. You are such a dirty slut.
A: Please phrase your question in the form of a question.

Q: Are you a dirty slut?
A: No. But the three parents from the other second-grade class, the ones who refused to play room parent and call the other parents, so I could make 25 calls instead of 100? They are dirty sluts. Also assholes for not helping.

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I’ve changed my schedule. Again. Because why stick with a routine, a regular, boring routine, when you can make a new routine that is even more insane and complex than the old one? This new sked involves 1) job-hunting 2) volunteering in my daughter’s class on Mondays 3) going to the acupuncturist as much as I can (health stuff I am not wanting to write about — too personal. And boring. You know.) and 4) watching the entire first and second seasons of “The Office” (I’ve missed a few, here and there) 5) volunteering in my son’s class on Thursdays 6) women’s group on Wednesday a.m.’s (we discuss much and eat much and drink coffee, while the kids shriek from the other room) and 7) going to church every Sunday, not just Easter. Also, I am dealing with repercussions from not “doing” my old sked. I am talking about my girlfriend who I go for coffee with frequently.

Only now it’s less frequently because I Am Insane with New Sked. Her: “You are going for coffee with someone else? Not me? Are you going to our place? You are such a slut.” Me: “Sorry. Next week?”

So Wacky Boy, Who Is Five, was playing at the sand table yesterday, with one of his many best friends forever, and his BFF tells him, “You’re my best friend!” Wacky Boy, in turn, says, “You are my best friend!” (me: heehee. I love five-year-olds!)

Then his BFF turns to me and, grinning, says, “I’m so glad you brought him here. I’ve been looking for this kid for a long, long time.”

A long, looooooong time. And I’m thinking — the c-section, the three months of colic, his love of hitting things with a stick, his refusal to this day to eat much besides cheese pizza and mac ‘n’ cheese — it’s all been worth it. Because his friend was looking for him for a long, long time. I’m glad I could help.

HELLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO crew of the Thursday Thirteen. Do you remember being five? I do not. I vaguely remember my kindergarten teacher trying to sweet-talk me into taking a nap, and I was no napper. That’s about all I remember. I’m hoping that by keeping this blog, I’ll be able to help my kids keep more of their memories than I have. It could work.

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No, don’t take it away! (Again, kid-friendly.)

Please! Thank you!

At Wacky House, we need more bandwidth specifically to accommodate my YouTube and ABC downloads obsession. My readers! I love you! And I am expending much bandwidth to fulfill your needs.

Are you wondering how Hockey God’s game went tonight? SO FRICKIN’ GREAT. They won 3-2. (Hockey Fact #1: You always want to get the puck in the net more times than the other team.)

“That team,” my husband says to one of the other guys, after the game, “they had trouble standing up. They were falling down pretty easily.” His teammate nods in agreement.

Yeah, especially when their feet got in the way of our teams’ sticks.

I met some of the other hockey wives from the team and really, they could not be sweeter. Especially when their husbands are kicking ass and not getting any ribs broken. (Hockey Fact #2: They don’t tape ribs anymore. And they take about two months to heal.)

(Hockey Fact #3: You can break a rib just from coughing, say, from a bad case of the flu. One of the hockey wives herself experienced this. So bwaaa — hockey, dangerous?)

(Hockey Fact #4: Most of us rabid hockey fans have come to the conclusion that other sports — soccer is the sport most frequently mentioned — are way more dangerous than hockey. In hockey you wear pads, see? And a helmet. In soccer you do not. My uncle, for example, broke his leg twice playing soccer and did not realize it until he broke it a third time.)

One of the other hockey wives, in the parking lot as we were leaving, was giving me evil eye and shaking her head. I’m like, what the hell’s up with her? My husband says, “You’re wearing my jersey…” (a clean one! thank you) “…and they lost to us.” Oh, right!

(Hockey Fact #5: Hockey wives sometimes mix it up. I will sidestep any brawls.)

love,

WM

Is my daughter, Wacky Girl, the world’s youngest blogger? According to the Internet she is. I can’t find anyone 7 or younger who blogs, other than her. (She’ll be 8 in September.)

Sometimes she types her own stuff (blogging, fiction and e-mails); sometimes she dictates to me and I type. (If we’re in a hurry.) She’s been typing up her own stuff for awhile now and started writing stories when she was wee tiny lass.

Until two years ago her typing looked like this:
urytghfjknvjhjmsam,f zynbujxbnxmb
nyiurndytbhdrsummicnybu

Then it looked like this:
dear wacky boy I love you. I am glad you are my borther. Did you like that waffle? We are going shopping, and then comeing home to play, and giting back into the car to go iceskating.

Now it looks like this:
THE FOUR MONSTERS
by Wacky Girl
There lived two monsters who lived in a creaky old house, with spooky old trees aound them. Their names were Jill and Fred. They each had only one friend, Liz and Peter. They were the only four monsters. They were all five, but one was six – that was Jill. She was the oldest. She was glad, becase she could swim and the other three could not…

Anyway. We have her site password-protected, until she is a teen and discovers MySpace, at which point I will lock myself in the bathroom and sob. If you come across any kid blogs we might like, please leave the addresses in comments or send an e. Mercy bouquet.

xxox

Wacky Mommy

A song, from Wacky Boy (do you think it will scar my kids, the way I follow them around with a notebook? I hope not):

“I’m a little person/
walking and flying/
I’m a little person/
that flies around/
I’m the one/
that is an airplane/
I’m the one/
that is a dog’s belly/
I’m the one/
that is a tomato/
I’m the one/
that likes to turn into a tomato/
a lizard/
on your head…”

* Marbles
* Trains & train tracks
* Trucks
* Tin boxes
* Wax paper from small rounds of cheese
* Tiny dinosaurs
* Duplos
* Legos
* Blocks

“Rudeness is a weak imitation of strength.”
— Eric Hoffer, philosopher and author (1902-1983)

“Should Chuck E. Cheese sell booze?” Such a no-brainer. No.

Yeah, you thought I was going to say yes, didn’t you? You do need a Valium IV, or a handful of Xanax, or a fifth of Absolut to get through the Chuck E. Cheese experience. We went for a birthday party the other night — and true to form, the kids had a blast and I became a screaming bitch from hell. But more later about the ride home.

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