Happy Cluckin’ Halloween

Special Early Edition Post!

Lest you think I make these stories up:

“Yeah, I’m a chicken. You got somethin’ to say about it?”

Maybe I should make Party City one of my categories

You wouldn’t think it would be possible that Party City could be involved in two separate posts on a blog, but here it is.

We were at said party store today helping my brother pick out a last minute costume. The choices were endless – giant Whoopee cushion, or human sized breathalizer box? Diaper wearing Sumo wrestler, or Daisy Duke wearing Reno 911 cop? Big bottle of beer or big can of beer? The list goes on.

Before we went in, I told Bug the kinds of stuff they had inside, and he said, “Oh, I’ll probably like it.” How nice that he knows himself so well at such a young age. He tried on quite possibly every single hat they had on the shelves, and also an oversized pair of gold sunglasses. This visual display of overwhelmingly cute hilarity actually produced some sort of physical disturbance that promptly killed the batteries in my camera. But just visualize: gold sunglasses twice the size of his head + rainbow colored glittery top hat. Magic.

It was good that I got to go on this outing though, because I just didn’t know what in the world I was going to be for Halloween, but now I have TONS of ideas. I could be a slutty nurse, a slutty cheerleader, a slutty teacher, a slutty prison warden…gosh, I can’t pick! Luckily the skirt for all of them is the same length, so I’ll just start with that and go from there. Pics coming soon*!!!!

*Not. Please, please don’t unsubscribe from my blog out of fear of this acutally happening.

One flew over the cuckoo’s nest

Last night I had a headache so bad I wanted a lobotomy. I think I can now feel a crater in my brain where the headache was. I have probably lost the ability to do long division as a result. But really, will I miss that? And am I sure I didn’t just already forget how to do long division, before the crater? No, not really.

As a prevention against another headache, however, I will be taking a break from this screen so my eyes and my head can rest.

While I am being a lazy-ass resting, please feel free to fill the void with your own witty and amusing comments.

I’m actually trying to kill you with the cuteness

I am relating a story to the Lorso in the kitchen about how the Bug had told me earlier that day, “You look berry nice, Mommy!” when I was in fact a sweaty stinky mess after a walk.

“He said it twice,” I tell the Lorso. “And then he paused and said, ‘I’m gonna hug you now,’ and ran at me and squeezed my neck!”

I’m so giddy in my relating of this story that after the Lorso grins and starts to walk into the next room, I am not satisfied with his reaction and shout, “C’mon, who has the best kid in the world?”

“Me,” the Lorso yells back. “No, me,” I shout back. Yes, we are always this mature.

A few seconds goes by, then from the back of the house we hear a Bug voice bellow, “NO, ME!!!”

He wins.

Long live the Saturday

A lovely morning at the park…

Photos by the Lorso!

This is my posting song. It isn’t very long.

I’m watching Clifford the Big Red Dog with Bug for the 1324th time, mostly because our house is too small for me to escape it when it’s on. And man, that Jetta is a self absorbed bitch. Why is Emily Elizabeth even friends with her? I would have dropped her and that stuck up purple dog she owns episodes ago. And that is why I am not the moral heroine of a children’s cartoon.

Anyway.

If you’ll notice on this here sidebar —————————————->
I have joined NaBloPoMo, which is a blogging group that requires that you post every day. Since I already do that, I figured what the heck.

I’m also in the process of joining BlogHer, which is a community for women bloggers. Look for that link soon, because it is indeed an awesome group.

And now…weekend! weekend! rah rah rah!

-Racher out.

(Oh God, that is from Ryan Seacrest. First Clifford the BRD and then this? I need TV therapy.)

Dirty little confession

I read this website.

And it makes me laugh. A lot.

I really should not be allowed to be someone’s mom.

I love him, just not so much all up in my grill

The past couple of nights Bug has been waking up in the wee hours and coming into our room to sleep with us. He climbs in our bed, snuggles down between the Lorso and me and falls instantly back to sleep as I put my arm over him and revel in the bliss of our cozy family bed.

That bliss lasts about 45 seconds.

The problem is, Bug has two favorite sleeping positions: parallel with the headboard, or magnet-style. Parallel with the headboard position involves the Lorso and I being relegated to the hinterlands of our respective borders, where we cling to the sides of the bed for dear life until the Lorso’s alarm drags us bleary-eyed from our sleepless night. Lucky for me Bug usually chooses the Lorso’s side for his feet. This is not so lucky for the Lorso. Or his groin area.

Magnet-style is the one where Bug pretends that he’s a magnet and I’m a huge hunk of steel, (which has caused more than one injury, because he often doesn’t remember this game until after he’s already been nicely ensconced in the middle for a bit and then remembering, he comes hurtling toward my body with several Gs of force) until the Lorso’s alarm drags me bleary-eyed from my sleepless night. Side effects of the magnet style include bruising and profuse sweating.

Needless to say, we are not quite our usual little rays of sunshine the next day.

Still, I’m not quite ready to give the family bed up. He won’t be little for long, and it’s about the only time he’s still enough for me to cuddle him anymore. So I’ll take what I can get.

I may start sleeping with a football helmet on though.

Abort, Abort: There is no bathtub

I really like our house. Honest.

It has great hardwood floors and a new roof and a great backyard. We have neighbors who know our names and get our mail for us when we’re out of town. The rent is incredibly reasonable, and our landlords couldn’t be nicer people.

But.

The owners were really proud to show off the nicely renovated (only) bathroom when we looked at the place. And I have to admit, when I’m feeling like our decorating style couldn’t be more college dorm room circa 1999, I like to just go sit in the bathroom and pretend like every room is as bright and new and shiny and grown up looking as it is. However, as part of the renovation, they removed the tub and installed a corner shower stall.

I told people my dilemma about the tublessness of the house. “Oh no,” they said. “What will become of Bug’s baths?” (Apparently my friends are from the 19th century.)

“Bug’s baths,” I cried hysterically. “What about my baths? I’ve got stress to relieve, time alone to be had, legs to be shaved!” At this point in the conversation, my friends pretended to get calls on their cell.

But here we are, more than a year later, and I have survived the no-bath situation fairly well (don’t worry, so has Bug – he has a little inflatable tub, although he’s about to outgrow it in about three minutes). My main concern was that I wouldn’t be able to get warm enough on cold winter days without my hot bath, but an electric blanket for Christmas and global warming came through on that one, and I survived.

So, until we move into a new house (you better believe a bathtub will be a deal breaker for any new house we consider moving to) please remember me and my tublessness. Please don’t look at my legs too closely (actually, i think it’s best for everyone involved if we just make that a permanent rule), and forgive me if I gripe and complain because I can’t get a good soak in.

It’s just that girl needs her bath, y’know?

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Next time, on Abort, Abort: There is no dishwasher! One family’s struggle to find a clean spoon.

May I please be excused? My heart is full.

I lift Bug out of his bed after naptime. With hair all tousled and floppy and eyes full of playground sand, he fits his head into the crook of my neck. Like I do every day after his nap, I ask him if he wants a snack, thinking I already know his answer. Instead, he says, “I want to go outside,” into my shoulder, and softly swings his legs on either sides of my hips. “Let’s get you into some play clothes,” I say, and we open his drawer.

“I want the silver shirt,” he says, pointing to a heather gray sweatshirt. For Bug, gray does not exist. “Because I like silver.” I slip it over his head. “That was easy,” he says with a grin. A boy with a head circumference in the ninety fifth percentile pays attention to these things.

We walk through the kitchen, heading for the back door. Bug stops. “I want a snack for outside,” he decides. “And let’s put it in a pink bowl. Because you like pink.” And he hugs my leg.

(For the record, pink isn’t my favorite color, but Bug has always insisted it was, and for him, I’d agree if he said my favorite color was doo doo brown.)

“Bug, you want some juice to drink with your snack?” He thinks, head cocked to one side. “No, I’m ok,” he says, like he’s all of a sudden an aloof teenager.

I hand him his snack laden pink bowl. “Thank you,” he says, and heads toward the back door. “Now I’m gonna go outside and eat my snack and wait for my Daddy to come play with me.”

He walks outside and happily settles himself down on the back stoop to eat and wait, warmed by the sun and comforted by his certainty that soon, Daddy will come out to join him.