Bummer

Tomorrow is my birthday and I just recieved a call from my husband, who is in Mississippi volunteering at a shelter, who told me that he won't be making it in tomorrow morning for my birthday after all. I am so bummed. I started thinking all of this really awful stuff until I realized that, hello, he is there serving people who have NOTHING left. They are living in a shelter with a few hundred others who have nothing. He said that he expected a lot of people from Texas to arrive tomorrow. I am sure that the volunteers have their hands full and I am so glad he is there to help them out. Now I am feeling pretty crappy for being so upset over this. So what if we don't get to spend the day together tomorrow. Many people are separated from loved ones and don't have any hope of being reunited any time soon. Some people lost loved ones. Who am I to complain about not going shopping with my husband or going to lunch or out to dinner? When are these people going to do these things again? God is good. He snapped me out of my pity party quicker than I wanted Him to, but I am so grateful.
So tonight I will be thinking about my husband in grubby week-old clothes, sleeping in a shelter with many many refugees, eating mass produced food, and experiencing something so big that I know he won't come home the same man at all. I can't think of a better birthday present.

The Kid

Dang. Kids grow so fast. I know everyone says it but I am finding out how true it is. Tonight The Kid was playing with a neighbor and acting like such a kid and not just a baby. He was jumping and laughing and interacting and having so much fun. I love watching him play and explore and discover things that we adults take for granted as things you just know. Like last night when he blew out a candle and watched the smoke whirl in the air. He was so excited. Or the day last week when he sat in the backyard with his dad and discovered the way a roly poly bug curls into a ball. A bug that rolls into a ball? Is there anything cooler? I have learned so much from the Kid in the 2+ years he's been in my life and I've loved every single minute of it. He's taught me to move at a slower pace which is worth every painful hourI was in labor with him. Almost every hour.

Sad times

It's so sad that so much is going on right now and all people want to talk (or complain) about is the politics of it all. I am never impressed by someone who is well-versed in their own brand of bias (that's all either side is anyway) sputters and spouts off about argh, blah, bleepin Bush, blah, blah, blah the right side is to blame and the left side are a bunch of liberal idiots yadda yadda yadda. It almost never sounds intelligent. All it proves is that (a) you know how to read, and (b) you know how to find information to support your side and dispute the other. Good for you.
I love coming across someone who knows both sides and truly feels torn because they can't bring themselves to choose. They are a wreck at election time and can sputter and spout off as much about the "moronic" right as they can about the "idiotic" left and all those in between. I resign myself to being a political reject. I'm fine with that. There's enough to worry about-victims and refugees and formula and diaper-less babies and unmedicated schizophrenics and total anarchy.

Multi-tasking

Sometimes I laugh to myself when someone calls and asks. "So, what are you up to?" An honest answer would blow your mind.

Right now I am...
cooking dinner
feeding a baby
bleaching my sinks
updating my blog
disciplining my two year old
sanitizing my toilets
watching Oprah
laundering my unmentionables
having a snack

***Disclaimer: I am not a multi-day, multi-time, multi-tasker. I would better be known as a uni-tasker. Even that's debatable.

So, can we talk poop?

I am a horrible blogger. I haven't updated in a looonngg time mostly because the things that have me occupied lately- er, the things that occupy my brain, not my time-aren't things that make you want to run to the laptop and type out. Life has thrown me a few curve balls and I'm learning to deal. So, for now, we talk poop.

Why is it that my baby, who usually produces foul, metallic-green poop and who also consumes the exact same thing every day, is suddenly producing mustard yellow and metallic-green poop? Still the same level of foulness, yet it is two-toned.

Still more puzzling, why is it that I am taking the time to blog about this? Oh, yes, the heinously dirty kitchen floor awaits.

Dat's dangeris, mom.

Danger, apparently, lurks everywhere.

"Don't put me in da street, Mom, dat's dangerisss."
Good advice.

"Don't stand up in Grandpa's waterpool and put your face in the water and get water in your eyes. Das dangerisss. Okay, Mom?"
Makes sense.

"Don't use that one knife. Okay? Das dangeriss."
You're absolutely right.

"Don't read me dat story, Mom. It's too dangerisss."
Okay, wait a minute...

"No want brush teeps. Is too dangerisssss."
No, teethbrushing has never been considered dangerous. Well, unless you jam the toothbrush down your throat or say swallow too much toothpaste.... Hey...!

"I no want to pick up my toys, es dangeriss."
Now I know you don't get "danger", kiddo.

"Dad, you change Baby's poopy diaper. It's tooooo dangeriss for Mommy."
Okay, you totally get it.

Jibba Jabba

Yes, Jibba Jabba. As in "Cut out that jibba jabba." Jibba jabba is the current theme of my life. I wake up to jibba jabba. My two year old bombards me with jibba jabba throughout the day, I partiticipate in random jibba jabba on the phone and later fall asleep after 8 1/2 minutes of quality jibba jabba with my husband. By the end of the day we're all jibba jabba'd out.

I wasn't always a fan of Mr. T. While I was saving up my allowance for a Cabbage Patch Doll -one with glasses and jeans and a windbreaker- my sister was adding a Mr. T. Doll to her Christmas list. What a nut. What would a little girl want with a Mr. T doll? When the torn Santa paper revealed the box containing Mr. T., she squealed like someone had given her a Cabbage Patch Doll- one with glasses and jeans and a windbreaker. Nope. A plastic Mr. T. complete with a painted mohawk, heavy gold chains and bare chest hidden only partially by an open leather vest. This doll/action figure/plastic hero came complete with a small tool box full of choking hazards. So now we had a mini plastic man that could fix things, presumably Barbie's pink convertible or the broken door on the barnyard stable that housed our My Little Ponies.

Soon conversation around the house contained phrases like, "I pity the foo who doesn't like tuna sandwiches." or "Whatchyou mean you won't give me back my clear red sun visor with the blinking light band and 9-volt battery pack, fool?" or "Hey sucka [insert any insult you've ever heard in a war between two smallish girls]. Mr. T. was the IT man. He fixed things, he taught us neat-o catch phrases, he was even (I still don't get this) cuddly enough to sing to and rock to sleep. Eventually I would ditch my Cabbage Patch doll- you know the one- and kidnap Mr. T. while my sister was napping. I would jibba jabba with him a bit and have him fix Hot Wheels and the Barbie convertible with his choking hazard hammers and screwdrivers and then make sure he was comfy in bed next to my sister. Mr. T became the icon of the 80's for me, for sure.