Theres never Sand at playgrounds anymore...

Dear Mason- While at the park, please refrain from calling the crows ‘Jackass’s’” Thanks! You’re a doll, Love Mommy

The park. The bane of many moms existence. The park is a double edged sword. On the one hand you have to spend a few hours out in fresh air. Gag. On the other hand your child exhuasts themselves leading to a long nap which equals more face book time. Mason is something of a genius when it comes to playground slides so we frequent parks on a daily basis. Here’s a handy dandy guide for weeding out undesirable conversation…

The Hippie Mom- This mom is content in her stretchy gaucho pants and long sleeve *organic* shirts. Even when it is a bajillion degrees out... a long sleeve shirt. I ask you! The only make-up she wears is *organic* bees wax lip balm. Her tote bag/canvas sling bag thingy is stocked to the nines with *organic* crackers, *organic* carrots, *organic* water (I don't know if there is such a thing... I’m sure there is. If not I will be loaded selling organic water to granola whores), cloth diapers and , possibly, a tampon or two. *Organic* of course.

Shit.

Her kids name is probably Organic.

Or Noah.

Or Jude.

Or Sage.

You will be playing close attention to the child’s name, so as to determine the sex. This is an amateur mistake. Any seasoned playground/playroom mom knows names hold no sexual boundaries in the *organic* home. Sorry, but there really is no short cut to finding out if it's a boy or girl. Either way, the child will most likely be wearing pants of earth tone persuasion, a shirt that appears a bit too small, a little bit of dirt and loooooong locks which are faintly scented with, (anyone? anyone?) *organic* baby shampoo. And Patchouli.
The Hippie Mom is always nice enough. She will offer your child her *organic* treats, lecture you on the benefits of breast feeding (a quick warning... as soon as breast feeding is mentioned, move the conversation along... unless you want a mental picture of how this lady still breast feeds her 7 year old. Cause it's liquid gold! And *organic*). Basically, Hippie Mom is in the top three of the playground pyramid. As long as you don't mind body odor.

The Career Mom- Not to be confused with The Working Mom. The Career Mom approaches her duties as any professional would. "A"-game as long as anyone is looking. Career Mom is usually seen wearing khaki pants, a short sleeve pastel top, and sensible shoes. Her hair usually slicked neatly back into a sleek pony tail, or half up in a barrette. Her kids are playing nicely. AKA Boringly. Any attempts at conversation will be directed towards her home school curriculum. She smells of

The Working Mom- If you see a working mom at the park it must be a weekend. And not tax season. Working Moms blend in easily enough. The way to spot these freaks of nature? Pay attention when they speak to their children. Look for the ten second delay when it comes time to name her children. This is just nature getting back at her. Women belong in the kitchen making delicious turkey dinners, not in careers. That’s why women’s feet are smaller than men’s… so we can stand in front of the sink.

Too-Cool-For-School Mom- You don't need to worry about getting caught in a death trap convo with this Mom. She's the one sitting on the bench behind huge sunglasses texting about how annoying the park is. Her kid is probably pulling on her strategically ripped jeans while she smoothly ignores the pleas to push him/her on the swing, catch him/her on the slide etc. The child will eventually seek out the Sandee Mom (see below). When this happens you have one of two options. a) Take pity on the poor designer clad child and play. Or, do what I do and start texting immediately. Kids crave consistency.

The Sandee Mom- Obviously a badass. Is that her three year old trying to start a rock band by the swing set? You bet your sweet ass it is. You can tell right away that her husband is hot. He's not there... but you can just tell. She's obviously part Mexican 'cause she fit herself, both her kids and car seats in a Jetta. Skill. The best thing about the Sandee Mom is her extensive Harry Potter knowledge which will keep you amazed and entertained for hours on end. VIVA.

Recap?

The park sucks...

Like your grandma...






Coming soon… Macbeth Saga Part II…

Poor lil guy... never saw it coming...

So have you guys seen this thing about how the first bite you take of a chocolate Easter rabbit is a clue to your deeper psyche? Like, if you bite the ear you’re aggressive, the leg you’re passive, the neck you’re a vampire. You know, true stuff. Would someone like to tell me what it means when your 3 year old eats the ass end first? Cause I want to know.

Perhaps its time for Macdaddy to stop running around the house yelling, “I can’t wait for Easter so I can put it in your keister!”

P.S. He totally didn’t.

A Meathead Turns 3...

Dear Mason,
Three years ago today… that’s when we met. It was scary knowing I was supposed to love you. That I HAD to love you. I mean, we just met, kid! But I knew it had to be some sort of new love that had never touched me before. Cause we looked like hell, me and you. Bruised and bloody with tubes sticking out of us… you were so tiny. A very manly tiny, of course. The first time you looked at me, you cracked your left eye open, right eye closed. My lil pirate. Then you farted. My lil man.



I thought I loved you then… I would have done anything for you, already. No one told me that love could only ever grow. Even if they had, I couldn’t have believed them. Three years later I can see I only had the smallest, most primal idea of what a mothers love is. Love that gets up every time you call my name. Love that squeezes my throat, choking me when you are in pain.



Everyday I spend the majority of my time trying to make you smile, giggle, laugh, pee your pants, not pee your pants, laugh some more. I didn’t count on you being able to make me laugh so effortlessly. You have it down to a science… some magic mathematical formula, the ratio of trouble to amount of hilarity to get you out of said trouble. And it makes you so happy to be able to make Mommy and Daddy laugh… our own definition of love.




We sit and count your freckles. I know every freckle. You have names for each. I know them all. Many are named Pirate though, so it makes it easier. We draw pictures… you wait until you are done to decide what you drew. Lots of snakes and worms and octopi.



You are such a gnarly kid… you’re sweet and tough… loving but feisty… strong but sensitive… you can wrestle with Daddy then run over to the Beav and give her gentle kisses and hugs. You love to do things yourself… but you want Mommy there just in case. You’re smart. You are so effing smart. You are everything any one could ever want in a kid. Times a million.




Happy birthday, my little Meathead.




I love you kid…
With all my heart…
To Never Never Land…
Like a fat kid loves cake…

Love, Mommy

Life Lesson # 88

Life lesson #88

Never ask your kid to draw you, thinking it will boost your self esteem... cause it won't.

Mason is a king... even his toy bags are Royal.

Dear Mason-
I regret to inform you that you will not be able to take your toys to daycare... like that. Feel free to transfer your toys OUT of the Crown Royal Bag at your convenience... then we will talk. Thanks! You're a doll... Love Mommy

Did you know they sell condoms at Costco? Cause they do. Right in between the vagisil and pregnancy tests.

You think I'm kidding but I'm not.

If I was kidding I would have organized it: vagisil, pregnancy tests, THEN condoms.

I'm sure a man set it up… put the penis item between two vagina items.

Ptch.

That’s profiling.

Apparently not all Costcos rival their local planned parenthood. Just the ones that are in farm towns.

(read: lots of migrant workers.)

(And before you go there, I did NOT say Mexicans. You thought of that yourself. You racist.)

So anyway, Adam recently found out he is part Jew so has decided to be a bit more frugal.

I can say that ‘cause I'm married to one.

So we started buying condoms at Costco.

Trash.

The coolest thing about buying prophylactics in bulk would be that they come in a commemorative tin. So you can start a collection.

If sex isn’t a big enough motivator to buy more condoms.

So as with anything shiny and new, and being part ferret, Meathead asks if he can have the tin… and being the generous parents we are, we oblige.

Add that to the fact that Adam and I were on a Crown Royal diet for much of the time we were first dating and we have ourselves quite the menagerie of toy organizing tools.

Anything with a motor goes into a Crown Royal bag. Anything with a heart beat or used to create works of art goes into a Durex box.

I'm thinking of changing this set up though…

Cause honestly? I don’t think it is at all responsible to have motorized vehicles in alcohol bags. I am the product of 90’s after school specials.

Though it could be just as reckless to put the plastic animals in the Royal bags AWAY from the condom tin… cause those rabbits? SLUTS!

What do you guys think?

Shall I add this to the list of future discussions Mason will have with his therapist in which she will blame the mother?

*Side note: How much do you love that there is a black stallion and a beaver in the above pic? That kids makes life soooo easy.

Sans Diego .... hehe... get it?

When Mac Daddy and I first found out we were going to have a little meathead, one of the first things we got excited about was having an excuse to watch cartoons again. Mac Daddy says he was a fan of the manlier cartoons, like GI Joe and He-Man. I was a fan of both worlds… having a deep appreciation for My Little Ponies as well as Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Ok, honestly I was obsessed with TNMT… I kinda had this thing for Michael Angelo. (Hmmmm which one does Mac Daddy act most like… coincidence?)

***Just to give you an idea of my obsession: TNMT came on at 3:00... Which was also the time my big sister, Bjorn, got picked up from school. Big sisters are always ruining everything. My mom got so tired of hearing me crying over missing my boyfriend’s show that she arranged for me to go to a neighbors house everyday at 3:00 so I could watch. Yeah. ***

But I digress… Mason is finally at the age where he is able to watch cartoons. We don’t have cable but we do have a few DVDs with the more popular cartoons on them.

WOW.

Cartoons today suck.

Hard.

Like your grandma.

Enter “Bob the Builder.” Computer animated clay-mation. Really? I mean I would watch Gumby when I was little… if I had to. But you are telling me in 20 years we haven’t found a better medium than clay? And the fact that computers are now used to animate it is not only lazy but a bit oxymoron-ish. Kinda?
Bob’s one redeeming quality is all the nasty dialogue it has. Basically the animators are counting on the parents being out of the room while the kiddies are watching it… or they are counting on the parents to not be as perverted and immature as Adam and me…
A quote from Bob the Builder: “Lifty, your dumper is quacking.”

(And you know it’s a real quote cause if I had made it up I would have said, “Your dumper is leaking.” ).


Next up: Dora the Explora. Whatta whore. First of all, where the hell are this kid’s parents? She’s tramping it up all over the hillside, running around with a monkey that wears boots. She is always wearing a backpack and never checks in with any kind of adult figure. Soooo one could reason my kid is watching a runaway that stole a cross dressing monkey from the zoo. Oh but wait, it’s all ok ‘cause Dora speaks broken English mixed with Spanish. Best role model ever since a giant purple dinosaur that hides in a preschool til all the grownups are gone.

Along the same lines: Diego. Also speaks spliced languages. Awesome. There is a difference between Diego and Dora in that Diego’s parents are present… if by present you mean in another country taking care of animals instead of their kids. But it’s cool ’cause he has a lil pimp pad set up… in a tree house. (K, that part is actually really cool.) So, this kid runs around with a JAGUAR saving animals. Cause a jaguar wouldn’t totally tank out on a hurt baby animal. And can we discuss the fact that he carries a camera around to zoom in and out on different animals. Which is really just one step away from climbing a tree to watch your neighbor change. And he’s already got the tree sooo…
I’m just saying, if Meathead grows up to be all voyeuristic, I’m sueing.

Yo Gabba Gabba. Oh Jesus, Yo Gabba Gabba. Mason isn’t allowed to watch this one. Cause it scares the shit out of me. A bunch of scary ass monsters running around singing HORRIBLE songs.

Horrible.

Songs.

The show also has a mini beat boxing lesson, which would be a lot cooler if it wasn’t taught by a retarded guy. I mean reTARDed. He is huge too… like use the wide lense and take a step back, huge. Not that I have anything against fat people… sometimes I am one. Then there is the host. The host is the best and worst part. It’s like the creators said, “Lets get an Ethipoian and dress him in neon orange spandex, give him a flat top and crazy glasses. I think kids will really relate to that. And we can pay him in goats and sacks of rice.”

I guess my biggest problem with cartoons today is the fact that they like to pretend to be all moral and wholesome. Eighties cartoons were dirty but they didn’t try to mask it. Little blue people lived in ‘shrooms, where one blonde airhead was passed around like Thanksgiving dinner. An eight year old girl lived with her completely incompetent vambot uncle while they tried to take down a heavy smoker who liked to stroke his pussy. And oh dear God, The Elephant Show. Who can forget the Elephant Show. (Skiddamarink-a-dink-a-dink skiddamarinky-doo, I loooooove YOOOOOOUUUUU!) A prime example of what happens when you smoke a bowl and have a camcorder handy.

So, let us recap:

Cartoons suck.

So does your grandma…

Elephant Show rocked.

The End.

Whoever smelt it dealt it...

Meathead: *sniff sniff*
Me: *stare in a not at all judgingly way*
Meathead: *snnnnnniff*
Me: *continue the stare and judge just a little... and try to sniff without being obvious that Im sniffing something*
Meathead: Mommy! *sniff* I smell something!
Me: What do you smell?!
Meathead: I smell *sniff* trouble.

I heart him.