Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Are We There Yet?

We've had worse rides.  
So what, if this one started out smelling like rotten feet and kitty litter. I didn't think it could ever be worse than the time we were driving to Philly and got stuck on one of the New York bridges and Tom, then four had to go to the bathroom.  We were bumper to bumper with no relief in sight.  When he said it was an emergency, I offered him my coffee cup.  "Um, I think that would ruin your coffee, Mom."  A half hour later when he could barely speak from the pain in his bladder, he asked for the coffee cup.  He jumped out of his car seat and in his hurry to relieve himself, failed to pulled his pants far enough down.  He missed the cup and pee shot all over the interior of the car, spraying the windows, seats and windshield, but mostly the driver.  A wild Crazy Daisy of urine.

     I've lowered my expectations; seven hours in a traveling petri dish, four kids and a cat, I wasn't expecting an olfactory delight. 
     We were packed, only a half hour behind schedule with seven hours to go.  Having learned my lesson, I checked, doubled checked and marched everyone to the bathroom.  All systems go.  
     Generally, we travel with our 110 pound Rhodesian Ridgeback, easy to leash if we think he needs a bathroom break.  On this trip, Angus secured himself another ride and we were left with our delicate feline, Missymoo.  We planned to leave her in her carrying case but her incessant howling made it impossible to hear the radio and the kids begged to let her out.  She circled the car and I thought she just needed a minute to settle her self.  After ten minutes, I realized my fatal mistake.  We sped along the Mass Pike at 70 mph, no rest areas insight, I had no other choice.  I pulled my Suburban onto the shoulder, hoping to pull the kitty litter box out of the back.  Before I could, there was no mistaking the smell.  No Crazy Daisy, just a good old fashion pile of cat poop on the floor between the back and third seat.  To add insult to injury, she went right on Tom's headphones.  As everyone screamed and Claire gagged, I found a plastic bag and scooped it up, but what to do with it?  Even on my worst day, I'm not a litterbug, so I tied up the bag and secured it to the back wiper.  

I'm sure it puzzled other drivers as it flapped against my bumper sticker that reads, "Well Behaved Women Rarely Make History."  
     Vomit is in the job description, but clearly, the gods mock me.
     Only six hours to go.     

Sunday, May 15, 2011

Go the F*ck to Sleep

It's genius really. Adam Mansbach is the Cee Lo Green of parenthood with his new book, Go The F*ck to Sleep.  I'm so upset I didn't write it myself.  I defy you to find a parent who hasn't thought it and those of you I know and love, you've all said it.  But believe me, I respect you just as much if it was only a silent mantra.

It gives rise to so many other titles:
Clean Your F*cking Room!, Brush You F*cking Teeth (courtesy of Mary Pols), Run, Your Going to Miss the F*cking Bus, and of course, Shut the F*uck Up, For Just One Minute, Please.

Before I had children, I used to judge those women in the grocery store who ignored their children sitting in the carriage chattering away.  I thought, oh you can do better.  I will definitely do better. Now I have four children, who all talk at the same time, vying for my attention like a pack of puppies. One takes a deep breath when he wakes and does not stop talking until he closes his eyes at night.  Each day I'm thrilled by my children's vocabulary, wit and perseverance.  But for the times that I have no answers or don't give a rat's ass about Pokemon, Star Wars, Halo, or the Friday, Friday song maybe there should be a book out there to remind me, I'm not alone.

Comment with your own titles, maybe we can start our own series.

Friday, May 13, 2011

We just Went to the Movies

Mother-daughter bonding and it spawned this:

What'd They Say?

What’s twat mean?  Well, what’s the c-word?  Like runt?  What do you mean you can’t say it?  Why?  But what does it mean?  If it’s just girl parts why can’t you say it?  Is it like calling black people negroes?  Like the n-word?  That’s bad, isn’t it?  If twat is really that bad, why was it in a PG-13 movie?  So twat’s bad but on a different level than the c-word, is that it?  Why does my friend Maddy say twat all the time then?  That doesn’t seem fair that it only means idiot in England -- can we move to London?  But didn’t I hear Daddy say it? He did not say snot, you’re kidding right?  Why do you always do that, pretend he doesn’t say the stuff he does?   Is it worse when a man says it?    Well he’s your husband, and my father isn’t he?  What about skank?  Can I say skank? No?  But don’t you think that’s sad?  Because listen, “skank”, doesn’t it just roll right off the tongue?  Don’t you hate that all the best sounding words are the ones you’re not supposed to say?