Oh Shit!!!

That's right, ladies and gentlemen!!! Mason unloaded some timber in the porcelain pedestal. Boooyah! I am proud beyond words... and also a little disturbed.

Mason pooped and I started a friggin conga line, folks. But instead of singing "duh-duh duh-duh duh-DOH!" I'm screaming "Poo-poo in the pott-eh!"

I've been waiting 2 1/2 years to hear him yelling "Moooooom Im dooooone!"

Now, if only his arms were long enough to wipe his own hiney-hole.

I keep getting flash backs of "Big Daddy" - "But I wipe my own ass! I wipe my own ass!"

It's fairly hard to wipe someone elses ass... even if you are a pro at cleaning your own. Any tips would be greatly appreciated.

In other news, packing up an entire house while trying to entertain a 2 year old and a 2 month old= what Hitler should have to do in hell.

Cause it sucks. Hard. Like your mom.


Also, if you are looking for a laugh, check out the video The Accidental Olympian posted of her first time tubing. I had to watch it like five times. (Ash- are you proud of me?! Look! I did the "click my words-link thingy! Genius! Thats what I am!)

Happy Thursday!

Corn flakes...

Adam and I have never been apart from each other for more than a few hours.... never spent a night away from each other. If I read that about someone else I would think that it was a bit weird and psychotic. Swim Fan psychotic. Buffalo Bill psychotic. IT COMES HOME EVERY NIGHT OR IT GETS THE HOSE AGAIN. Adam recently went out of town for a week. Which meant that I was pouting for six days and writing corney ass stuff like, "heartsick and pathetically so..."
Seriously?
I'm not a corny person in any sence of the word. Remember when Titanic came out? My group of Bulldog friends and I all went to see it. I didnt cry at the end (in fact I laughed when the guy falls and hits the propeller) so my friends wouldnt talk to me for a few days. Because I didnt cry during Titanic. Yeah.
I also didnt cry when my kids were born. Cause they were covered in nasty white candinda crap. I watched "A Baby Story" when I was pregnant with both of them. Every mom on there was crying, laughing and couldnt wait to hold their little bundle of... snot. THEN!! AND THEN!! They always friggin kiss it! They kiss it when it is covered with white nastyness, blood and tidbits. eh. So here I am thinking you are supposed to kiss this lil thing and that "Mother-ness" will over come me and I will not mind the nasty nasty nom nom. Well, with Mason I lucked out and they had to whisk him to the NICU before I had the head-kiss-dilema. But with Marlee? That lil brat. They threw her on my tummy and told me to hold her.
I. just. gave. birth.
You think I want to hold 7 lbs?
No. I want cranberry juice.
Lots.
Its a diuretic, ya know.
ANYWAY.
Here I am thinking I am supposed to kiss her head and it will all be good and we will bond and it wont smell or anything.
Let me just reiterate. I AM NOT A CORNY PERSON.
I pressed my lips to The Beavs head.
Ew.
Friggin ew.
I think the worst part was that it was warm.

What will it be like for my kids to grow up with a mom who doesnt cry? (Well, thats not entirely true. I bawled like a baby when dumbledore died... and when I finished Book 7).
Moms are supposed to be nurturing and soft spoken. They make cupcakes and cookies. I make EVERYTHING dirty. Just look at our daughters nickname. I make Mason wear a shirt with a cartoon beaver on it because I think its funny that nobody will get that he is wearing a BEAVER. Even better the beaver shirt has two logs on it. Its a very ambitious beaver.
Which was my nickname in highschool.

What was my point? Oh yeah. Im not corny except when it comes to my husband. But what can I say? He's friggin hot.

A Puke Saved is a Puke Earned...

Dear Mason,
My hand is not a waste receptacle. Please deposit your bodily excretions elsewhere. Thanks! You’re a doll.
Love, Mommy


Have you ever noticed that the days you look awesome (and by awesome I mean you change out of yoga pants, blow dry your hair and wear mascara all in the same day) you never see anyone you know at the store?
But the minute you step out of the house after a three day shower hiatus wearing slippers and zit cream, the store turns into a friggin high school reunion?
Oh. That’s never happened to me.
So, a couple of weeks after we brought the Beav home, the Meathead got sick. Like, cough so hard that he would vomit into a bowl sick. My mixing bowl. Cause I only have one. So every time I make cupcakes or brownies I’m thinking of puke. It’s a great diet.
ANYWAY.
The kid was finally feeling a lil bit better, so I took him with me to the store just to get him out of the house. We walked up to the cart area, had our traditional slap fight over who got to push and who had to sit in the seat and went into the store. As I was going through the automatic doors I hear my name being called.
Let me pause here. That is just fucked up. Don’t call out to me as I am going through an automatic door. It’s going to end awkwardly.
Do I wait to strike up a convo?
Yell through the door?
Keep walking ?
And what if I pause in the middle of the door way? The friggin door will shut on me, then you will feel bad. As you should. Ass.
Back to my story.
In this particular case, I continued through the door and waited for this friend. Mason and I are making small talk… when he starts to cough. Hard. I knew it was coming. Still, I hoped it would stop at a gag.
No.
No it didn’t.
The lil Meathead threw up a generous wad of mucus into my hand.
Just as my friend came through the door.
I wiped Mason’s face off with his shirt.
I’m a good mom like that.
My friend came over smiling. “Hey how ya been?!”
As he bent down to hug me.
I hugged back, my hand cupped full of pukey mucus behind his back.
Now, a smart person would have wiped the mucus mound on the unsuspecting friend’s back.
I’m a bad friend like that.
But I didn’t.
Have you ever tried to nonchalantly hide puke in your hand? In the neon lighting of a grocery store? I mean, everyone has hid puke in their purse, their shoe… or in desperate times, their pocket… but your hand?! Thinking back I must have looked like the “strong hand” guy from Scary Movie 2. “Make way for fanny!”
This friend must have thought I was coked out too. I wouldn’t make eye contact and was acting all shifty trying to get out of there.
Wanna know the worst part?? I didn’t even go wash my hand after. I wiped the rest on Masons shirt. AAAAAAAAAHahahahahahaha
I’m a bad mom like that.
Mason didn’t even say thank you.


*Photo by Becca Nuss Photography

Weiners, Jergens and Tissues... oh my.

Dear Mason- As proud as I am of you for sharing, your weiner does not eat oatmeal. No, not even blueberry oatmeal. I know… I know… wieners are weird. Mommy totally agrees. Keep it on your spoon. Thanks! You’re a doll… Love Mommy.


There are a few days every parents dread from the first moment that little pink line appears on that $25 dollar piece of fated plastic. Some that top the list? First day at school… getting their license… their wedding day. But for most parents, the number one spot is usually held by, “Where do babies come from?”

THE talk.

Have I mentioned it’s my life ambition to become a sex therapist?

Cause it is. I am beyond fascinated with our most primal of instincts and have been since a very young age. My parents never had THE talk with me. I just knew what happened. (Can a 6th sense be sexual?) I remember driving in the car with my mom and asking her why my cousin was having a baby.

Her reaction?

“Aw shit. (Nice opening, Mom) Well you see daughter- who- is- not –even- in- kindergarten- yet, when a maaaaaaaaaaan loves a whoa-man.”

I remember distinctly rolling my eyes and saying, “Not THAT… I mean because she isn’t married.”

Mom: “Oh. I don’t know. How do you know the other stuff?”

Me: ???? Were there people who DIDN’T know? I think I just ignored her. Which served her right for asking such a dumb question.

So when Macdaddy and I found out we were having a little meathead I called dibs on THE talk. Adam had no problem with that. Although I may have to have Adam in the room. Hell, I may have to have Adam video tape it.

I know most guys have a special bond with their units.

Im smart like that.

However, I was under the impression that this bond happens sometime in their junior high years.

Im dumb like that.

Apparently it is born into males, much like the reflex to high five after a particularly nasty fart, or …

No… that’s it… fart high fives.

Moving on… Mason has always preferred to be nakee. He used to just scream when it was time to get dressed. Then he graduated to removing his clothes while I was in the shower and running outside into the neighborhood. Now he doesn’t wait for me to be in the shower. The kid removes every article of clothing. No biggie, right?

Wrong.

He has also start laying on his bed and screaming, “Go mommy! GO!” If I enter the room.

Egads.

Obviously we are simply ignoring this at the moment… cause he’s two. (And if Adam said anything against it, he would be the worlds biggest hypocrite). So I am going to convince Adam that THE TALK is different than the Wanky Talk.

Cause it totally is.

Totally?

Totally.

AND. Whatthe hell am I suppose to say when I think wieners are ridiculous in the first place? I don’t know how you guys can even walk. I had trouble as it was when fanny packs were in style.

Act 1:

I started this blog as a little journal-esque whatchamacallit for Mason, so he can look back and see what a funny little shit he was. Leave it to the meathead to stop doing funny things. I take it back... he's still doing funny things... but how many times can I write about peeing erraticly. Or taking a dump on the kiddy slide in the backyard. (By the way... Mason took a massive dump on the kiddie slide in the back yard the other day... he quickly called my attention to it. I took a picture.)

So... until he ups the funny factor, and to please those of you who are crazy and read me... I will be posting a series of histories. So now Meathead will also be able to read this and see how he came to be. Without further adu:

The Macbeth Saga:

Act 1: In which Sandee falls madly in love with Adam...

I can't remember the exact day... or what I was wearing. I do know I was with my regular posse of fellow Bulldogs. I would be willing to bet my life I had a scrunchy around my wrist. Probably one in my hair, too... but I had to have one on my wrist otherwise, "O-mi-gawd, I like, totally feel NAKED without it." This was sixth grade... so it's possible that half of us (there were about 8 in our regular little group, I think) were wearing overalls, discussing our up coming volleyball/basketball/softball game, standing in a circle. I was the annoying smart-ass of the group. Making fun of everything and everyone... so cool because of my extra scrunchy and the fact that my mom would pack just a Coke and Doritos as my lunch. Way to go Mom.

My right hand man was prob at my side, let's call her Sticky... cause even though she ate like a pig, she was thinner than any part of my body ever would be. And feisty. And shared my enthusiasm for Ace Ventura. But actually we bonded in kindergarten, when we got in a fight over the twin boys in the class, Jake and Jim.
I don't know how we got in a fight over who got which one, cause A) I don't know which one was which.. and B) They were way more interested in playing cowboys than being our boyfriends. But from those fateful days Sticky and I were inseparable. Always somewhere between laughing hysterically and clawing each others eyes out over boys. I learned early on not to tell Sticky when I thought a boy was cute... cause it was only a matter of time before she turned her attention to my beau. (Sticky if you are reading this, I still maintain that I saw Trevor first and you completely ruined first grade for me by stealing him away). ANYWAY. This story has taken a slight detour... go figure. On we go.

We were all standing on the black top, waiting for P.E. class to start. P.E. was an exciting time for us sixth graders because it contained 6th, 7th AND 8TH GRADERS!!! Rest assured there were extra hair tosses and toe-pointed-hip-out stances from Sticky and myself. (The other girls, though I loved them, were not as boy crazy as us...). Here is where my memory starts:

I remember seeing a cluster of manly-ness walking up the pathway to the P.E. congregating area. Two of which caught my eye.

They were the loudest of the group. Yelling jokes, making farting noises, screaming randomly... you know, sexy stuff. The two were similar in looks... bowl cuts ( a must for any mid 90's junior high-er worth his weight in Devon Sawa Teen Bop pull out posters), taller and thicker then the other boys around them. The second boy had very promising buds of an early beard. The first had braces *drooooool* and a sharp, cute nose. Both held my attention as I flipped my hair and switched pointed toe sides in perfect unison.
Mr. Harrison, the balding P.E. teacher, who was always inexplicably carrying a gallon ziplock bag full of carrots, blew his whistle signaling the start of class.

We were playing soccer that week. I hate soccer. IT's dumb. It makes me want to eat chips and salsa. And yell "EYEYEYEYEYE!!!!" I was walking back and forth across the field, pretending to be following the ball... when I heard the "thwap-thwap-thwap" of helicopter blades. Followed by a deep baritone screaming, "THEY'RE COMING FOR US!!!!"
Followed by my new founded heart throb streaking across the field...
DIVING into the tall brush growing along the side...
And taking my heart with him.

Needless to say, it took only braces and obnoxious-ness to steal my affection. The bowl cut helped too...

Now, for SOME reason... the future MacDaddy did not fall madly and desperately in love with me and my overalls, scrunchies and broken arm. Despite what the Weejee board foretold. This MAY have something to do with the fact that he didn't know I was alive. (I'm sorry, but how many times do I have to call and hang up before you realize, "Hey! I bet its that girl with the broken wrist. I shall make her mine.")

Boys.

School ended a few months later... moving Adam up to high school and throwing me into 7th grade, and an ensemble of new crushes. Luckily, little junior high hearts are fickle and I didn't give Adam another thought... for about 2 years...

To Be Continued...

Don't worry... there are like, 4 more acts or something...
You might not even want to read the rest of the Macbeth Saga, cause I'm pretty sure someone is going to approach us to make a movie out of it soon...
In the mean time...
Cheers to scrunchies and Devon Sawa. (OMG remember when he came walking down the stairs all slow to some Mariah Carey song in Casper??? HOT! "Can I keep you?" Ironic foreshadowing anyone???)

The Great Fake Post

So, Im really flattered that people keep asking me to post... really... I am. But shut up and stop it. You're giving me a complex. I have a bajillion posts started, then for some reason or another *cough*Mason-MacDaddy*cough* get side tracked, have to stop and forget to continue. Or I am writing writing writing and decide my post isnt funny enough, is too long, sounds like a Boys II Men song or will take far too long to spell check/edit. One post I started typing with an English accent.

SO... I will post more. I promise. Honestly I like being reminded... I just dont like it when I get an email saying, "Post or I will commit suicide." I don't do sob stories. I will literally not post to see how much of a backbone you have. If you don't, then, commit suicide I will lose all respect for you. How about a nice, "Hey Sandee... I know you spend the majority of your days on the toilet, since Beaver is sitting on your bladder, but maybe you can take your laptop with you while you're peeing. Thank you!"
Something like that...
Except EW! No I will not take my laptop in the bathroom. Sicko. I know you can hack into the little built in web cam. Jeez.


A real post will follow soon... I promise. Probably. Mad respect, yo.

A Look Behind the Scenes...

Dear Mason-
Mommy can't play with you right now... I have to write about you on my blog... Thanks! You're a doll. Love, Mommy


THIS is why I shouldnt have a blog... I have written like, 10 posts since my last... I just havent posted them cause, you know, they arent finished. What can I say... I get sidetracked easily. SQUIRREL! I have been READING quite a few blogs. Which should really count somewhere on the blogger totem pole. One of my faves?

http://www.accidentalolympian.com/the-accidental-olympian/2010/04/windupgirl-give-away.html

Check it out... leave a comment and possibly win some amazing earings! (Is the link not working? Ive been trying to get it to work for like, 10 min. But I cant. SQUIRREL!!! Copy and paste it. Go on! You can do it. It's well worth the added effort of 2 mouse clicks).

I have noticed through my perusing of other blogs that most writers have code names for everyone in their lives. This, along with being sexy and mysterious, allows a certain level of annonymity so you can write even more in detail without people getting mad at you. Or your in-laws knowing exactly whats going on. God forbid they find out I have a blog in the first place. But thats a blog in itself. (Hmmmm a few prospective titles if I start a blog going THAT route: "Living With Lady Macbeth"... "Out Damn Spot! You too Daughter In-law"... "Smile Or I'll Kill You"... "Can I Just Speak To You in the Other Room: and other ways to Manipulate Your Daughter In-Law").
What do you know... I've gotten off subject. SO anyway. Code names. Here's a little key to help you keep track so far.

Mason's alias': Meathead, Kid, Luitenant Head, Mase-Face, Bacon, Rooster.
Marlee's alias': Beaver, Lil Bitch, Hey You, pokey-mcpokester
Adam: MacDaddy, Handsome, Captain Sexypants, All-That-Is-Man, Husband Unit.

Other helpful hints for reading my blog:

1) I don't like most people. As such, most people are collectively refered to as "undesirables."
2) Undesireables 1-3 refer to inlaws.
3) Should also clarify Adam recently met his birth mother, who technically is an in-law but does not fit in the undesireable catagory. If memory serves we were making blowjob jokes with-in 5 min of meeting each other. Cleary she is in the awesome catagory.

That should help for now...
Also, have found myself sensoring my writing which feels really gross. Will hence forth write as I speak which is how I think. Which will probably include things squirting, leaking, oozing etc.

You've been warned... or intrigued. One of the two.

Mason vs. Wildfires

Dear Mason- Your wiener is not a pirate sword... the toilet is not someone to take captive with fancy sword play... Keep it in the toilet. Thanks! You're a doll... Love Mommy. P.S. Thanks for the incentive to mop the bathroom floor... again.


Mason is learning to use the potty. A lesson that seems to go hand-in-hand (aha! Pun intended) with learning to use his wiener. Mason and his wee-wee have been friends since... well... since he could reach it. It’s just been recently that he has found that particular appendage has a PURPOSE.
We are going the “no diapers... he’ll figure it out” route to potty training. And m&m rewards. It’s working so far... he has accidents but for the most part will use the potty if we remind him. However, he has just recently found that he has control over the stream of things. Like, if he wiggles his butt, then (OMG!) the pee wiggles too! FIREFIGHTER!!!!!!!! I shared a bathroom with my little bro growing up. I know how nasty it can be to use the potty after a little boy tries to put out a wildfire. So, Im trying to put a stop to the pee-n-play time quickly. BUT! All of a sudden Mason does not want me in the bathroom with him! He will stand at the Jon, with a determined look on his face, throw his hand out and sternly order, “Go! Go!”
Don’t worry, Mom... I got this.
Godspeed little man.
So now to pick the lesser of two evils. Completely disregard his wishes or deal with rebel pee on the floor. So far I’ve picked the pee on the floor, cause honestly? If there is one thing that I can wish for my kid... it is that he is independent. I LOVE (LOVELOVELOVELOVELOVE) having an independent kid. Thank goodness for Shark Steam Mops.
Mason also asks me to leave during bath time when it’s time for him to scrub himself up. Daddy is allowed to stay... Mommy isn’t. Somehow I don’t think he will be able to wait till his Junior high years for THE TALK. Especially if he is anything like Mommy and Daddy. I may have 3 more years, before that little jewel comes along. And what about when the Beaver is born? He’s gonna notice something is up pretty quickly...
It’s not my fault kid... that was Daddy’s department.

The birth of a sticky little blog...

Dear Mason- Please do not open your car door while we are driving 80 mph down the freeway. Thanks, you're a doll. P.S. What is this orange stuff all over your blankee??

So, honestly? I never wanted children. I mean, I appreciate kids... probably more than most adults, and definitely more than most parents. I love the way they think and the way they live without apology. I don't, however, like being touched... or annoyed... or talked to when reading... or eating balanced meals right at meal time. Then, what do you know! I get knocked up like my parents always knew I would eventually... (then again they are Pisces and therefore have psychic like qualities...). Enter Mason. Our son, 2 years old and a real live monster of the sticky variety. Mason is......... different. Anyone who knows me knows the only kid I ever could have fallen in love with so completely would have to be straight up weird. And that's just what I got. Mason wears my thongs as necklaces. He stores his trucks in the fridge (all the better to preserve them, my dear). He marches around humming "A Pirates Life For Me" with as much dedication and conviction as Justin Timberlake singing about how he really likes women. The kid has taken my heart hostage (I think he hid it in his ball pit...). Which is why I started writing this blog. (And all you wonderful people who werent getting ehough of The Kid on facebook). He will have a real live journal of all his weirdness to peruse at his convenience. If I made a hard copy I'm quite sure it would be subject to PB&J finger paintings. So here we go into this world of blogging. Stead fast and batten down the rigging...