A different kind of scary

Little Dog is kind of dramatic. He loves tormenting his big brother, and Big Dog plays right into his tiny hands. It's not at all unusual to see Little Dog chasing his brother threatening to bite, lick or otherwise "get" him. And it is equally common to see Big Dog running away, seeking protection while howling that "he's going to get me!"

We try to stop this kind of thing. If Big Dog doesn't like it, he is supposed to tell Little Dog to stop. If Little Dog doesn't stop, he is warned, then if he persists, he gets a time out. After the time out, he has to say sorry. No biggie, just trying to keep on top of the tormenting in the dog household.

Last night, after being threatened with a time out for trying to lick his brother, Little Dog decided to change his approach.
"I'm going to huuuuug you!" he says to his big brother in a threatening monster-like voice as he lumbers forward
"Noooooo!" cries Big Dog!
"I'm going to kiiiiisss you!" he tries next, still looming over Big Dog.
"Noooooo!" Big Dog persists.
"I'm going to say sooorry!" he says in his threatening voice.

Looks like Little Dog has already learned a key marketing principle. It isn't so much the message as how you package the message.

Wordless Wednesday!

Gelato and Jazz Hands!

Everybody's getting in on the act!

Limited Resources

Grandma and the boys were sitting on the upstairs porch, enjoying a bit of the Seattle sunshine...um, rain. Just the day before we'd all hit Target to replace a couple of toys that had been enjoyed not only by the boys, but also by the Great Dane. Unfortunately they did not survive his attentions, hence the replacement.

Since he's in a bit of a piss ant phase, Little Dog kept threatening to throw his new Batman, the replacement for his old Spiderman, over the the railing. Grandma tried to talk him out of it, but he continued to try.

"Dashiell is in the yard below, and if you throw Batman down there, he'll get chewed up," advised Grandma.
"If he does, we can just get another one at Target," said Big Dog, looking out for his brother's best interests.
"There isn't always money to replace things. Especially things that have not been taken care of. If you just let things get chewed up, there might not be money to buy another one," Grandma explained.
Big Dog paused and thought about what she had said. He mulled over the new information, and gave his grandma a serious look.
"Don't tell that to Mama," he finally said. Apparently there are things about the family finances I don't need to know.

Pregnancy and childbirth terms that sound like band names

Bloody Show
Incompetent cervix
Cerclage
False Labor
Effacement
Glucose Screen
Third degree tear
Mucus plug
Hyperemesis
Placenta previa
Two Vessel Cord
Ruptured Membranes
Episiotomy
Botched Epidural

Imagine some of the show bills, Tonight Only: Incompetent Cervix playing with Cerclage! Or Ruptured Membranes with opening act Mucus Plug!
Maybe I think about this too much. Still, what else ya got?

No matter what he says, I am hilarious.

For a long time I sincerely thought I'd never get married. My attention span was short, I dated jerks, huge jerks and when I looked at marriage with cool detachment, I didn't think I'd survive it. Really, isn't marriage all about compromise and patience? Don't have patience, suck at compromise. It would be a losing proposition. I wasn't the only one thinking I was going solo for the duration. Although I'd been living with Mr. Dog, my mom was stunned to near speechlessness when I called to tell her we were getting married. And no, I wasn't pregnant, and yes, I was thrilled! At some point I'd had a perspective shift and forgotten to fill her in.

It wasn't a lightening bolt moment. More like a "wow, there's a hot guy in my kitchen...cool!" moment that turned into a flirtation, a friendship and after a long tortured in between period, a relationship. Then there was the "maybe spending the rest of my life with this guy, my best friend, my partner in crime and the best pole dancer in the western world, would rock after all" moment. That was the biggie. And it felt right.

It still does. We're working on 7 years here, and he's still the hot guy in my kitchen, even if my kitchen is now filled with kids and dogs and too much clutter. After all this time, he's still my best friend who gets my jokes. And better yet, he puts up with my significant collection of flaws and quirks. He survived my explosively hormonal pregnancies and puts up with my weepy mommy moments. He nods tolerantly as I explain how hilarious I am, and demand my constant praise because he knows that's what it takes to keep me going.

It's not completely one-sided. I'm a pretty good wife, or so I claim. He gets my undying adoration, my support and my outstanding sense of humor. And though he's my perfect match, he's still human. I put up with football and his ongoing destruction of cellphones (though I've lost my ground to be superior on this one). I live with the toilet seat up, and have gained a new understanding of what "I'll be back in an hour" or "It should be done next week" really means. I even set aside my vegetarian ethics and buy him bacon from time to time. And it is all worth it.

I still think he got the short end of the stick in this deal, but he isn't complaining and I'm still counting my lucky stars.

Trust, but verify.

There is a bit of Ronald Reagan's Cold War thinking going on in our house. Not by anyone born during the cold war, mind you, it seems to have "trickled down" to the kids.

Yesterday when Big Dog was getting dressed, he demanded his new shirt. We tried to talk him out of it, but he insisted. I told him he'd have to go get it, and he negotiated his way up to having Mr. Dog come with him (heavy drawers needed to be opened, and maybe all three drawers in his dresser, he doesn't know which dresser drawer is his shirt drawer! He's only had the same dresser his entire life! How could we possibly think he should be expected to do this alone? He's only 4 for the love of God!)

So the men went to the dresser and came back with the shirt. I was busy putting on my make up, but they had questions. "Mommy, is this my new shirt?" he said, holding the shirt up.
"Yes, why?"
"He didn't know," said Mr. Dog, "He needs the new shirt, but can't even be sure this is the one."
"Ok, well, that's the new one," I said returning to my make up.
"Yeah, I told him it was the new one, but he wanted to ask you. I said 'So you don't trust me' and he says 'Yes, if mommy says it is'."
So I guess that boils down to the fundamental "Trust but verify" we lived with in the 80s.

Next thing you know, he'll be telling us that catsup is a vegetable.

Overheard....

from the dining room: Mr Dog, "Everyone got ice water. Why didn't I get ice water." Little Dog, with absolute conviction as he thrust his fist into the air, "cause you want WINE!"

from the bathtub: Trying to convince Little Dog to wash his hair, Mr. Dog, "Put your hair in the water." Big Dog in his best pirate voice, "But not in these 7 seas. Arrrrr!"

at Trader Joe's : Little girl in shopping cart and her mom, "I think we got everything, we 're done!" Little girl, obviously distressed, "Noooo, what about the cookies?"

in the arts and crafts room: Big Dog busy painting his T-Rex model with Little Dog, "Now we're painting his under-butt"

at the park: Little girl to her mommy, "I want you to do what I tell you to do. You know that."

in the living room: Big Dog, playing with his plastic cowboys, two cowboys taking aim at a third solo cowboy, "You aren't like us, we show our butts."

in my bedroom: as I got dressed, putting a tank top over my pretty purple bra, Big Dog, "Is that going to keep your beautiful purple gown in place?"

on the porch swing: tough guy in saggy pants and head rag, walking past the house while Dashiell barks at him, excitedly to his friends, "Hey! That's like Scooby Doo! That's the kind of dog Scooby Doo is supposed to be!"

Pow! Right in the kisser...ok, not the kisser exactly.

"Oh, I poke you in the tummy," says Mr. Dog playfully. "Poke!"
"Noo, 'top it," says Little Dog in his best surly voice.
"Is that your tummy? I'm going to poke it," Mr. Dog continues. "Poke!"
"Top it. No poke in the tummy," he says again.
"Look at the tummy, I'm going to poke it," says Mr. Dog extending his index finger to poke his son's belly.
And Little Dog pops him in the nuts.
NE and I try our best to hide our laughter. You don't mess with the Little Dog.

Thee short stories.

Little Dog:
"Kiss!" says Little Dog turning his face up toward me.
Smooch! I plant on one on his cheek. He smiles, then turns so the other cheek is poised, ready to be kissed. Smooch! I kiss that cheek too. Another smile and he tucks his chin, so his forehead is presented. Smooch! More smiles and he puckers up for yet another kiss. Smooch! I kiss his little mouth and he puts his hands on either side of my head, pulling me toward him for more kisses.
Cheek. Smooch! Cheek. Smooch! Forehead. Smooch! Nose. Smooch! Chin. Smooch! Lips. Smooch! Cheek. Smooch!
He stops, pulls back and gives me his face. Like his own version of Blue Steel , this adorably grouchy face could be copyright protected.
"I don't like kisses he says," in his best grumpy voice as he dramatically wipes the kisses away.
Could have fooled me, little guy! Could have fooled me.

Big Dog:
Naked, apart from a pirate hat, Big Dog is putting toys into the laundry hamper. He's a pirate and the hamper is his treasure chest.
"Could you please put on your underpants?" I ask.
"Not until I'm rich!" he replies seriously as he continues to select toys as his bounty.
"Pirates wear underpants. Always. There are no naked pirates," I try.
"Not until I'm rich!"
Mr. Dog jumps in, "You're already rich, you have a family that loves you, you're healthy and happy! That's better than money." Nice sentiment, but you're talking to a pirate, Mr. Dog.
"No, I need to get rich. I've got to get my treasure."
He continues to load the hamper until he is satisfied with his haul.
"I'm rich enough now," and he consents to be clothed.
Not sure how nudity works into his concept of wealth, but there are so many things I don't understand.

Big Dog:
"Look mommy, there's mountain Rainier," he says, pointing to the skyline.
"Yes, you're right!"
"It's broken."
"Broken, really?" I say, confused.
"It is full of hot lava, but it can't come out because someone broke it."
"I don't think it is broken, it just isn't active," I offer, wondering where he got his info.
"Poppa said it doesn't work. It's broken," he says with slight exasperation and walks off. Enough of my volcanology lesson for today.

My son the medical oddity.

Big dog is covered with bumps. Big bumps. Big bumps with blisters. Big bruising bumps with blisters. I'm going to stop here before I sound too much like The Berenstain's B Book.
I think it is pretty clear my big guy is covered in bumps. Mosquito bites to be exact.

Yesterday, when he woke up, he said, "Mommy, my ear grew!" and sure enough, he had a hugely swollen bright red ear. It looked painful. He says it didn't itch, but man alive, that thing was a crimson throbbing ear and a half.

Turns out the mosquito didn't end her trip to the Big Dog buffet with his ear. He had 3 or 4 bites on each arm and one on his foot. They were big, but not obscenely so, and since he said they didn't bother him, I settled him in with the nanny and headed off to work.

In the afternoon I got a call. "So the bites on Big Dog's arm, did they go all the way to his armpit?" asked NE.
Um, no. They were swollen, but about the size of a quarter.
Since the bites were near his elbow, this comment made it pretty obvious they had grown. And formed blisters. He says they didn't itch, but she'd seen him scratching several times that afternoon.

I decided it was time to go to the doctor. See, Big Dog has always reacted to mosquito bites with a larger than normal bump, and sometimes the bites would get infected and start to hurt. Every year we make a trip to the pediatrician to have his bites looked at for one reason or another so I figured it wasn't a bad idea to have them checked out.

When I got home, the bites had continued to swell. They were now several inches across. His arms were visibly swollen, and the blisters on the bites were larger than I'd ever seen on him. I was impressed, and a bit freaked out.

The doctor was impressed too, not so freaked out though, which is good considering her profession. Said she'd never seen bites with such a big reaction. As we were looking him over we found another bite on his ankle that was swollen to the point of bruising. She said this was more extreme than any of the cases she'd seen in text books and would we mind if the visiting resident came in to take a peek? The resident was impressed too. All this from a few mosquito bites.

Big Dog was a champ about the whole thing. He proudly showed off his bites, hamming it up when they poked and prodded him. If they missed one, he'd pipe in "I have one here too!" I think he enjoyed being the center of attention. He's like that.

Turns out he has Skeeter Syndrome. Yeah, that's the real name. It is a strong localized reaction to mosquito bites. Um, I could have told you that, but thanks Wikipedia. Nothing to do about it, except treat the inflammation with Advil and give him a daily dose of an OTC antihistamine until mosquito season is over. It is essentially harmless, just really uncomfortable, and pretty damn unsightly if I may say so. The doctor promises they'll clear up in a few days to a couple of weeks and as long as we keep them clean and don't scratch, she doubts they'll require any more medical attention.

So Big Dog got to be a medical oddity, and I got to freak out and leave work early. Other than that, no big news. But I'm thinking Skeeter Syndrome! would make a pretty good band name. Any takers?

There are worse fates.

The first time he saw the noisy car it was like it seared some kind of lasting impression into his brain. Every time we went to Target after that first time, we'd have to cruise down that aisle and linger as he pushed the buttons to demonstrate all of the annoying "features". And then came the begging. One day, when I was at a weak point, I agreed. And noisy car came home with us. Come on, how can you resist when he calls it "the only car that will ever make me happy, ever!"

Turns out the car has not been all bad. I can't even put into word why I love this car, probably as much as the boys do. So better than words, I've posted this short video. Enjoy!

There are worse fates.

The first time he saw the noisy car it was like it seared some kind of lasting impression into his brain. Every time we went to Target after that first time, we'd have to cruise down that aisle and linger as he pushed the buttons to demonstrate all of the annoying "features". And then came the begging. One day, when I was at a weak point, I agreed. And noisy car came home with us. Come on, how can you resist when he calls it "the only car that will ever make me happy, ever!"

Turns out the car has not been all bad. I can't even put into word why I love this car, probably as much as the boys do. So better than words, I've posted this short video. Enjoy!

The Less-Than-Splendid Table

Cooking disasters? Yeah, they happen. Not to me so much, because I’m so freakin’ amazing in the kitchen.

Ok, maybe I’ve made the occasional misstep that resulted in pasta sauce that looked like diarrhea, but really it still tastes great.

Or possibly I’ve made cookies that spread across the pan, off the edges onto the bottom of the oven and burst into flames because in doubling the recipe, I neglected to double the flour.

And yes, there was a dark period in my life in which turning on the oven filled the kitchen with thick smoke as a result of the layer of corn meal on the bottom of the oven that once lined the pizza stone, and I was maybe a bit too lazy to thoroughly clean it up.

Before it gets mentioned by a family member with a long memory, I should mention that yes, I did once manage to get a second degree burn on my stomach where a lasagna noodle hopped into my clothing as I drained the cooked noodles. And just maybe I had to wear a giant bandage over my stomach for weeks while the blister healed.

But no, my kitchen is fairly free of disasters. Why do you ask?

Psychopath in training.

After having my own children, I had a major A-ha moment. No, no the Norwegian pop band from the 80s, (thought "Take on Me" can still get my toe tapping) it was one of those, "wow, who knew?" moments. Turns out I really like kids. Not just my kids, but their friends too. And they like me right back. I have a good rapport with most of them, maybe because I am just an overgrown child myself, but whatever the reason, it has been great.

So since Big Dog was born, I’ve gone along liking pretty much all kids. Until this weekend that is. Over the weekend went to a birthday party for one of Big Dog’s classmates. There were a huge number of kids there, and as usual, I thought most of them were charming, funny little people. And then there was one that changed my mind.

While watching my boys enjoy their birthday cake and ice cream, this little boy decided the overall happy and celebratory mood of the day needed to be taken down a notch. He zeroed in on the little sister of the birthday boy, yelling that he was going to “Kill all your baby dolls, I’m going to stomp them dead!” until the sweet happy 3 year old was crying uncontrollably and ran to her mom.

Normally I’d jump right in and make the boys stop, but his mom was standing right there and I wanted to give her the opportunity to do her job as a mother. I fully expected any responsible parent to step in and crush this attack immediately. She did nothing, so after a pause, I got in his face.

“You need to go say sorry." I said, looming over him.
“What?” seeming a bit shocked he was being called on this.
“Did you want to make her cry, because she’s over with her mom now in tears. You made her very upset. You need to go say sorry.”
“No, I was just kidding”
“Those weren’t kidding words. And if you are teasing, you need to stop if someone gets very upset. You were being very mean, and now she’s so unhappy she can’t even tell her mommy why.”
He never did go say sorry, and his mother magically disappeared into the crowd of parents.

Later I was talking to the little girl’s dad. Turns out this little boy enjoys terrorizing his daughter on a regular basis. They are close friends of the family and this happens almost every time they get together. Made me wonder why they still get together, but that’s my filter on things. No matter how much I liked the parents, I would not invite this kind of behavior into my home. And maybe that makes me overprotective, but isn't standing up for your child part of the whole mommy gig? And isn't halting the attack part of the deal too? I mean, I was shocked not only that this little demon boy was allowed to go after a younger child, scratch that, ANY child, with such viciousness and obvious enjoyment in her misery, but also that his mom seemed to think it was fine. What's next, torturing puppies?

If this is how he gets his kicks at age 5, I’d be terrified to meet him at age 35.

My brain hurts.

Something is going on in my brain. And not in a good way. Maybe I broke it. That happens right? No, ok, maybe it's just a really bad sprain. At any rate, read on. You'll understand why I ask.

I was looking online at my bank statement, because that is the kind of daredevil thrill seeker I have become, when I noticed a check for $4. Hmmm, must investigate the enormous expense. Why would I have written such a huge check? (sarcasm in action, cool eh?)

So my bank lets me click on the item and it opens a scanned image of the check. I glance at the check and read MOFO. Now why would I have written a check to a mother fucker. What would I possibly be paying them for, apart from the um, uh...action described in the title, and this mother doesn’t pay for that. For a moment I am at a loss. Then I look at the payee again, not MOFO, it’s MFO, one of the vendors at the Farmer’s Market. And why didn’t I even stop to think “Hey, maybe you read that wrong!” Nope, I seriously wondered when and where I'd paid a MOFO.

Just a half hour later, while getting a cup of coffee in the break room, I saw this:
Great, why wouldn’t they love sports. Even be "crazy" for them. That makes sense, what with the Olympics and all. And it would make sense if I had actually read the title.

But I thought it said “China's Crazy for SPORKS!” and I paused to wonder why all the hubbub over the spoon-fork hybrid. Why are people congregating to snap photos in masses large enough to require chains of raglan-sleeve-shirted young men to hold them back from the plastic cutlery?
Yeah. They aren't. And really, that should have been obvious, right? I mean, look at the photo! Do you see any evidence of sporks?

So I have learned three very important things from this.

1. If something doesn't sound quite right, I should read it again.
2. I am gaining the reputation of "crazy lady who laughs to herself in the break room"
3. I need a nap.

10 things I hate about you, and by you, I mean me.

Just so you don't think I'm getting all ego ridden with my fancy new award, I thought I'd post a list of why I'm really not fat-headed, just fat-assed.

My list of My 10 Most Ridiculous Flaws.

1. I have a short, quick temper. I'll snap at someone, then be over it and expect them to bounce back as quickly as I did. I don't stay mad long, but I do blow up. And I really really hate this about myself.

2. I am a competitive mommy. You think your kid is smart, funny, generally awesome? Guess what, mine's better. I've been this way since I was a doggy mommy. When we were in obedience training with Mao, there was a dog named Rocket who was sooo perfect, it made me gag. Mr. Dog used to accuse me of being the next Texas Cheerleader Mom. I think I've mellowed a bit, but it's still there in the back of my mind, and it's not pretty.

3. My big old feet. Yeah, size 11. I used to complain about my size 10s before I had two kids, little did I know how good I had it. Now I have drag queen feet! I want an outstanding selection of fantastic shoes, and yet these flippers at the end of my legs prevent that.

4. I cry when I get really pissed off. Not terribly effective, and it always makes people think I'm sad or hormonal. I am not, nope. I'm mad, really mad, stabby kind of mad. And don't even think of putting your arm around my shoulders to "calm me down" you might lose a limb.

5. I crave constant praise. Really. I'm like that poorly trained dog that has never been successfully weaned off of treat rewards. If I perform, I expect recognition. I load the dishwasher, I want it noticed, and praised. I cook dinner. Notice and praise please. And can you believe that Mr. Dog, even after nearly 7 years of marriage has not given in to this persistent demand. I still have to call out my good behavior! The nerve.

6. I am obscenely addicted to coffee. I begin every morning with a large hot cup of delicious coffee. To be perfectly clear, my morning does not begin until I have my large hot cup of delicious coffee. And once my morning has begun, the first thing I do is refill my cup for a second large hot cup of delicious coffee. And so on, and so on. We go through two pounds of coffee a week in our house. Should I wake up and not have coffee on hand, life is not much fun for me or anyone I come in contact with until I get that first cup. We take great pains to make sure that does not happen.

7. Almost nothing can wake me up. When we lived in SF, we lived on a busy corner. Traffic all day, noisy drunks all night. We even had an occasional nocturnal passerby Mr Dog referred to as "Monkey Boy" who made a general monkey-like ruckus as he hopped on cars and bounded around. And yet, I slept like a coma patient every night. It was not until I had the boys that I was able to be woken up by anything other than a telephone or alarm clock once my eyes had shut for the night. Now the boys have been added to the list of things that can wake me. Why is this a ridiculous flaw? Not really sure, but Mr. Dog likes to tease me about it. He's probably just jealous since he has problems in that department.

8. I am obsessive about the strangest things. My sheets must be tucked in or I can't sleep. The chairs in the living room must be properly aligned. And Big Dog's lunches in his fancy laptop lunch box must be beautifully created and displayed. Why? No idea. Just obsessive that way.

9. I think I am the best driver in the world. Moreover I think the rest of you are pretty sucky drivers. No evidence to support any of this, but my vehicle operation related arrogance is pretty well set. And if you could hear me in my car, your ears would burst into flames by the language I use to correct all of you.

10. I make lists like this. Need I say more?

Anyone else want to play? Come on, make me feel better.

New Evidence Supports Claims That I Kick Ass

Not to brag, but 52 Faces recently awarded me Kick Ass Blogger status. Isn't that freakin' fantastic? I've ordered the tiara, and the pleather jumpsuit with "Kick Ass Blogger" bedazzled in pink rhinestones across the back is on its way.

Now I get to do my part to pass along the feeling of pride that is currently swelling my head.

The rules:
"Do you know any bloggers that kick ass?Maybe they've got incredible, original content. Or they're overflowing with creativity. Is it someone that helps you become a better blogger? Or a bloggy friend you know you can count on? Or maybe it's someone who simply inspires you to be a better person... or someone else who sends you to the floor, laughing your ass off.Whatever the reason may be, I'm sure you know at least a couple of bloggers that kick ass. Well... why not tell 'em so?LOVE ON 'EM
Choose 5 bloggers that you feel are "Kick Ass Bloggers"
Let 'em know in your post or via email, twitter or blog comments that they've received an award
Share the love and link back to both the person who awarded you and back to www.mammadawg.com
Hop on back to the Kick Ass Blogger Club HQ to sign Mr. Linky then pass it on!"

I nominate:

Mamikaze: she has challenged me to put more effort into this blogging thing. AND, she was the one who introduced me to Twitter (not sure if I should thank her or curse her for that new addiction)

Mrs. Tantrum: As sassy as she is gorgeous, I love her blog.

KazasPlace: Great blog, funny AND one of the nicest people I have never met face to face.

Mrs. F: Funny, honest and leaves comments with the best of them! Thanks lady.

Mara: I'm addicted to her writing style. And her boys make for great material.

Thanks for kicking ass. If you need a tiara or a jumpsuit, let me know.

Why I love my husband, reason #4,762

And for the curious:

He is fending off a brutal attack by pirates wielding balloon swords.

His fancy hat? Yes, it is a shipping envelope.

He is amazing.

And he will probably be divorcing me for posting this photo on my blog

Please read this.

I know I don't usually post links to serious topics on this blog, and I hope you will understand why I am making an exception now.

I was just over at 52 Faces and read this incredible post about the US Army covering up a rape and murder of a young woman soldier. As a mother, as a woman and as an American, I am horrified. Please take a moment to head over and read this post, then sign the petition to demand a real investigation.

Gadgets, where are my gadgets?

Something is going on in my universe. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not all hippy-dipppy "my chi is off balance" or "ouch, you're poking my third eye" but seriously, something is up.

First, the TiVo remote broke up with me. Bastard just packed up and left without so much as a "thanks for all of the gentle button pushes."
Then my work laptop decided it had been in my employ long enough, and abandoned me. Hard dive just gave in and after one reboot just left me staring at the grey apple screen and a spinning wheel.
And then, the deepest cut. My beloved iPhone bit the dust.
On top of all that, I could not find the digital camera. One day I knew where it was, the next, I didn't. I checked all of the usual hiding spaces. All of the "taller than a preschooler with a bad photo snapping, camera dropping addiction" nooks, and still, no camera.

I knew I had recently backed up the photos. Well, most of the photos. All of the photos except those taken on or after the day Mr. Dog joined the mutilated middle finger club. Still, I agonized that maybe I had missed some snaps of my darling babies doing darling baby things. It was brutal.

Today, I rushed home at lunch to tear apart the house in a frenzy looking for the phone. I had to find it. I don't know why it was all of a sudden sp pressing, but it was, and I am but a slave to my impetuous whims. So I tore, I stacked and unstacked, I look in drawers, cabinets, bookshelves, unused bags, purses, pockets and anywhere else it might hide. Then I broke down.

How was it that the TiVo remote and my camera could both just vanish? Maybe I had put it somewhere and forgotten. Maybe the housekeepers took it, or misplaced it. Maybe my own children had put it in the trash, they do seem to enjoy putting things in the trash, as long as it isn't actual trash. I melted down. I do that from time to time, and when I do, I like to have company, so I called Mr. Dog. I cried, I lamented my feeble mind. I whined about the possibility of lost photos and sobbed about not being able to capture the precious moments just lurking around the corner.

As he tends to do, Mr. Dog offered practical solutions and calm rational words. And as a weepy emotional woman does, I rejected every bit of his reasonableness. I was too far gone for that, what I wanted was for him to experience my trauma with me. Finally I ended the call and turned to go back to work. And as I did, I glimpsed the tiniest bit of wrist strap. Yep, the digital camera was right there on the entryway shelf. Right where we usually put it. Right where I had checked about a million times before. I guess it wasn't the camera I'd lost, just my sanity.

But the TiVo remote is still on the lamb. Joke's on him, we've already replaced him...with twins.

Another one bites the dust

iPhones are amazing things. My iPhone lets me get directions while I'm on the go. My iPhone lets me check my email no matter where I am. My iPhone takes photos and gives me constant access to twitter.

There is one thing my iPhone can't do. It can't survive being run over by a car. Found that out this weekend. The hard way. So, to the responsible iPhone owner I say, "Do not leave your iPhone on top of your car when you drive away. And if you do, do not drive up steep hills that make the phone slip off your car into the street. And if you do that, do not, and this is key, do not let other cars drive over it."

But if you do, the new iPhones are pretty awesome. I would know, I now own one.

10 things I've learned from my child

In less than 5 years of motherhood I have learned more than I did in my previous 16 years of schooling. Not all of it is stuff that will benefit me in any role other than "mom" but still, it has been a horizon broadening experience to say the least.
The assignment was to pick 10 things, and I've chosen a random assortment in no particular order because if you read this blog at all, you know I've got random in spades, but order in short supply.


1. Marbles can fit in your ears and are less likely to get stuck there than in your nose.

2. No matter how much you may enjoy being licked by your dog, dogs do not appreciate being licked back.

3. I have the capacity to memorize multiple children's books if those same books are read time after time after time. Hand Hand Finger Thumb, anyone?

4. The ultimate stalling tactic is to say you need to go potty, and it works for every family member. Granted, this is far more effective if you have no track record for "holding it" and have a proven track record of peeing on the floor.

5. My house is clothing optional. Really, I had no idea.

6. I swear a lot more than I realized.

7. Band-Aids are a miracle cure.

8. My car needed more bling, bling in the form of 100 stickers on the inside of the back seat windows. Really, it has much more style now. Have I mentioned my oven also needed bling? And the bathroom wall, the entryway, the hall, my computer...essentially they are now all covered in "style".

9. I can survive with a lot less sleep than I ever imagined.

10. "Mama" is the sweetest word in the English language when it is coming from a little boy snuggled up in your arms.

Kids say the cutest things...and a lot of other stuff

Sure they're little angels, sure they dazzle me with their irrepressible cuteness, but not all the time. Sometimes they're bossy, crass and flat out odd. And while these things might not be cute, scrapbook worthy quips, they sure are notable enough to blog about, especially if you blog like I do, to cause eternal embarrassment once the kids enter their teen years.

So here we go, the top 10 odd/gross/bossy/plain old strange things I've heard from the boys:

10. As I was getting dressed for work, putting on my bra. Big Dog- "I see your boobs. Lots of them"
9. During his self-imposed naked time, after discovering a wooden fork in the playroom Little Dog- "I'm eating up my penis!" then pretends to scoop up bites of said member.
8. When his dad was getting out of bed in the morning, Big Dog- "I can see your underwear. You need to put on pants!"
7. As I pretend nibble him, Little Dog- "you eat me like a sandwich"
6. While squirming up against me on the couch, Big Dog- "I'm rubbing my butt on you"
5. Coming toward me with his index finger extended, Little Dog-"It's poop!.....Nah, I kidding"
4. While wrestling on the guest bed Big Dog sits on Little Dog- "I'm pooing and peeing on you" Little Dog says "My turn" they switch positions so little dog is now sitting on Big Dog "I poop and pee on you!" Big Dog, "my turn" and so on.
3. After giving me a drawing, Big Dog "Its from Pooptown, a city made of Pooooooop!"
2. Inspecting something on his hand, Little Dog "it's a dog booger!" I lean in to look, "no, it isn't, it's part of your snack." His reply "Yeah, dog booger snack!"
1. After using the potty, Big Dog "My poop looks like a 'j' without the dot! Look!"

What little charming things have your angels said lately?

**it has been mentioned several times that there seems to be a fecal theme in this post. In defense of my boys, we are in the process of potty training Little Dog, so as a family, poop is a common topic of conversation. AND, as mommastantrum has pointed out, they are boys and I should expect this to continue for, well, the rest of their lives.