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Go Nigel, Go!
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Would You Like To Buy My Monkeys?
Jul
31
“I’ve been trying to fly all day.
It’s not workin’ out.”
Jul
30
Mashed Potato Handprints On My Shoulder
by Leslie
Julia sets the table
for togetherness
Jul
29
sunscreen completely, just the
reapplication
And apparently that part is quite important.
Jul
28
And So It Begins
by Leslie
she said. “Why did you say that?”
“I hate sharing you.”
Jul
27
I’m Turning In Early
by Leslie
nauseated and crampy
moody, grumpy, mean
Jul
26
Another Reason To Bake A Cake
by Leslie
Happy Anniversary
Wow! Thirty-Three Years!
Jul
25
Dave waits for Lucy to poop
to change the diaper
And when it finally happened, I got a giant, “IN.YOUR.FACE! WHO’S THE GIRLY MAN NOW, WOMAN?!?!”
Then I’m all, “Geez, what a jerk. It kind of makes me want to have sex with him.”
Jul
25
Lucy has a propensity for ginormous poopy explosions. They are truly magnificent, in volume and frequency. Moving her into a bigger size diaper has made no difference. She is simply an extraordinary pooper.
However, I am the only one who can appreciate her special skill, because I am the only one who truly experiences them.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying I’m the only one who changes diapers in our house. I’m not. Dave changes diapers. Wet diapers. Even the occasional poopy diaper, though he tries to avoid it. But poopy explosions? NO WAY.
I explained it like this to my BBF Karly when she asked if Dave cleaned up the poopy explosion that hit on my birthday: The only way Dave would clean up a poopy explosion is if my arms were amputated and, even then, only after I’d proven I couldn’t do it with my feet.
Poopy explosions are Dave’s kryptonite; they render him completely helpless. The moment Lucy shows the slightest inclination that a poopy is in the works, he flees the scene. He happened to be holding her once when the launch sequence began. He immediately pushed her away from him and held her like a bomb. Then he tossed her to me, like a grenade as he ran away saying, “Here’s the baby. I think she needs changed.”
Dave would tell you that I’m overstating the situation. I offer the following incident from last Sunday as evidence to the contrary.
Dave was holding Lucy. I was downstairs in the family room playing Guitar Hero, because if I didn’t get fifteen minutes to blow off some steam, someone was going to have their face ripped off. I knew something was up when I could hear stomping and groaning over the music I had turned up to eleven. And then it started.
Dave: “HONEY? HONEY!”
Me: “Yes?”
Dave: “WHERE ARE THE DIAPERS?”
Me: (to Dave) “In the diaper caddy!” (to myself) “Dumbass.”
Dave: (suddenly sounding like a whiny 12-year-old) “BUT THERE AREN’T ANY IN THERE!!!”
Me: (to Dave) “Then try the changing table!!” (Seriously? Is that so hard to figure out? Think about it: if you were a diaper, where would you be?)
Dave: “AH, BUT…WELL…CAN YOU…? AHHHHHH, NEVERMIND!!!”
Me: “WHAT?!”
Dave: “Nah. You’re busy…”
And so I turned off my game and stomped up the stairs to “help,” but it was too late. He was determined to “do it on his own,” which meant he was hellbent on showing me how incredibly difficult the task was by exaggerating every agonizing step of the diaper changing process.
He held his hands like a surgeon who’d just washed up for an operation and ripped baby wipe after baby wipe out of the container. He groaned and gagged with each wipe, then turned in circles looking for a place to put the soiled items. He finally settled on the table. My dining room table. And when the struggle was over, he left the debris lie and dragged himself to the couch, sat there and sighed. For ten minutes.
I contemplated killing him, but instead, I cleaned up the dining room table and said, “You know, you left the dirty diaper on the table.”
“Oh. Sorry. I was gonna get that.”
“Uh-huh. So, where did you put her poopy outfit? I need to wash it out before it stains.”
“Oh, she didn’t get any on her outfit.”
“So, it wasn’t really a poopy explosion.”
“OH NO IT WAS! It got all over me!!! I had to go and change my shorts and everything!”
“When did you change your shorts?”
“Before I changed the baby.”
“And where was the baby?”
“I gave her to your mom.”
He actually tried to pass off the poopy explosion to my mom, first! The creep.
And then he said, “Yeah, but she was no help. She left it all up to me.”
“Gee Dave, I WONDER HOW THAT FEELS!”
Stinkin’ poop-fearing girly man. It’s a good thing he’s good in bed. Otherwise, he’d be dead. Or at least kicked in the weiner.
Jul
24
Ready to do it again?
August is coming.
Jul
23
Brain Worms
by Leslie
I’ve been bitching around about how little time I’ve had to write, lately. Now, I finally have a chance (translation: the kids are asleep and before I could collapse into bed, I ingested enough caffeine to fuel the space shuttle) and my brain has begun to eat itself while I sit here drooling on my keyboard.
“What happened to all those great ideas I had before?” I ask myself.
“Buuuuurrrrp,” says my brain.
Oh yeah.
But rather than waste the twenty minutes I have left before I crash doing something like housework or sudoku, here are the crumbs that are left after the brainfeast.
- I want to tell you all about my new puppy Lola. I’ve got stories, people. I’m telling you. Stories! (Psst. Remind me of this if I start whining that I have nothing to write about.)
- There are twenty-six reasons I should hate the song This Girl Is A Woman Now by Gary Puckett and The Union Gap. But I don’t. I can’t. Instead, I throw my arms open and sing it out, straight from my heart. Oh, Gary Puckett. I’ve found out what it’s all about and I’m learning, yes, I’m learning. Learning! Learning to live.
- I had a dream about Rick Springfield last night. He had joined The Wiggles. Somehow, this made him even more attractive to me. So, I had become some sort of groupie trying to get me some hot Springfield ass. Which I did. Because I’m super-sexy and a bit slutty in my dreams. Then, I spent the rest of the dream trying to hide it from my husband. Interpret that one, psychic friends!
- I won’t put Lucy in a baby swing to be soothed. I feel like she should be soothed by a human being when she needs that kind of attention rather than a robot. Dave says baby swings aren’t robots. And I say, “That’s what they want you to think.”
- Dave and I spent the ride home from T-ball last night re-writing the words to Loverboy’s Working For The Weekend to express our feelings about mowing the grass, which I’ve written about before. I think we’re gonna have to make a video. Maybe this weekend.
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I Write A Haiku Each Day
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Hurts So Good
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Categories
- Daily Haiku
- Mommy’s Stuff
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You Should Do This
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Ooooooh. Aaaaah.
