When I was a kid, the neighbors next door had a grandkid who used to visit all the time. Let’s call him “Danny” because that was his name. Danny had what nowadays we would call “issues.” Yet my mother, God love her for her patience and endurance, let him come over to play sometimes, fed him snacks, and one fateful year let him go trick or treating with us.

All was well until we knocked on the door of the crotchety old lady down the street.

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From CNN: “The Tom Cruise birthing seminar: ‘A fun game of learning,’ says actor”

Here you go. Would really, really love to do an episiotomy on this fuckhead.

On another note: The Easter Bunny came by — we’re all having chocolate hangovers now. Wacky Girl made signs that said “This way” with arrows drawn below, and posted them around the house, pointing to the baskets on the table.

Wacky Boy was serenading us last night: “What are you doing/to make me haaaaaaaapy?” OMG. Uh, devoting my life to you?

Spring Break = No Homework.

True or false?

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So, bathtime. I had this notion, pre-kids, that bathtime would be snuggly, warm, happy time. I would visit with them, read them bath books, we’d splash a little, then dry off with Disney towels, get powdered and ready for bed. Hardy har, single girl with big ideas.

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Let’s say you want to name your boy baby something like… Monkey. (I love monkeys.) And your neighbor is all, “The kids will be mean! They will play the Name Game and say ‘Monkey-monkey bo-bunky, banana-fana fo-funky mo mi my mo Krunky, Monkey!’ Wouldn’t that be horrible?” And you’re thinking, “Cool song.” And she proceeds to play a game AT THE BABY SHOWER SHE THROWS FOR YOU where “Everyone is supposed to come up with a good” (accent on “good,” said in loud, cheerful voice) “name for Wacky Baby.”

Would you be insulted? Well, I was eight months pregnant at the time and wasn’t sweating too much besides C-Section Number 2, coming up, so I didn’t say anything. Except “No” to Wacky Sister when she suggested “Cornelius.” She’s wrong, Con is a terrible nickname for a little boy living in a “transitional” (ie — poverty-struck) North Portland neighborhood. And, hello, monkey-guy from “Planet of the Apes.”

Now we find ourselves in an interesting predicament. Wacky Cousin is pregnant with a little Wacky Cousin. Wacky Cousin’s name is…

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Our List:

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Whew, Hockey God got an earful yesterday.

From Wacky Boy, as he resisted, well, everything: “This is what I call cooperating.” (ie — he was completely refusing to cooperate.)

From Wacky Girl, when WD was trying to talk to her: “You don’t understand the life of a woman.” (His response: “No, and I never will.”)

Too tired to blog — Wacky Boy is a handful. God love him, but he is a handful. He won’t eat. He punches the dog in the head. He leaves a trail of marbles behind him, wherever he goes. He’s like, a marble addict. I finally hid them all from him. He walks down the stairs with a Duplo bucket on his head. He’s had three concussions so far cuz he completely has No Fear. The only creature he loves in our household is Wacky Cat, who crawls into his bed and sleeps, even when Wacky Boy won’t. Here is Wacky Boy, 10 p.m., setting up a train track, overhead light turned on, singing his happy little Music Together songs, and here is Wacky Cat, peacefully snoring in the middle of the Hello Kitty comforter. (He borrowed it from his sister — it’s purple.)

He refuses to go to sleep until 11 at night, then flips out in the morning when you wake him up. Big surprise.

Yes, I get him up early, anyway, and no he doesn’t nap, and yes we do all of our cuddly little nighttime routines, right down to the music quietly playing, the books, the teddy bears, the snuggly blanket… (Although he did fall asleep in the car yesterday and I was so blissed out to not have him SCREAMING AT ME “NO, MOMMY! I SAY NO! I TAKE THE ‘NO’ TRAIN, MOMMY! KNOW WHY? CUZ I SAY NO!” (Direct quote.)

Walk me down, Jesus. I mean, help?

And Wacky Girl can’t breathe. Inhaler is helping a little. Wacky Daddy informed me last night of Report on News (so you know it’s true — ha) that stated the following: “Vacuuming doesn’t help.” Why? Because the little dust mites, the ones that make us sneeze and wheeze, are being eaten up by Bigger Version of Dust Mite, and THOSE are the ones that you vacuum up!

Fantastic news! All these years, I’ve thought I was helping her asthma by attempting to keep the house clean, and now I find I was only killing off the beneficial dust mites.

Everyone can kiss my ass. Present company excluded, of course.

love

WM

Oh — and two quotes of the day, from Wacky Mommy N:

“There are very few personal problems that cannot be solved by a
suitable application of high explosives”

OR

“I don’t have an attitude problem. You have a perception problem.”

I second that emotion.

Me, “The Phone Talkin’ Redhead,” as my Uncle R in in Tennessee fondly nicknamed me, yes, Wacky Mommy has met her match in Wacky Boy.

WB, on “Finding Nemo”: “How do those divers get in and out of the fishtank, huh? Mommy! How would they do that? What if the divers were swimming around, then they growed bigger and bigger, then they would just break the fish tank! And then, and then, and then, they would all they would get so wet, all the fishes would get so wet, too! Everything would get wet, even the floor!” Oh, he loves “Finding Nemo.”

If you don’t answer his questions (and with a lot of his questions, honestly, I have not the words…) you get this: “Mommy! Mommy!!! Did you hear me, Mommy! The divers, what if…”

I love these pumpkins of mine.

So last night I’m making dinner — homemade mac and cheese, a zucchini/tomato/garlic and onion saute, just a nice little meal, and WB tells me, “You are the kind of bad mommy who never feeds her kids.”

In case you were wondering.

ttfn, off to gamble and drink,

WM